Chapter 1

ONE

Casper Penhurst was convincedhe’d been born in the wrong century. The hustle of the modern world and the values that people in the twenty-first century seemed to hold most dear had always set his teeth on edge. He’d felt that way even before he’d done his History A-levels, and before he’d earned a bachelor’s degree in History with a first from Oxford. He didn’t judge his or anyone else’s worth by what sort of car they drove or how much money they made, he wasn’t glued to his mobile every second of the day, forming an opinion about the lives of people he didn’t know, and he most definitely did not think sex should be handed out like a party favor. He wasn’t a prude by any stretch of the imagination, he just thought some things should be saved for someone you really cared about.

He’d loved traveling to historic estates with his parents on weekends when he was a child. They’d gone because sneaking into those estates was the cheaper option for entertainment for a family that barely had enough to pay the rent on their Hounslow flat, but Casper had adored every moment of poring over those grand houses. As small as he’d been, he could slip into closets and find corners where the docents weren’t looking and explore the wonders of old, delicate books and dusty furniture that still smelled of a bygone age.

Hed become so good at making himself small and unnoticeable in those early years of his life that the tendency not to draw attention or be seen at all had followed him into adulthood, like the proverbial cross-eyed expression that scolding adults had warned him would stay that way if he made that face too long. Those early days of making himself invisible so that his parents wouldn’t get caught skipping the queue, or so that he could examine an antique in more detail after the rest of the class had moved on in their school tour, had come back to haunt him by the time he was a man trying to make a name for himself in the world.

Case in point was the way the assistant director of the After the War television show backed right into him as the two of them and the rest of the cast and crew watched the final moments of the scene that was being filmed at Wodehouse Abbey.

Casper fought not to cry out and disturb the scene as Gloria’s heel landed right on his toe and her elbow poked into his gut. Gloria, however, gasped and flinched as though someone had come up behind her in a dark alley and grabbed her.

“Jesus,” she hissed, whipping around to glare at Casper. Her breath huffed out a moment later, and her whole body relaxed. “Sorry, Casper,” she whispered. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Quiet on set!” the director called out, then quickly. “Take it from the curtain line again.”

Casper’s face burned hot as Gloria stepped away from him, giving her attention to the actors once more. As embarrassed as he was to cause an interruption to filming, the fact that the director had looked at Gloria alone with his scolding, possibly not realizing Casper had been involved at all, hit Casper like a sour note in an otherwise beautiful song.

The scene went on as if there hadn’t been an interruption.

“The Admiralty doesn’t have a ship for me, which means I have no chance of a royal commission at this time.” Phillip Dunstan, the impressive Hollywood star, who had been cast in the role of frustrated sailing master, Septimus Bolton, for the show delivered his line with perfect, masculine brooding. He was ideal for the part, gorgeous and rugged in a way that had Casper adjusting the way he sat or stood once or twice since filming had begun three weeks ago, but after all those weeks, he still carried himself like a twenty-first century celebrity and not a nineteenth century sailor.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I take it you were hoping to go back to sea?” Glen White, the hot new twink on the acting scene, who had been cast opposite Phillip as Adam Seymour, tutor for the duke’s children, delivered his reply with the right sort of grace for a man of the Regency era. Glen had surprised everyone on the set with his dedication and talent right from the first day of filming. He’d actually taken a few of the notes Casper had given him and changed his mannerisms as well.

“I was born and raised by the sea. I’ve spent more of my life on the ocean than on dry land. I am at a loss as to what to do with myself now. If you will excuse me,” Phillip replied with a nod, then turned and left the room as the cameraman followed him.

“Cut!” Rory, the director, called out. “I think it looks good,” he went on, stepping forward into the portion of the Wodehouse Abbey parlor where the cast and crew were working. “Let’s get it one more time from the other angle.”

That was the number one thing Casper had learned about the ins and outs of a film set since coming to work as a historical consultant on After the War. Filming wasn’t fun or glamorous. It was long, tedious work that involved doing the same scene over and over until everyone was sick of it.

Because the particular scene they were working on that morning was being filmed at Wodehouse Abbey itself instead of on the sound stage in London, where the majority of the interiors were being filmed, shooting the whole thing over again from a different angle meant everyone had to move and the lighting had to be adjusted.

“Do we really have time for this?” Phillip asked in a low mutter, stepping closer to Glen as everyone shifted around them. “I’ve got a call with my agent at noon, and I don’t want to delay it again.”

“Let’s just get the scene right,” Glen replied with a youthful smile. “Sawyer is joining us all today, and I heard Rory say he wants to get his first scene done before lunch anyhow.”

Casper’s ears pricked up as he heard Sawyer’s name. He paused for a moment as he walked to the other end of the room, and ended up having one of the production assistants walk right into him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Casper apologized to the distracted young man.

The young man smiled back, but continued on with whatever he’d been doing as if Casper wasn’t there at all.

Casper headed to his new observation spot at the other end of the room, out of view of the camera, his heart beating a little faster.

Sawyer Kingston. He’d been cast in the role of Percy Montague, Lord Sigglesthorpe. The part had the potential to steal the show and become a viewer favorite. The real Lord Sigglesthorpe’s antics had been the stuff of comedic legend, and many accounts existed from a variety of sources detailing how charming, funny, and lascivious the man had been. The timing of the role was perfect for Sawyer, since he had his first big-budget film coming out in a matter of weeks, and the buzz was that it would make him a household name.

Casper had met Sawyer a few months before, at a supper party in Dorset held by friends of his, Kit Courrier and master chef Walt Severance. Casper had been star-struck by Sawyer at the supper and had even managed to have a short conversation with him. He’d seen Sawyer at the Chameleon Club—the social home of The Brotherhood, a centuries-old organization that provided social and legal support for gay men—though he knew Sawyer wasn’t a member. As official Brotherhood historian, Casper lived at the Chameleon Club, and he knew the names of all the members.

Seeing Sawyer again and hopefully getting another chance to talk to the bright, cheery man, maybe even flirt with him, maybe more, was one of the main reasons Casper had been so happy to be hired as the historical consultant for After the War. Getting to actually live for a few weeks in the house where Anthony Wodehouse, Duke of Malton had hosted the legendary house party over two hundred years before was the main one, but interacting with Sawyer again was definitely high on his list.

“Five minutes, everyone,” Rory said in his booming voice. “I want to be rolling in five minutes.”

Casper saw his opportunity and grabbed it. He strode forward to where Phillip and Glen were standing, then cleared his throat.

“Excuse me,” he said, addressing Phillip. Glen peeked up at him from where he was checking his phone—though God only knew where he’d gotten that phone, since they weren’t allowed on set—but Phillip was staring intently at his script. “Excuse me,” Casper repeated.

It took Phillip far too long to realize Casper was standing there and that he wanted something. “Can I help you?” Phillip asked, looking annoyed.

Casper swallowed, hating the feeling that he was a nobody trying to address a very definite somebody. When it came to historical accuracy, he was the one who knew what he was talking about.

“I just have a small note,” Casper said with as friendly a smile as he could manage. “You’ve let your posture slip again. A Regency gentleman would stand straighter, his shoulders back.”

“Septimus wasn’t a gentleman,” Phillip said dismissively. “He was a regular bloke.”

“Yes, but it’s the jacket, you see,” Casper said, trying not to be exasperated. “The way clothing was fashioned in the Regency required a more upright posture than the way our costume designer has constructed your jacket. If you want to be accurate, stand straighter.”

“Right,” Phillip said, then went back to his script.

Casper stood there for a moment, his mouth hanging open. He’d been thoroughly dismissed. Even Glen looked at him with wide, almost amused eyes, like he knew Philip had given him the brush-off.

Casper closed his mouth and slunk back to his corner of the room, near the doorway to the hall, as the director started to call people back to their places. Invisible. Same as always. He was right, he had more knowledge and information than Phillip, but as usual, no one had listened, and he’d been relegated to a corner again.

“I wish they’d just get it over with,” a dry, stuffy voice muttered from the doorway behind Casper.

Casper twisted to see Harry Wodehouse, the current Duke of Malton, standing just behind him, watching as the filming started again with a frown.

Conscious of the need for complete quiet, Casper slipped to the side, pulling the older man out into the hall, then across to one of the parlors where they could speak without being heard.

“I thought you were happy about your ancestors’ story being told,” he said, whispering to be certain they wouldn’t be heard.

“Oh, I am, I am,” Harry insisted. “I simply wish they didn’t have to invade like the Huns in order to do it.”

Casper grinned. Harry Wodehouse was in his seventies and had the feel of a man who was part of a different time. That was probably why Casper liked him, despite his questionable politics and fussy manners.

“They’ve only got a few more weeks of filming here, exteriors mostly, and then the production is moving back to London,” Casper said.

“Yes, well, I’ve been told they’ll probably need to come back to reshoot a few things,” Harry growled. “I suppose I should be grateful, since it means my family’s fantastic story will be brought into the light.”

Casper hummed and nodded, which was the only thing you could do with Harry, really.

“And what about you?” Harry asked, shifting his posture and the subject. “Have you heard anything else from Royal University of London about that professorship yet?”

A burst of hot and cold washed through Casper, and he held his breath for a moment. Some people dreamed of becoming a huge, Hollywood celebrity, or working with them, like he was doing right now. Casper’s big dream, however, was to become a tenured professor of History at a major university.

He’d applied for every vacant position in the History departments of every university in England and Scotland, and even a few in America. Each time, he’d been thanked for his interest in the position, but passed over for so much as an interview. There was always someone more qualified, more experienced. More likely, there was always someone more charismatic who was able to stand out from the field. He’d been entirely underwhelming the few times he’d made it to the interview stage.

But for the first time, Casper had landed an actual interview for exactly the position he wanted, Professor of Early Modern History at Royal University of London. Not only was it exactly the subject he was most passionate about, because the main campus of the university was in Ealing, he’d be able to continue on as historian of The Brotherhood, and, if he wanted to, he could keep his small set of rooms inside the Chameleon Club as well.

“I have an in-person interview on the fifteenth of next month,” he told Harry with an excited smile. “Wish me luck.”

“You know I could do more than wish you luck,” Harry said frankly, looking at Casper over the top of his wire glasses. “I’m terribly good friends with half of RUL’s board of trustees. One word from me, and they’d practically beg you to take the position.”

Another wave of hot and cold prickles slithered down Casper’s back. “Thank you, Harry,” he said with a tight smile. “I’m not so sure I want to get the position through favors, though.”

“No?” Harry asked, as if he were surprised the world worked in any other way but by the crumbling remnants of the aristocracy calling in favors.

“I’m truly grateful,” Casper said, “but I really do want to get ahead in life on my own merits. You understand, of course.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Harry said, looking unconvinced.

“Quiet,” someone hissed from down the hall.

Casper pressed his lips shut and felt guilty for about a dozen reasons. Was he a fool for turning down an offer to pull a few strings so that he could land his dream job? Would he be able to sleep at night, knowing he’d been hired not because he was the best person for the job, but because someone else had exerted their influence? Maybe that was how anyone got noticed in the age of social media influence and viral videos.

Maybe that was the reason he was still so invisible, even after making himself important within The Brotherhood. He hated the idea of joining X, Y, Z, or whatever it was called now, or TikTok, or anything slick and catchy like that. He much preferred to write an actual letter when he needed to get in touch with someone. But maybe if he swallowed his pride and dipped his toe in slightly more modern waters?—

A thump from the other side of the hall shook him out of his thoughts and had Harry groaning.

“God, what now?” Harry grumbled, heading for the hallway. Casper followed him. “I’m relying on you to make certain these people don’t bring the entire house down around our ears, Casper,” he called back over his shoulder. “You might be their historical consultant, but you’re my eyes and ears on the set. You know the value of things, and you know what should be preserved.”

“Absolutely,” Casper said, nodding seriously.

Filming of the scene between Phillip and Glen had apparently finished. Casper and Harry passed Phillip marching in the other direction as they headed down the hall, to the rooms in the more modern part of the house that had been converted into dressing rooms, wardrobe, and make-up. Glen and Rory and most of the PAs were still in the parlor where shooting was taking place, and a few other cast members had joined them.

Including Sawyer.

Casper’s breath caught at the sight of him, and not just because Sawyer was every bit as gorgeous as Casper remembered him being the night of the supper. He had just been handsome then. Now, dressed head to toe in Regency elegance—ostentatiously so, since the real Percy Montague had been an outrageous dandy—Sawyer was the perfect picture of Casper’s hottest fantasies.

The Regency-style jacket Sawyer wore had been fashioned with sartorial elegance and hugged Sawyer’s firm, slender built. The breeches fit him so well that Casper found himself staring and wishing Sawyer would turn around and bend over to pick something up. The shining Hessian boots elongated Sawyer’s legs, and the styling team had coifed Sawyer’s honey-brown hair to curling perfection. Head to toe, Sawyer was perfect in every way.

And then he glanced up from the antique book he was paging through and met Casper’s eyes across the room. A smile of recognition lit the gorgeous man’s eyes, and Casper thought his heart might melt, and his jeans might pop a button.

Sawyer had noticed him. Him, not Harry, who had walked into the room at his side. He’d glanced up for him, not for Rory, who was getting louder as he gave orders for the new scene to be filmed. It was clear Sawyer remembered him, too.

An entire world of possibilities spread open before Casper, like the dawning of a new?—

“Sawyer!” Rory barked, causing Sawyer to twist sharply toward him.

The sudden movement also caused Sawyer to fumble the book. Sawyer grabbed at it as it spilled from his hands, and in the process, he knocked his hip into a small, spindly table right where he was standing.

The table toppled over and crashed to the ground, and the book split at its spine as it hit the floor. Sawyer was left splayed in the middle of it all in a very un-Regency-like pose, looking panicked and clumsy.

“What have you done?” Casper blurted, leaping forward. His eyes were glued to the split book on the floor and the now splintered table. “Do you have any idea how old that book is?” he demanded, bending to swipe up the poor, damaged book from the floor. “What kind of a clumsy oaf are you?” he raged on.

At least the table was one of the replicas Harry had insisted be made. The color of the wood under the stain showed that much. The book was several hundred years old, and even though it could be repaired, Sawyer clearly hadn’t been handling it with care.

“I…I’m sorry,” Sawyer stammered, turning bright pink under his make-up.

“You can’t just go throwing priceless antiques around,” Casper went on, examining the book with a combination of fury and tenderness. “Do you know how old this volume is? Do you know how many hands have touched it and how many eyes have read through its pages?”

“Gosh, lots, I guess,” Sawyer said. “I’m so sorry.”

“You should be,” Casper snapped. “You should be?—”

He glanced up, and his ranting stopped as he saw hurt and embarrassment in the eyes of the man he’d most been looking forward to seeing again. He’d wanted to impress Sawyer Kingston, and here he’d just gone and shouted at the man. It was a disaster.