Affair of Pretense

Thirty-five

Six months later

The travelling coach rattled ponderously upon a snow-filled road to Hastings. It was a dreary day in February, the coast yonder grey and uninviting, and the wind brisk and bitter. Despite the thick rug upon his lap, Mr Edward Warren snuggled to the corner where he sat and sought for more warmth. From there he barely moved, but his somnolent gaze would occasionally scan the view outside. The prospect seemed to afford him little pleasure at all, for it was enough to give someone the fit of the blue-devils. He found it odd that despite not having been in England for several months, the homecoming arose no feeling of excitement in him. He wondered if it had always been this desolate? In comparison, France was less harsh even in winter, and not even Mr Warren's sheer Englishness could deny that, having already accustomed himself to life abroad.

"Are you not warm enough, Edward?" inquired Lord Denver, who was sitting across from him.

"Frankly, I can still feel my teeth clattering, my lord," Edward returned with a small smile. "Several months living abroad and my body feel alien to this kind of winter already. It wasn't half as bad the last time I remember."

"No, this is an unusual winter for these parts indeed," agreed his lordship, scanning the view outside.

"My thoughts exactly, sir. However, I believe I shall contrive for the next several miles," he said. His lordship did not answer but his eyes lingered to the window. Mr Warren wondered what thoughts could have possibly occupied the Marquis' mind at the moment. Not that he had any way of knowing, though; his lordship had always been inscrutable. But in the course of their entire association, never had the secretary seen his employer remarkably changed. His cheeks were gaunt, his demeanour less lively; and when an occasional banter or witty riposte was exchanged, the smile did not quite reach those hazel eyes that seemed to have lost their sportive gleam altogether. In France Lord Denver had engaged in all manner of dissipation his newfound freedom had bestowed upon him, carousing every night with such excessiveness as wont of a gentleman of his wealth and rank—something which Mr Warren would have commented with disapprobation had it not been borne upon him what was truly amiss: he had realized, with a great deal of sympathy, that it was merely a facade of a man stricken with melancholy and longing.

Not once did the Marquis utter Miss Kentsville's name again, nor did he ever allude to the unhappy circumstances that led him to his present situation. In tacit agreement, Mr Warren bethought himself not to touch the sore subject and had started to come to terms with his work abroad—until three days ago, when a letter came from England demanding his lordship's return with immediacy. It was as if the missive was a signal for him to face the demons of the not-so-distant past once again.

The news was nothing short of alarming, but not unexpected: the Duke of Montmaine's health had been steadily declining for a few months now, and a recent stroke could have been the finishing blow for him. It was Mr Warren who received the urgent news. Upon apprising Lord Denver of the matter, his lordship did not even so much as bat an eyelash, but equably accepted the summons, and asked Mr Warren politely if he would care to return to England with him? "It appears that our time for capers in Le Petit Paris has come to an end," Lord Denver had added ruefully.

The secretary had of course agreed to the invitation, but owned to a slight pang of regret. "If I might ask, sir, how do you feel upon the prospect of returning home?"

Denver shrugged. "Like an obedient child following his parent's command." It was not exactly the answer Mr Warren wanted to hear, but he had to be satisfied with the fact that his lordship did not appear put out by it.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence. The Marquis absently rubbed his left shoulder where an old injury had never properly healed. Mr Warren glanced at him and asked solicitously, "Does it still hurt?"