1
ENGLAND, 1814
Mr. Evander Addington could read the boredom on his students’ faces as clearly as if it had been scrawled across the lecture hall’s stone walls. He had been speaking for well over an hour on the rise of the Ottoman Empire—an important topic, but admittedly one of the more uninspiring chapters in their syllabus. Even he, who found history endlessly fascinating, struggled to infuse the material with enough enthusiasm to keep the students engaged.
A palpable sense of relief swept through the room as the bell rang across the quad. Chairs scraped back, books snapped shut, and the hall emptied in a flurry of movement and murmured goodbyes. Evander watched them go without resentment. Some eras of history stirred the soul. Others simply had to be endured.
He gathered the worn volumes from the lectern and tucked them into his battered leather satchel. Slinging it over his shoulder, he took one last look at the now-empty hall. Despite the dull topic of the day, a quiet pride filled him. He had earned this post and the right to be called a Fellow of University College,Oxford. At only five and twenty, he had achieved what many only dared to dream.
Stepping outside, the crisp wind immediately threatened to send his cap flying. He caught it just in time and adjusted it firmly atop his head. The afternoon light was soft, casting long shadows over the cobbled quad.
As he approached the building that housed his office, the heavy oak door creaked open, and Professor Muir—broad, bearded, and slightly breathless—stepped out with a sheaf of notes in hand.
“Good afternoon, Fellow Addington,” Muir said with a slight incline of his head.
Evander returned the gesture. “And to you, Professor. Are you off to enlighten young minds with the magic of physics?”
“Indeed, I am. Newton’s Laws await.” Muir gave a wry smile. “However, I do hope my students will be more engaged than they were during last week’s lecture.”
Evander chuckled. “I wish you luck. Mine looked as if they’d expire from boredom by the end of the lecture.”
“Grim but necessary,” Muir said with a theatrical sigh. “The fate of all professors—burdened with truth, cursed with students.”
“And blessed with endless piles of essays,” Evander added dryly. “If you happen to discover how to have a personal life in between lectures and reviewing students’ work, do let me know.”
“If I do, I shall write a monograph.”
They shared a brief, companionable smile before parting ways.
Climbing the narrow staircase to the second level, Evander adjusted his satchel and headed down the dim corridor. The building was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old timbers underfoot. As he turned the corner, he halted abruptly. His office door stood slightly ajar.
He distinctly remembered locking it.
A flicker of unease passed through him. Quietly, he approached and listened. There were noises—rustling papers, the subtle creak of wood. He pushed the door open and froze.
Seated at his desk, rummaging without a trace of shame, was the last person he expected to find.
“The devil take it—Father?” Evander blurted out, stunned.
The Earl of Everwyck looked up, entirely unbothered by the intrusion he was committing. His dark eyes calmly assessed his son.
“I’ve been waiting for over an hour,” he said, as if that justified his trespass.
“And you filled the time by invading my privacy?” Evander asked sharply, stepping into the cramped room.
His father gave a dismissive nod. “Your office is smaller than I imagined. Dreary, too.”
Evander clenched his jaw. He couldn’t argue the point. The room was modest at best, barely large enough to accommodate the desk, two chairs, and a bookshelf that was filled to the brim. Still, it was his, and it had taken years of hard work and scholarly dedication to earn.
“I thought you were a Fellow now,” his father said with his usual trace of condescension.
“I am. Offices don’t magically expand the moment one is appointed,” he replied, knowing perfectly well the subtle barbs were far from over.
His father rose and wandered over to the window, gazing out over the quad. “At least you’ve got a decent view.”
Evander removed his academic gown and hung it beside his cap before finally lowering himself into the chair opposite his father. He studied the man—his rigid bearing, the lines etched into his face, the familiar coldness in his expression. They hadnever been close, and time had only widened the rift between them.
“Is Mother unwell?” he asked suddenly, the thought striking him with fear.
