everyone.
Except Max.
Devon had, from a very early age, been quite adept at puzzles, codes, games of chance, and tests of logic. And while he thoroughly enjoyed playing chess or batting around financial equations with Max, he never did so with anyone else. His mother’s not infrequent references to him as “the spare” had led to his deep-seated belief that any show of confidence, proficiency, or intellectual expertise on his part would lead to her version of runner-up ducal training. He had given very little thought to what he did want out of life, though he was quite certain about what he did not want: deputy duke instructions from the dowager duchess topped the list.
A woman of his mother’s cunning was no fool. One did not rise to the rank of the Dowager Duchess of Northrop through sheer happenstance. Devon had to pay particular care to his tone of voice, speech, and topics whenever they spoke. She was too shrewd to overlook the slightest deception and would have picked up on the merest hint of irony. So, for as far back as Devon could recall, if his mother happened to be home from London and came upon Max and Devon discussing something esoteric, Devon would immediately leap to greet her, hoping his effusion would bar any interest she may have had in what they were talking about. His hopes were realized. A combination of her ego and his eagerness led to the unanticipated, happy coincidence that the duchess misinterpreted his very particular concealment for a very particular attention to her. As a result, she adored him unequivocally.
Claire was her first child, on whom she had lavished years of “only child” attention, imprinting her with what Devon saw as an unhealthy mix of arrogant female entitlement and piquancy. Next came Max, who was the duke. Period. Devon was her Dearest Devon. In her mind, he admired and honored her, whereas the rest of her children simply misunderstood the extent of her responsibilities. As for Abigail, well, to the Duchess of Northrop’s mind, there was no accounting for Abby and her eccentricities. When asked about her wayward fourth and final child, the duchess simply smiled blandly and half-joked that she probably should have stopped at Devon.
Chapter 6
By the time he got to university, Devon had spent so much time hiding behind his false front of average intelligence at Eton that he had fooled nearly everyone. Ironically, he had inadvertently created the very role he sought to escape: he was always a very strong second.
Then, after three months at the London School of Economics (his feigned mediocrity extended to his refusal to apply to either Oxford or Cambridge, bolstered by his desire to misspend his wild youth in the heart of the capital), he slipped up. While more or less dozing through yet another mathematics lecture, he heard the professor ask a particularly easy question and, in a daze, Devon raised his hand, answered the question, and went back to doodling random calculations for the radius of a circumsphere.
The room went completely quiet.
He looked up at the professor and stopped doodling. He hated drawing attention to himself, to his academic self, and was worried he had done so. The professor put down the stylus he had been using to write on his tablet computer, which was projected on the screen in the front of the lecture hall.
“Mr…”
“Heyworth,” Devon offered tentatively.
“Mr. Heyworth. Please elaborate.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Very well. If you are unable to admit you just grabbed that number out of a hat, I might get on with the lecture that, some students at least, have come to hear. If you, on the other hand, would be less bored elsewhere, perhaps you should consider transferring into a more challenging course.”
The silence was almost physically painful in Devon’s ears. No one was going to step in for him. Where was Max?
He was embarrassed to admit that that was always the first thing that popped into his supposedly postadolescent
Except Max.
Devon had, from a very early age, been quite adept at puzzles, codes, games of chance, and tests of logic. And while he thoroughly enjoyed playing chess or batting around financial equations with Max, he never did so with anyone else. His mother’s not infrequent references to him as “the spare” had led to his deep-seated belief that any show of confidence, proficiency, or intellectual expertise on his part would lead to her version of runner-up ducal training. He had given very little thought to what he did want out of life, though he was quite certain about what he did not want: deputy duke instructions from the dowager duchess topped the list.
A woman of his mother’s cunning was no fool. One did not rise to the rank of the Dowager Duchess of Northrop through sheer happenstance. Devon had to pay particular care to his tone of voice, speech, and topics whenever they spoke. She was too shrewd to overlook the slightest deception and would have picked up on the merest hint of irony. So, for as far back as Devon could recall, if his mother happened to be home from London and came upon Max and Devon discussing something esoteric, Devon would immediately leap to greet her, hoping his effusion would bar any interest she may have had in what they were talking about. His hopes were realized. A combination of her ego and his eagerness led to the unanticipated, happy coincidence that the duchess misinterpreted his very particular concealment for a very particular attention to her. As a result, she adored him unequivocally.
Claire was her first child, on whom she had lavished years of “only child” attention, imprinting her with what Devon saw as an unhealthy mix of arrogant female entitlement and piquancy. Next came Max, who was the duke. Period. Devon was her Dearest Devon. In her mind, he admired and honored her, whereas the rest of her children simply misunderstood the extent of her responsibilities. As for Abigail, well, to the Duchess of Northrop’s mind, there was no accounting for Abby and her eccentricities. When asked about her wayward fourth and final child, the duchess simply smiled blandly and half-joked that she probably should have stopped at Devon.
Chapter 6
By the time he got to university, Devon had spent so much time hiding behind his false front of average intelligence at Eton that he had fooled nearly everyone. Ironically, he had inadvertently created the very role he sought to escape: he was always a very strong second.
Then, after three months at the London School of Economics (his feigned mediocrity extended to his refusal to apply to either Oxford or Cambridge, bolstered by his desire to misspend his wild youth in the heart of the capital), he slipped up. While more or less dozing through yet another mathematics lecture, he heard the professor ask a particularly easy question and, in a daze, Devon raised his hand, answered the question, and went back to doodling random calculations for the radius of a circumsphere.
The room went completely quiet.
He looked up at the professor and stopped doodling. He hated drawing attention to himself, to his academic self, and was worried he had done so. The professor put down the stylus he had been using to write on his tablet computer, which was projected on the screen in the front of the lecture hall.
“Mr…”
“Heyworth,” Devon offered tentatively.
“Mr. Heyworth. Please elaborate.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Very well. If you are unable to admit you just grabbed that number out of a hat, I might get on with the lecture that, some students at least, have come to hear. If you, on the other hand, would be less bored elsewhere, perhaps you should consider transferring into a more challenging course.”
The silence was almost physically painful in Devon’s ears. No one was going to step in for him. Where was Max?
He was embarrassed to admit that that was always the first thing that popped into his supposedly postadolescent
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