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“Or take the baron’s,” Nicholas cut in. “We have a traveling coach. It seats four in comfort, six at a pinch. We could leave at dawn.”

Angelo turned and stared at his uncle, caught by the offer. Nicholas met his gaze with something near defiance, as if daring comment on this sudden generosity.

“That would be … grazie. Thank you, Nicholas. Truly.”

Nicholas flicked a hand. “It is sense, nothing more. Better our coach than some hired box that will shed a wheel in Devon.” He tapped the cane once against the ottoman, a restless beat, as if the decision had already set his body in motion even while his mouth stayed sour.

But Angelo saw through the gruff hide. Nicholas was lonely too. Adrift in his own fashion, hunting a use beyond the bottle he had put down and the pain he carried. This journey offered him the same door it offered Angelo. A chance to be more than what others expected. To be of use. To matter.

Perhaps, Angelo thought, every man in this room was extra wheel, hunting a vehicle that required him.

Lorenzo was already near the threshold, thoughts clearly flying west toward the coast, toward that Cornish house, toward whatever waited to be found. He paused and turned back to both men.

“I …” He hesitated, bare in a way he seldom was. “I am grateful. To you both. I know I run to … ossessionato. Obsessed. A bore on this subject. But it matters. More than I have words for. Friends who will chase a mad dream beside me …” He swallowed. “That is no small gift.”

Angelo crossed to him and caught him in a short, hard hug after the Italian manner. “We are fratelli. Kin by will, if not by blood.”

When he stepped back, Lorenzo blinked hard, eyes suspiciously bright. Nicholas stayed in his chair, yet his face had eased by a hair.

“Yes, well,” Nicholas said, gruff. “Someone must keep you from being fleeced by Cornish innkeepers with no conscience. It might as well be me.”

And just like that, the raw moment passed, replaced by the old rhythm of men’s banter and the work of packing a journey. They had a road to plan. A riddle to undo. An ancestor’s fate to bring into the light.

The restlessness that had ridden Angelo for weeks eased into something with a spine. This was what he had needed. Not the grand venture he had pictured beside Marco. A different road. One that belonged to him. Work shared with friends, where he was not leftover wheel but useful.

Cornwall, he thought, and the name rang with room to move. Grimsfell Hall. Whatever waited in that chamber, whatever secrets the walls still held, they would meet it side by side.

The adventure, Angelo realized with an optimism that rushed through him, was at last under way.

CHAPTER 2

February 15, 1822

The carriage lurched over another rut in the coastal road, and Nicholas Scott let out a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.

“Must you hit every damned hole between here and Land’s End?” he snapped at the coachman through the small window that connected the cabin to the box.

“Apologies, sir,” came the muffled reply. “Road’s more crater than cobblestone this close to the coast. The sea eats at everything.”

Angelo braced himself against the window frame as the vehicle tilted alarmingly to one side before righting itself with a bone-jarring thud. Across from him, Lorenzo did not even seem to notice the rough terrain. His friend sat rigid on the forward-facing seat, one hand clutching his leather satchel as if the precious documents within might escape if he relaxed his vigilance even for a moment.

They had been traveling for four days. Four days of progressively worsening roads, increasingly dubious inns, and weather that seemed determined to demonstrate every possible variation of English misery. Rain. Sleet. A fog so thick Angelo had feared they might drive straight off a cliff without realizing it until they were already plummeting toward the rocks below.

But now, on this late afternoon, the fog had finally lifted. Weak sunlight filtered through gaps in the cloud cover, painting the rugged Cornish landscape in shades of pewter and bronze. The Atlantic churned to one side, visible in glimpses between wind-sculpted trees that grew at angles suggesting decades of resistance against the relentless coastal gales.

It was beautiful in all its wild glory.

“How much farther?” Nicholas demanded, shifting in his seat with obvious discomfort. His injured leg was propped on the opposite bench, but four days of confinement had clearly taken their toll. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his jaw was clenched so tightly Angelo worried about his teeth.

“The driver said we should reach Grimsfell Hall within the hour,” Angelo replied, keeping his tone deliberately cheerful despite his own weariness. “And when we arrive, I will apply fresh liniment for your leg. Perhaps a warm compress as well.”

“What I need,” Nicholas said through gritted teeth, “is to never sit in a carriage again as long as I live.”

“Dramatic,” Angelo observed mildly.

“Accurate.”

Lorenzo finally stirred from his trance-like focus, turning to look at his companions as if surprised to find them still present. “We are nearly there,” he said unnecessarily. “Madonna, after all these years, we are nearly there.”