Affair of Pretense

Sixteen

Denver, who had stood up and started to pace around, stopped in his tracks. "Indeed!" came his soft reply.

Mr Warren said, in a lowered voice, "Sir, I understand the need for precaution in keeping Miss Kentsville's identity, but I have every reason to believe that the-ah, the arrangement stands in no danger of being discovered by some relative of Miss Kentsville's. Because apparently, there are none."

"Of course," returned Denver distractedly. "That, at least, is some sort of relief. We would not want any implications, my dear Edward."

At this point, their conversation was interrupted by a knock that fell on the door. Connor entered and announced with a slight frown that a young gentleman was here to see his lordship. "Who?" Denver demanded, after giving his secretary a brief instruction to carry on.

"A Mr Harry Reeveston, my lord."

"Who the devil is that?"

The butler, feeling that some justification was necessary lest incurring his lordship's displeasure for letting a stranger in, cleared his throat. "A young man by name of Mr Harry Reeveston, my lord. He insisted that he knows his lordship, and assured me that his lordship would be pleased of his visit," observing the Marquis' gathering frown, Connor was soon regretting the fact that he had let himself be cajoled into allowing the unwanted visitor to inflict his presence upon Lord Denver, who appeared not too pleased by this. "O-Of course, I shall tell him that your lordship is otherwise engaged," said the butler hastily and was about to retreat the room when Denver suddenly exclaimed: "By God, that Harry Reeveston!"

Connor was perplexed. "My lord?"

"Very well, Connor! I shall be down presently. Where have you put him?"

"I've shown him into the library, my lord - "

"You could not have chosen a more fitting place," Denver remarked with an enigmatic twist of a smile and hurried out of the room. The butler remained where he stood, still gripping the doorknob, his bushy brows knitted. Mr Warren met his perturbed gaze and offered him a sympathetic smile.

Downstairs, Denver discovered his guest exploring some volumes on the tall shelves that lined the walls. "Favouring my prized collection, Mr Reeveston? Milton perhaps?" Denver said amiably. He remembered Mr Harry Reeveston very well, but their encounter had been brief and could hardly been described as propitious. He was likable enough, but Denver allowed some misgivings for a brief moment: it amused him to see this young man making sheep's eye on Georgie just as much as it bothered him. The Marquis had hoped that the fondness would have faded by now; however, he suspected that the young man's unexpected arrival to London had in every way connected to that damsel.

"Do forgive me if I turned up without so much as a note to inform you beforehand, sir," returned Mr Reeveston as he shook hands with his host, smiling somewhat sheepishly. "I only happen to be riding around the neighbourhood for some errands when I remembered your lordship's address, so I took the liberty to call upon you. I hope you don't mind very much, sir, seeing the reluctance of your butler to admit me earlier. It was only through my incessant urgings that I got this audience, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense! I count you among friends, Mr Reeveston," assured the Marquis, appealing to his good nature. He poured him a glass of Madeira and invited to sit on an upholstered armchair. "What brings you to London, if I might ask? And when did you arrive?"

"I have but arrived today sir, and I intend to stay for the Season. A friend of my father's, Sir Arthur Ponsby, has kindly taken me as a guest at his townhouse in Conduit Street for the present."

"Sir Arthur Ponsby," echoed Denver and inwardly grimaced. That this young man should be acquainted with a member of his grandfather's stiff-necked and antiquated circle, was something he did not at all expect. He only hoped that Harry Reeveston stood in no danger of becoming a prosy fellow if he chose the company of the likes of Sir Arthur. That, thought Denver irreverently, would prove to be tiresome in the future.