Chapter 3
Evander sat in the shadowed corner of White’s, half-sunk into the worn leather of an armchair, a glass of brandy cradled loosely in one hand.
The muted din of conversation and the clink of glasses barely touched the edges of his awareness.
He had come here hoping that drink might dull the edge of grief and resentment that gnawed at him—but thus far, it had failed to oblige.
Another swallow burned down his throat, leaving behind a bitterness that had nothing to do with the liquor.
He stared at the amber liquid with narrowed eyes.
He knew well enough that he had no right to wallow.
Any number of men would trade places with him in a heartbeat.
Heir to an earldom. Wealth. Influence. A place secured among the ton.
But none of it had been his choice. He had carved out a life of his own—one he had valued, one that had mattered to him.
Now it was gone.
He shifted in his seat, the movement drawing his attention to the black armband stark on his sleeve. A small, dark emblem of loss. Of change. Of a future he neither wanted nor was prepared to accept.
Bryon.
A familiar ache tugged at his chest. His brother’s absence weighed heavily, but if he was honest with himself, that sorrow was complicated.
Grief mingled with an odd, unwelcome sense of relief.
Bryon had never been kind. He had scorned Evander’s pursuits, belittled him at every opportunity.
Reminded him at every turn that he was second-best, the spare.
But Evander had never wished him dead.
He drew in a slow breath, eyes half-closed, when a familiar voice intruded.
“You look like death.”
Evander glanced up. Lord Bedford and Lord Westcott stood before him, concern softening their usual affable expressions.
“I have had better days,” Evander murmured. He gestured wearily to the empty chairs near him. His friends took the invitation without hesitation, settling into the opposite wingbacks.
“How are you faring?” Bedford asked.
Evander let out a breath and lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “As well as one can expect, I suppose.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” Bedford pressed.
Evander glanced away, fingers tightening around the brandy glass. “I didn’t want this life.”
Bedford’s gaze softened with understanding. “Neither did I, but here we are. We do our duty and carry on.” He offered a faint smile. “Besides, there are certain advantages to being a lord. Our word carries weight. People trip over themselves to win our approval.”
Westcott gave a low chuckle. “I hate to say it, but I agree with Bedford. Being a lord isn’t so terrible.”
“I preferred my life in academia. It was simpler… predictable,” Evander said.
Bedford nodded solemnly. “You worked hard for your place as a Fellow. That doesn’t have to vanish overnight. Could you not finish the term before stepping away?”
Evander exhaled heavily. “That’s no longer an option. My father expects me to begin working on the estate accounts immediately.” His voice was flat with resignation.
Before anyone could respond, Lord Wilton and Lord Alcott approached the table, both looking faintly winded as if they had come straight from another engagement.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” Wilton said, taking a seat beside Bedford.
Evander met Wilton’s gaze. “How is Olivia faring with Lord Harwood’s death?”
Wilton’s expression darkened. “She says she is well enough, but she hides her feelings too easily.”
“That she does,” Evander agreed softly, a flicker of sympathy stirring within him.
Wilton tilted his head. “Tell me, why did Harwood accompany your brother to India?”
Evander huffed, a dry sound devoid of humor. “It seems Harwood had acquired a few indigo plantations. He intended to assist Bryon with ours.”
Alcott let out a low whistle. “Indigo. A swift path to fortune, but it leaves the land barren in its wake.”
Evander gave a weary nod. “I know little about the trade. But my father insists I must learn.”
“Will you travel to India?” Wilton asked.
“No.” The word came out sharp, bitter. “My father will not risk losing his only heir.”
Wilton placed a steadying hand on Evander’s shoulder. “I know your path seems bleak just now. But it will not always be so.”
“Since when did you become a blasted optimist?” Evander muttered.
Wilton’s smile warmed. “Since I married Dosia. She’s taught me to see the world rather differently.”
“I daresay it was a fortunate thing you abducted her, then,” Bedford quipped with a grin.
Wilton chuckled. “It was undoubtedly the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Though she was less than pleased when she learned the truth.”
“I can imagine no woman would welcome such circumstances,” Alcott remarked.
“True enough,” Wilton agreed. “But Dosia is forgiving and I may have purchased more than a few pieces of jewelry to ease her ire.”
At that moment, a short server approached the group. “Would any of you gentlemen care for refreshment?”
Drink orders were placed, and as the server departed, Alcott turned his attention back to Evander and said, “The good news is, you haven’t a sister to manage.”
“Hear, hear,” Wilton agreed.
Alcott sighed theatrically. “They are maddening creatures, robbing us of peace and reason with every passing day.”
Evander felt his shoulders loosen slightly, the edges of his mouth twitching upward. “What has Charlotte done now?”
“She is far too independent for a girl of eighteen,” Alcott grumbled. “Always scribbling away in that blasted notebook of hers.”
“She is young,” Bedford offered.
“Yes, and she’s up to something,” Alcott asserted. “I’m certain of it, but I simply cannot discern what.”
“Perhaps you’re imagining things,” Westcott suggested.
“That’s precisely what she wants me to think,” Alcott declared. “I ought to marry, find a wife who might keep Charlotte in line.”
Wilton nodded sagely. “A wise course, indeed, but choose carefully. The wrong match brings nothing but a lifetime of misery.”
Alcott leaned back in his chair, considering Wilton with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “I suppose I could always abduct a wife, just as you did.”
Wilton looked heavenward. “I didn’t abduct Dosia at random. There were extenuating circumstances, as you well know.”
Bedford grinned. “Yes, yes, you were somehow deceived by a woman wearing men’s clothing. A tale for the ages.”
Wilton huffed. “Lucinda was rather convincing, I’ll have you know. I had no reason to suspect otherwise. And besides”—he glanced pointedly at Evander—“I thought we were here to cheer up Addington—er, Westmere, now.”
Evander stiffened at the sound of his new title. “I have not yet grown accustomed to being called Westmere.”
Wilton offered a sympathetic smile. “Well, you had best grow accustomed to it, for it is yours now, whether you like it or not.”
With a resigned sigh, Evander reached for his glass and tossed back the remaining contents. The brandy seared down his throat, leaving behind only a deeper sense of hollowness. He set the empty glass down with a dull thud.
“I should go,” he said. “My father has tasked me with delivering the news of Bryon to my mother.”
“Why you?” Bedford asked.
Evander’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “He believes she will bear the news better if it comes from me.”
“Coward,” Alcott muttered beneath his breath.
“Well said,” Evander agreed. “My father is many things, but when it comes to my mother, he is strangely… tender. He fears the shock of this might kill her.”
Wilton’s expression softened into something close to pity. “If there is anything you need—anything at all—you need only ask.”
“Thank you,” Evander said, rising to his feet. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of duty and loss. “The sad thing is that I do not yet know what to ask for.”
Bedford stood as well. “I’ll walk you out.”
Together they made their way through the club’s opulent halls and out into the cool night air.
As they approached the main doors, Evander spoke. “Tell me—how did you do it? Walk away from academic life so easily?”
Bedford exhaled slowly, as if recalling a distant ache. “It wasn’t easy. I always knew the title would be mine one day, but… not so soon. My uncle and father passed within months of each other. I had no choice.”
Outside, the lamplight flickered against the damp pavement. Evander paused by his waiting coach, the horses stamping impatiently.
“I may have complained about my post at the university,” he said softly, “but I loved it. Every lecture, every debate, every late night spent over dusty volumes. It gave me purpose. It challenged me.”
Bedford clasped Evander’s shoulder firmly. “I know. But in time, you will find a new purpose. Think of the good you might do in the House of Lords, when the opportunity comes.”
Evander turned to him then, frustration breaking through the facade of calm. “You know my father. He can be tyrannical. How am I to survive this without losing myself?”
Bedford’s expression tightened with understanding. “Your father is stubborn, true—but so are you. Do not let him forget who you are, nor let yourself forget it.”
Evander’s voice grew strained. “Easy for you to say. Your father was generous with his affection. Mine… has always found me lacking.” His gaze dropped. “At least I still have my mother… for now.”
With quiet conviction, Bedford dropped his hand. “Life tests us in ways we never expect, but you are stronger than you know.”
“I don’t feel strong,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Bedford studied him for a long moment, his expression grave. “Sometimes,” he said, “we have no choice but to be strong. Whether we feel it or not.”
“I had everything planned,” Evander admitted, his voice rough with the weight of shattered dreams. “I built my life, my future, with care—every step deliberate. And now… now I stand on a path I cannot see the end of. That uncertainty terrifies me.”