At Rosenfeld Manor, Duke Rosenfeld had spent most of his life learning the difference between a man who lacked money and a man who expected someone else to provide it. Adrian, unfortunately, had not made the distinction easy.
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The young man had arrived with a worn notebook, answered questions about his income without pretending it was greater than it was, and spoken about Evelyn's work as though it belonged to her. He had also admitted, quite calmly, that he could not yet support a household remotely resembling the one in which Evelyn had grown up.
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The duke closed the academy inspection summary. Its pages were full of dates and equipment numbers, but he had been staring at the same paragraph for several minutes.
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“Your Grace?”
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Harrow, his chief steward, stood at the study door with the week's household accounts. He had served the Rosenfeld family long enough to know when the duke wanted the figures and when he wanted an excuse to speak.
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“Leave those for a moment. What did you think of our guest?”
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“Mr. Adrian was courteous to the staff. He thanked the footman who brought the tea and moved his own chair when the maid needed to reach the table.” Harrow considered the question further. “He seemed uncomfortable with the silverware, though he concealed it reasonably well.”
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“That wasn't what I meant.”
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“I know, Your Grace. It is what I observed.”
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The duke looked toward the window. Below it, a gardener was covering the youngest rosebushes against an unexpectedly cold night. Evelyn had helped plant two of them when she was twelve. She had insisted on learning which roots needed more space instead of merely choosing the flowers she liked.
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“His manners are not the difficulty,” the duke said. “He is a student with an uncertain appointment, supplementary tutoring income, and a child in his care. My daughter could maintain him without noticing the expense. That is precisely what worries me.”
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“Because he might take advantage of her?”
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“Because she might never notice when she begins making herself smaller to accommodate him.” The duke rested a hand on the accounts. “Evelyn has never had to choose between replacing a winter cloak and buying books. I do not intend to congratulate myself for providing that life and then pretend it makes no difference whom she marries.”
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Harrow did not rush to agree. “Lady Evelyn may have considered the difference herself.”
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“Then I would like her to consider it alongside an alternative.”
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The steward's expression remained professionally still. “An alternative gentleman?”
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“A young man of good character, with means of his own. Someone who will not require her to surrender what she enjoys simply because he cannot afford it.”
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“Does Lady Evelyn know you intend to introduce one?”
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“Not yet.”
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“That may be the difficult part, Your Grace.”
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The duke knew it. He remembered Evelyn at sixteen refusing a ceremonial appointment because the committee had never asked whether she wanted the work. He had been proud of her refusal, once the committee had gone home.
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“Make inquiries discreetly,” he said. “No formal proposal. I want someone she might actually enjoy speaking to.”
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Harrow waited.
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“And,” the duke added, remembering Adrian's face across the tea table, “someone of a similar appearance. She seems to have taken a liking to that sort of young man.”
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For the first time, Harrow's composure slipped. “I shall endeavor to find a gentleman with a face, Your Grace.”
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“A similar face, Harrow.”
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“Of course.”
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The duke returned to the inspection summary. It was easier to evaluate a damaged crystal than to determine whether he had just made a sensible decision about his daughter.
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***
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The next morning, Mira decided that the empty space on her drawing was unacceptable.
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“Grandpa can't stand there forever,” she informed me, pointing to the figure beside the roses. “His legs will get tired.”
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“He has gardening gloves. Perhaps he's working.”
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“He finished.”
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I examined the page. The little man had acquired a watering can, a hat, and an impressive number of flowers since yesterday. Mira had drawn a chair beside the family bench but hadn't colored it yet.
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“Are you asking me to move him?”
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“No. I'm asking if Mommy thinks he'd like the chair.”
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“Then we can ask her. She knows him better than I do.”
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Mira accepted this and set the picture on the windowsill where Evelyn would see it. Mrs. Fenwick arrived shortly afterward to take her for the morning, and I left for the academy carrying the anchor calculations we'd prepared. The welfare office's next review was still ahead of us; a drawing could wait for its answer, but my income records couldn't.
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The west hall remained closed. Someone had posted a new notice specifying which practice rooms were available, and two students were arguing beneath it about whether a replacement room counted as adequate preparation for an examination. I sympathized with both of them, though not enough to join the discussion.
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Mrs. Vale met Evelyn and me in the records room. She had obtained permission for us to examine copies of the anchor drawings, provided we did not handle the damaged assembly or conduct tests without supervision.
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“The original specifications and the installation revision are separate,” she said, placing two sheets on the table. “Please keep your notes separate as well. I need to know which document supports which observation.”
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Evelyn drew the first sheet toward her. “The revision changes the bracket spacing.”
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“It does,” Mrs. Vale replied. “The maintenance team says they installed the replacement according to that revision.”
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I compared the measurements with the fracture diagram. “Then the crystal housing should have been supported here. The damaged bracket bent inward from the other side.”
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“Possibly after the failure,” Evelyn said. “We can't infer the order from a drawing.”
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“Agreed. But we can ask whether the inspection photographs show the original position.”
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Mrs. Vale made a note. It was satisfying to suggest a question that might actually be answered, rather than invent a villain from a piece of bent metal.
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We spent the rest of the morning recording differences between the two designs. The revised support could have changed how a sudden impact traveled through the housing; it could also have been installed perfectly and damaged by something unrelated. Mrs. Vale promised to request the photographs and reminded us that our seminar would need an approved apparatus if we wanted to demonstrate either possibility.
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At lunch, Evelyn followed me into the courtyard with her notebook under one arm.
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“My father sent a message,” she said. “He asked whether I would join him for supper this week.”
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“That sounds pleasant.”
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“He also asked whether I had met Lord Cassian Valehurst.”
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I paused with my bread halfway to my mouth. “Have you?”
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“At a reception two years ago. We spoke for perhaps five minutes. I remember that he had very polished shoes.”
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“An unforgettable man.”
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“Adrian.”
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“Sorry. What did your father say about him?”
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“He mentioned that Cassian has returned to the city and is interested in the academy's research. Then he asked whether I would mind being introduced again.” She opened her notebook, although she didn't look at the page. “My father rarely arranges introductions without a reason.”
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“You think he's looking for a husband?”
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“I think he's looking for a possibility he can approve of.”
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The answer was measured, but she pressed her thumb against the notebook's spine hard enough to whiten it. I put down my lunch.
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“Do you want to meet him?”
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“I don't mind speaking to another researcher. I mind being told afterward what the conversation was supposed to mean.”
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“Then tell your father that.”
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“I intend to.” Evelyn finally looked at me. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. I don't want you discovering that I've been introduced to someone through academy gossip.”
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I reached for her hand beneath the table. “Thank you. You don't have to refuse a conversation to prove anything to me.”
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“I know. And I don't intend to accept a courtship to prove anything to him.”
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That sounded like Evelyn. I liked her for it, which was a much more dangerous thought than worrying about Lord Polished Shoes.
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***
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Harrow's inquiries had produced three names. One gentleman had excellent estates but spent most of his time abroad. Another was widely admired for his manners and had never completed anything he began. The third, Cassian Valehurst, had a respectable family income, a place in the academy's advanced research circle, and dark hair that the steward suspected was the true reason his name had survived the first two questions.
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“He is not a copy of Mr. Adrian,” Harrow said, laying a short profile on the desk.
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“I did not ask for a copy.”
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“You asked for a resemblance.”
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“Does he have any opinions of his own?”
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“Many, by all accounts. He is particularly confident when discussing the practical limitations of less fortunate scholars.”
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The duke frowned. “That sounds unkind.”
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“He is considered ambitious, Your Grace.”
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“Ambition is not a substitute for decency. Find out how he treats people who cannot advance his career.”
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Harrow inclined his head. “And if the answer is unsatisfactory?”
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“Then he will not meet Evelyn through this house.”
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The duke signed the profile request. He had not asked Harrow to make his daughter unhappy. He wanted her to see that a future with comfort, intellectual companionship, and affection need not require financial sacrifice. It had not occurred to him that a young man might hear the same opportunity described and mistake Evelyn for a prize to be won.
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***
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When I collected Mira that evening, she asked whether I had found out if Grandpa wanted the chair.
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“Not yet. Evelyn was busy today.”
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“Was she fixing the academy?”
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“Trying to understand what broke.”
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Mira nodded with the seriousness of a person familiar with broken things. Then she asked whether the academy had a sewing tin, because Mr. Pell said some problems needed the right tool.
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“Not this one, sweetheart.”
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At home, she added a cushion to the empty chair anyway. She chose blue because Evelyn liked blue and because, according to Mira, grandfathers were allowed to borrow their daughters' favorite colors.
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Evelyn arrived before supper with a small bundle of papers for our seminar. She noticed the chair immediately.
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“Mira says your father may sit there if he wants,” I told her quietly while Mira washed her hands. “No pressure. Apparently he has finished watering the roses.”
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Evelyn studied the drawing. “He would ask why the chair has no armrests.”
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“Would he?”
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“He complains about the garden chairs every spring and refuses to replace them because he chose them himself.”
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I laughed. Evelyn touched the blue cushion with one fingertip, then set the picture back where Mira had left it.
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“Adrian, I need to tell you something else about Cassian,” she said. “My father has invited him to observe a research demonstration next week. He asked whether I would show him our work.”
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“Did you agree?”
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“I agreed to explain the approved demonstration if he attends. I did not agree to anything beyond that.”
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“Fair enough.”
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Her expression grew more serious. “I don't think my father understands why I chose you.”
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I thought about our first conversations, when Evelyn had expected me to flatter her title or fear her reputation, and I'd been too busy worrying about my own calculations to do either. I'd never been unaware that she was a duke's daughter. I simply hadn't considered it a reason to treat her like someone else.
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“He can ask me,” I said.
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“He might.”
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“Then I'll answer.”
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Mira returned with damp sleeves and announced that Sir Flopsy wanted to know whether we were eating. Evelyn rolled them up before the child could drip water onto her drawing. Whatever Lord Cassian Valehurst planned to say at the academy next week, he would have to wait until after supper to become my problem.