Affair of Pretense

Twenty-five

The small group was restored back to their own unsuspecting assembly at the Atkinsons'. The procedure of which had involved thrusting the two young ladies bodily up to the open window of the library at the back of the house, an office undertaken by Mr Reeveston with blatant disinclination, and afterwards pulled himself up with such dexterity as to draw a startled remark from the Marquis, who was a spectator to this operation: "My dear Reeveston! You appear to me as someone who has done this sort of stunt too many times!"

Mr Reeveston, having obliged to witness a couple of well-turned ankles for an inordinate number of times than he deemed proper, besides forced to touch his companions in a way that would have sent him to perdition, was pardonably losing both his temper and composure. When he landed quite successfully to the carpeted floor of the library, however, he leaned over on the sill and flashed a boyish grin at the Marquis. "Too many to count sir, in my heydays!"

Denver took his leave in a mood of one who had finally been discharged from so taxing a burden. At this point he had completely lost interest with the Ludley's masquerade ball, summoned a hackney and rattled off to the direction of St. James' Street to spend the rest of the night in one of his clubs.

There, he not only encountered Mr Philip Lanley, but also his uncle, Lord Geoffrey, who was indolently lounging on one of the armchairs of the gaming room. His lordship hailed his nephew, but broke halfway through his greeting to ejaculate, "Upon my word, nevvy, you ain't bosky tonight, are you? Your coat, my boy, your coat!"

Denver occupied the vacant chair across him and called for a glass of brandy. He glanced down at his raiment and drawled, "Ah, it was quite necessary for me to do so! You see, I've been to the Ludley's masquerade."

"Masquerade—? It don't make any sense! Why would you choose the plainest coat for a masquerade? Ought to be some fancy-dress!"

"Yes, but I came as plain Mr Denver."

"Plain Mr Denver?" echoed Lord Geoffrey, all at sea.

"You see, my secretary gave me the idea, but the masquerade turned out to be sadly flat for me. I did not have the inclination to linger and here I am."

"Your secretary?" asked his uncle, still more perplexed.

"Yes, he—well, never mind!" said Denver, too loth to pursue the subject.

"Well, upon my word! A plain mister in a masquerade ball! Ain't heard such nonsense in all my life!" exclaimed Lord Geoffrey, apparently unable to move on. "You know, Evelyn, I'm not as sharp as you are in the head, and out of all my nephews, you are the one who confounds me the most, damned if you aren't! No, wait!" he paused and recalled something suddenly. "It's not you! Well, not that you don't baffle me, my boy, for sure as check you always say things and expect us to decipher 'em! But the most perplexing one is Isabella's youngest! The one who's forever talking about dead people and poetry—some such thing! It's my belief the boy has windmills in his head. I mean, who does that?"

"I don't know. I am sorry to disappoint you, but the Langfords do not live in my mind."

"Don't they, by Jove? Well, now that I think of it, they don't in mine, either!" Lord Geoffrey said by way of dismissing the subject. A shadow crossed his countenance for a moment as he observed his nephew. "Truth is, I have been thinking about you," he said.

"Beloved Uncle! I am quite moved!" responded Denver in a struck note.

"Moved? You shouldn't! Don't do this sort of rumination often, you know. But you should not do that, my boy."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"The other nevvy of mine, Collin," his lordship said grimly.