Page 11

Angelo felt a surge of sympathy for his friend. Lorenzo had barely slept during their journey, and when he did doze off, he muttered in Italian about frescoes and gilded frames and the vindication of the di Bianchi name. The weight of three centuries of family obsession rested on those lean shoulders, and Angelo could see how it weighed down like a physical burden.

“Whatever we find,” Angelo said gently, “it will be enough. You have already discovered more than any di Bianchi before you.”

“Have I?” Lorenzo’s dark eyes reflected doubt and desperate hope in equal measure. “A painting. A sketch. Some code. These are breadcrumbs, Angelo. Not the feast I have been promised since childhood. My uncles, my father, all of them believed Matteo created masterworks in England. Paintings that would rival anything in the Uffizi. And what have I found? An architectural puzzle box and a single portrait.”

“You have not seen what is at the hall yet,” Nicholas pointed out. “Perhaps it is impressive.”

“Or perhaps it is just another clue. Another stop along the way to a road that leads nowhere.” Lorenzo’s hands clenched on his satchel. “Do you know what my family sacrificed for this obsession? My grandfather spent a fortune bribing archives clerks across Europe. My father died still searching, still believing. And I …” He trailed off, staring out at the churning sea. “I have staked everything on vindicating a man who disappeared three hundred years ago. If I fail, if there is nothing here but empty chambers and clever tricks, then what was the point of any of it?”

The carriage fell silent save for the creak of wood and leather, the clop of horses’ hooves, and the ever-present wind that seemed to define this remote corner of England. Angelo searched for words of comfort, but what could he say? He understood obsession. The need to prove oneself worthy of one’s heritage. But his own struggles with finding his place in the world seemed trivial compared to Lorenzo’s burden.

“There,” Nicholas said suddenly, pointing through the window. “Look.”

Angelo leaned forward, pressing his face close to the salt-streaked glass. Through the gaps in the gnarled trees, he caught his first glimpse of their destination.

Grimsfell Hall rose from the clifftop like something conjured from the bones of the earth itself. The main structure was Tudor, that much was evident from the distinctive half-timbering and tall chimneys that clawed at the sky. But subsequent generations had added to it, creating a rambling edifice that seemed to have grown organically rather than been deliberately designed. Gothic windows in pointed arches jutted from later additions. A wing extended to the south, its symmetrical façade at odds with the organic chaos of the older sections.

But it was the setting that stole Angelo’s breath.

The hall perched on the very edge of the cliff, so close that Angelo could see where the stone foundation simply ended, giving way to a sheer drop to the rocks and surf below. The Atlantic hurled itself against those rocks with primordial fury, sending up plumes of white spray that glittered briefly in the weak sunlight before being torn away by the wind.

The sound reached them even inside the carriage. A deep, resonant booming that Angelo felt in his chest as much as he heard with his ears. And beneath that percussive assault, another sound wove through the air. A high, keening whistle that rose and fell with the wind’s breath.

“The cliffs sing,” Lorenzo murmured, his disappointment temporarily forgotten in the face of such stark beauty. “I have read about this. The wind moves through fissures and caves in the rock, creating that sound. Some say it is the voices of drowned sailors calling for rescue.”

“Cheerful,” Nicholas muttered. But even he seemed impressed, despite his determination to remain unaffected by their surroundings.

Angelo could not tear his gaze from the hall. Some places, he thought, were so old, so steeped in history, that they seemed to possess personalities of their own. Grimsfell Hall was such a place. He could feel it even from a distance, the weight of centuries pressing down, the accumulation of secrets and sorrows and joys layered like sediment in stone.

Soon he would come to know this old place. The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

“What a grand adventure this will be!” he declared, unable to contain his enthusiasm even as exhaustion pulled at his bones.

Nicholas groaned. “If you start singing with joy, I will have the coachman leave you by the roadside.”

“I make no promises,” Angelo replied cheerfully. “My spirits are rising with every moment. Can you not feel it? The history, the mystery, the⁠—”

“Excessive romanticism?” Nicholas supplied acidly.

“Possibilità,” Angelo corrected. “Possibility.”

Lorenzo said nothing, but his gaze remained fixed on the hall with an intensity that bordered on painful. Whatever waited for them inside those ancient walls would either fulfill a family dream or shatter it completely.

The carriage turned onto a drive lined with wind-twisted trees, their branches reaching toward the hall like supplicants seeking blessing. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels as they approached, and Angelo could make out more details now. Mullioned windows that caught the light and threw it back in fractured patterns. Chimneys reached up in supplication to the heavens. A massive oak door studded with iron that looked as though it could withstand a siege.

They rolled to a stop in the forecourt, and before the driver could even climb down to open the door, Lorenzo had thrown it open himself and practically leaped from the carriage. He stood with his head tilted back, turning slowly to take in every angle of the structure before him.

Angelo descended more carefully, mindful of his own stiffness after days of travel. The wind hit him immediately. Cold, salt-laden, carrying that strange singing from the cliffs. It tugged at his coat and tousled his hair, and he found himself grinning despite the chill. This was nothing like London’s damp gray misery. This was fresh, primal, alive.

Nicholas emerged last, leaning heavily on his walking stick, his face pale with pain but his expression determinedly neutral. Angelo made a mental note to find that liniment immediately on being shown their rooms. His uncle’s pride would never allow him to complain beyond a certain point, but Angelo had learned to read the signs. Tightness around his eyes, the careful way he distributed his weight, increasing temper.

“Gentlemen!”

They turned as one to see a woman with a shock of white hair descending the front steps. She was in her sixties, round-faced and solid, dressed in the practical gray wool of a housekeeper. Her eyes were bright blue and sharp, missing nothing as they swept over the three travelers.

“You are the housekeeper, I presume?” Lorenzo called, his Italian accent thickening with emotion and fatigue.

“Aye, sir. Mrs. Roskelly. And ye be Signor di Bianchi?” At Lorenzo’s nod, she bobbed a slight curtsy. “Lord and Lady Trenwith are expecting ye. Please, come in out of the wind. It has a bite to it today, and ye look fair frozen through.”