Affair of Pretense

Thirty-four

Lord Denver stirred from his sleep the next morning as the door of his chamber creaked open. He felt his body on fire, with sharp pains from the wounds that ached almost intolerably. A groan escaped him as he tried to lie on his back; he had been sleeping throughout the night on his side to the point that his right arm was almost benumbed. As his lids fluttered open he looked dazedly about the room; his gaze eventually alighted on William with a faint surprise. "What time is it?" Denver croaked. 

"Half-past seven," William replied.

"Too damn early for a morning call," he said drily. "But since you are already here, I might as well use you for my disposal. Will you help this invalid up? My body feels quite sluggish."

William obliged and propped him up against his pillow carefully. He frowned. "You are burning up."

His lordship thanked him, but said dismissively, "A touch of fever. Nothing serious!" Observing his troubled expression, he added, "You look bedevilled so early in the morning, William. What's amiss?"

"I—I see that you have not yet read the note," he glanced at the unopened letter sitting on top of the bed-side table.

"What note?" Furrowing his brows, Denver followed his gaze. "I see. I was not aware you have left one."

"It is not mine. I was only asked to deliver it last night," William's eyes met his squarely. "It's Georgie's. You may want to read it now."

The amusement died in the Marquis' eyes. He quickly snatched the note from the table and read it with a frown.

My lord,
By the time you wake up, I shall be gone forever. Do not worry for my sake. I shall contrive to fend for myself somehow. How I wish I could be with you much longer. Alas, it is not to be borne! Rest assured, my love, that all iniquity should be attached to my name alone, and not to yours: I will never bear it knowing you have to lose everything for my sake. I am quite heartbroken to leave at such a time like this, but I shall carry my love for you wherever I go. You must, however, forget about me; for your sake and mine. Mend well. Goodbye. —Georgie Kentsville.

Just as William thought Denver could not have become even paler, whatever colour left in his lips had been completely drained. He let out a curse and looked at him sharply. "When was this?"

"Last night. I should warn you that Ian got wind of everything."

Denver's eyes widened with a gleam. "So you know, don't you?"

He nodded, his countenance filled with disapprobation. "That night when I tried to save her, I found out everything. My felicitations, cousin! You have hoodwinked us all: by God, so you have! And I don't like it by half! You ought to be shot for what you did!"

"Then my having been shot twice would suffice, my dear," Denver said. "It's compensation enough."

"Will you at least tell me why did you do it?"

"I expect you'll also explain to me why you have been leading a double life as a smuggler and working hand and glove with one of the most wanted men in all of Sussex coast?" countered the Marquis relentlessly.

William's lips pursed into a grim line. "So you knew."

"My dear, I am no fool like that brother of yours. Contrary to my disinterested appearance, I am not impervious to what's going on under my nose."

"Oh, I don't wonder at it! Nobody could beat you for your remarkable cunning!"

"You may insult me later all you want, William, but a more urgent business needs attending! That foolish girl of mine could be in another danger now, and by God, I will not forgive myself ever again if there's to be a second time!"