London, October 1884

Lord Henry Clarke, a distinguished professor at the University of London, paused momentarily to take a sip of water, alleviating the dryness of his mouth and throat. He glanced towards the windowsill, noting the persistent rain that draped the world outside in a dismal shroud. The room itself seemed ensnared in a pall of grey, as though the inclement weather had sapped the vitality from every object and individual within.

It was a regrettable circumstance, for this morning marked the inaugural lecture on Ancient Civilisations, heralding the commencement of the winter term for his history students. Yet, despite the significance of the occasion, there was an unmistakable air of listlessness pervading the classroom. Henry himself could not help but feel a sense of longing to be elsewhere, a sentiment seemingly shared by his students.

"Now that you have learned the elements which constitute an ancient civilisation and its common characteristics, it is time we progress to the chronology of these ancient civilisations."

He then set the glass back on the table and retrieved a piece of chalk, his fingers already dusted with its powdery residue. Before Henry commenced writing on the board, he turned once more to his students.

"Pray, be especially attentive, for this segment of today's lecture is paramount. It shall accompany you throughout the term, including the final examinations. You must commit this knowledge to memory as though it were a prayer. Should you be roused in the dead of night, it is your duty to recall this information instantly. At least for the term's duration—failure to do so would bring shame upon my head among the academic staff."

The students chuckled softly at the playful tone of his words, a heartening indication that their attention to the lesson had not yet waned. Henry then deftly extracted his pocket watch from the confines of his waistcoat, which lay beneath his dark academic robe.

"Regrettably, due to the constraints of time, we must divide our topic into two parts. Today, you shall learn about several ancient civilisations, with the remainder to be examined next week."

The term NEOLITHIC PERIOD appeared on the board as Henry commenced his discourse on the characteristics of the earliest known civilisation, the first of many that they would explore together.

Though he continued speaking, he could not help but regard his students in detail. There were eight of them seated at their desks, eight young gentlemen from well-established families, some even of noble lineage like Henry. Their wealth, or more precisely, the wealth of their families, permitted them to engage in studies that would likely hold little practical value for them beyond the opportunity to flaunt their degrees to society.

For, truth be told, the study of archaeology entailed extensive travel and laborious work in the field, often under arduous conditions such as the sands of Egypt. This reality often proved too taxing for these gently bred young men. Hence, most of the students in this program pursued it out of sheer curiosity rather than any serious vocational intention.

Historians often transitioned into esteemed authors, penning captivating tales of heroes embarking on dramatic journeys across the globe and amassing artefacts. Thereby, there was a certain engaging allure, a silver lining, to instructing such students, though Henry would be lying had he claimed he ever perused a single adventure novel.

Anthropologists, on the other hand, were typically those who descended upon excavation sites after the dirtiest labour was completed, ardently advocating for the meticulous management and preservation of findings for future generations. Thus, he could perceive how such ardent and spirited students might contribute to the conservation of ancient knowledge and artefacts.

But as for the scholars within the Classics programme, who intertwined the artistry of the past with the present? Only Providence could fathom their pursuits post-graduation, and Henry harboured scant interest in this matter.

He was well aware that being born as the second son was his blessing, for it enabled him to manage his life with much greater freedom. While his parents' attention was focused mainly on the heir, Henry Clarke perceived the world with unique and unprecedented astuteness. His talent for languages was revealed early in his childhood, and within his formative years, it became clear as day that the young gentleman was, indeed, a polyglot. With a natural curiosity for exploring the unknown and the past itself, he soon resolved to enrol in the Archaeology program at the University of London.

His father was not opposed to his second-born pursuing his desires, yet neither was he particularly enthusiastic about the prospect. Nevertheless, he funded all of Henry's needs concerning his studies and later contributed significantly to his travels. Henry completed his studies as a young man, being three-and-twenty in 1866. The late Duke of Grantchester, unfortunately, passed away three years later in 1869. Henry only learned of his father's demise upon returning to London for a brief stay between 1872 and 1873. The cause of death was heart failure, attributed to the late duke's morbid obesity. As Henry could recall, his father was often an unhappy man due to several reasons and he quite literally drowned his discontent in massive quantities of sustenance.

In a milieu where the realm of archaeology was predominantly a male-dominated field, he found camaraderie with distinguished figures such as Sir Flinders Petrie, Sir Austen Henry Layard, and even Heinrich Schliemann. Yet, amidst his scholarly pursuits, there was a conspicuous absence of feminine companionship—a void left unfilled by any lady, be it in friendship or the prospect of courtship, throughout his expeditions.

Henry Clarke, ever cautious of entanglements beyond the bounds of his own nation and lineage, returned home to find himself significantly bereft of intimate connection, yearning for the familiar embrace of his former paramour, Lady Lucy Reed.

Despite forewarnings told by the lady herself, he was nonetheless taken aback to discover Lucy ensconced in matrimony, bearing the fruit of familial union with two offspring already in tow, and a third imminent.

His disappointment was swiftly dispelled when he found solace in the company of not one, but two ladies, who eagerly welcomed him into their chambers, where they engaged in the most steamy of liaisons, often involving all three of them. One of these ladies was the independent Ms Moira Haggarty, while the other was the widow, Lady Victoria Bellamy. Both remained steadfast friends and confidantes to Henry, even unto this present day.

In due course, Henry withdrew from active pursuits in the year 1880, having achieved considerable renown. His name graced the pages of every respectable periodical, and his exploits were immortalised in countless illustrations. Furthermore, he ensured that his presence lingered in the salons and parlours of high society by penning memoirs of his voyages and discoveries, skilfully blending his narratives with authentic archaeological insights.

His alma mater, the venerable University of London, bestowed upon him the prestigious title of professor with unprecedented swiftness, a recognition of Henry's unmatched accomplishments, unwavering determination, and unparalleled expertise. For four years hence, he had graced the hallowed halls of academia, drawing eager scholars from distant corners.

In his honest opinion, he led a good life—a solitary existence, perhaps, yet replete with satisfaction.

As he poised his chalk to inscribe the annals of a distant civilisation upon the board, the quietude of the classroom was disrupted by the creak of the door, admitting two gentlemen. Foremost among them was Sir Vincent Callahan, the provost of the faculty, followed closely by Dr. Peter Haggarty, Henry's colleague in matters of history and archaeology—a relation by kinship to Miss Moira, among many.

Henry's countenance darkened at the approach of two gentlemen, their expressions sombre and foreboding. The provost's presence, especially, hinted at impending trouble.

"Lord Clarke, it is of utmost urgency that we speak in private forthwith. Might I request the dismissal of your class?" The provost's tone brooked no delay.

"Surely, gentlemen, we have but a quarter hour remaining to conclude today's discourse. Could it not wait? Or perchance, am I to be sacked immediately?" Henry inquired, attempting to lighten the tension with a touch of humour. Yet, the unyielding solemnity etched upon the faces of both the provost and Peter dissuaded any levity.

"Gentlemen, I extend my gratitude for your attention thus far. We shall resume our discussion the following week," Henry addressed his students, masking his own apprehension.

Once the room emptied, leaving only Henry, Vincent, and Peter, the provost released a heavy sigh, deepening the atmosphere of unease that enveloped them. It was palpable that dire tidings awaited Henry's ears.

"Henry, a courier from your ancestral estate, Westhill Manor, arrived some twenty minutes past," Vincent began in hushed tones, stealing a glance at Peter, who nodded in solemn acknowledgement. "Your presence is urgently requested there, for... His Lordship, the Duke of Grantchester, Andrew Clarke, has been discovered deceased this morn. Please accept my deepest sympathies."

"My heartfelt condolences," Peter murmured softly.

Initially, it appeared as though Henry had not heard the words, or perhaps comprehension had momentarily eluded him. Yet, as the provost and his companion observed the slight tremor of Henry's chin and the faint twitch at the corners of his mouth, they knew that the weight of the tragic news was slowly settling upon his soul.

Their colleague then leaned heavily onto the blackboard, the chalked words smearing beneath the pressure. Suddenly, the sharp sound of a fist colliding with the board reverberated through the tranquil atmosphere of the classroom, causing Vincent and Peter to startle.

"Henry—" the provost began, but the distressed professor cut him off.

"I cannot fathom it," he muttered, his voice barely audible above the echo of his thoughts.

Despite all the misgivings about Andrew, despite Henry's own foresight into the inevitable outcome, the reality seemed surreal. Yet, the younger brother knew deep down—should his sibling be discovered deceased, it could only signify one grim truth: he had succeeded in his endeavour, set in motion more than three decades prior.

"Would you deign to have me accompanying you to your abode?" Peter inquired with genuine concern evident in his voice.

Henry scarcely perceived his colleague's words amidst the tumult that beset his thoughts, as though Peter were distant, separated from the turmoil, the havoc that seized his senses. With an unsteady step, he seated himself at one of the desks, burying his face within his hands.

"Nay," came the solemn reply.

The men stood in silence for a moment, exchanging brief glances.

"Your Grace, there is—" Peter began.

"Do not, I implore you!" Henry interjected sharply. "I doubt my brother's remains have yet grown cold before I am thrust into the mantle of his title."

"Indeed, Henry, it is an undeniable truth that you are the next heir in line. However, it also signifies that we must part ways in our scholarly pursuits. With your new title, one can hardly expect teaching to remain at the forefront of your duties," the provost elucidated, his tone weighed down with the gravity of the news.

Henry regarded Vincent with his misty eyes reflecting the turmoil within his soul. "So, not only must I bid farewell to my brother, but I also lose my position at the university in the span of a single day?"

The provost took a deep breath, attempting to find words that might assuage the agitation of a man who had devoted the better part of his life to the study of archaeology, exploration of digs and sites, and academia. Yet, he found himself at a loss, realising that he was not only losing a valued colleague but also a man whose contributions in the field were perhaps once in a generation.

"Quite so, I regret to admit. And pray, do comprehend that I am solely endeavouring to act in the utmost interest of this esteemed institution, as well as your own welfare."

Henry scoffed and pressed the bridge of his nose indignantly.

Peter, sensing the tension, interjected with a proposal. "Fear not, my dear fellow, it's only the first day of the winter term. As we find a suitable replacement, I shall assume the responsibility of delivering your lectures for the interim period."

The offer prompted Henry to rise abruptly from his seat, his frustration palpable. "Gentlemen, it seems you have orchestrated everything quite meticulously. Therefore, I shall take my leave. Good day."

The provost, exchanging a troubled glance with Peter, inquired with a note of apprehension, "To Westhill, perchance?"

"Yes," came Henry's curt response as he gathered his belongings, put them into his leather briefcase, and made a swift departure from the premises.

He did not journey towards Westhill.

Henry proceeded directly to his townhouse, making his way with measured steps to the lavishly appointed study. Inside, a towering and intricately carved escritoire housed a collection of the finest vintages, concealed from all but the master of the house. Arrayed before him were an assortment of gins, whiskies, rums, brandies, and other spirits; the poisons deemed acceptable by polite society. With a casual air, Henry reached into the escritoire, selecting a bottle absentmindedly, only to discover upon imbibing the first glass that it was rum he had chosen for the day's indulgence. And even the night's, shall he feel so generous.

Under no fucking circumstance would he subject himself to the company of his family without fortification.

Henry found himself dreading the impending encounter with his mother, her stern countenance with lips pursed in a very thin line resembling that of a clam, and his sister-in-law's sour expression akin to a withered gourd. He had little patience for the feeble advice of his meek and otherwise idiotic uncle, nor for the reproachful remarks of his wife concerning Henry's lack of marriage and offspring. Even the company of his cousins provoked in him a growing desire for conflict, tempting him to throw fists with each passing minute in their company.

Yet, above all else, he was wholly unprepared to confront the lifeless form of his brother, a sight that would confirm how shattered his world became in a single, devastating moment.

Fuck it all. Fuck the duchy. Fuck every soul within it, for all I care.

Henry poured himself another glass of rum and downed it in a single gulp. He hadn't anticipated this shite; no one had prepared him for the weight of dukedom and the vast responsibilities, because why would they?! All attention had been lavished on ensuring the heir's survival at all costs, but the fucker couldn't endure, and what was worse, he dared to die childless. Now, as the spare became the heir, his family would prod and pry with the sharpest of figurative pokers, urging him to fulfil the duties that Andrew had left unattended. Foremost among them: securing the future of the line through the begetting of heirs.

It was dreadful enough that eager mothers threw their daughters in his face whenever he graced a social gathering with his presence. His status as 'The Unobtainable Bachelor' initially piqued their interest, but as time wore on, their enthusiasm waned. Yet, securing a title would undoubtedly reignite their fervour, for it signalled the necessity of securing heirs. And where matrons weren't breathing the blessed air of the realm any more, patrons would undoubtedly ensure no opportunity was lost. Good riddance, he will have to step on some unfortunate woman in his attempt to cross their hordes!

With the consumption of his third glass, Henry deemed himself sufficiently fortified to undertake the journey to Westhill and reunite with his kin. His imbibing had not reached its cessation; indeed, it would persist within the carriage and the walls of his ancestral home. Fuck, he was resolved to imbibe as if he were in his youth, until the entire contents of his stomach rebelled against his actions, a futile endeavour to poison himself in a feeble attempt to dull the recollections of Andrew. Letting out a weighty sigh, he rose from his seat and summoned his valet to prepare a carriage.

And while the knowledge that he was to become the new Duke of Grantchester caused a prolonged uproar in his soul, mind and life, there was another surprise waiting patiently behind the rich draperies, akin to an elusive child, sneering from a shadowy place at Henry's ignorance of its existence, its behaviour reflecting nothing but deep schadenfreude.

And, oh, would that surprise cause him further trouble!