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Isolde’s heart hammered as she watched Angelo kneel beside the organ, his fingers exploring the very alcove through which she had just retreated moments before. He was so close. Close enough that if the stone between them were to vanish, she could reach out and touch his face.

The thought sent longing rushing through her heart, followed immediately by a wave of anxiety so intense it made her dizzy.

They were getting too close. All three of them, Angelo, Lorenzo, Nicholas. Methodically examining every surface of the Hall of Reflections, tapping on mirrors, testing carvings, searching for the secrets her family had guarded for generations.

Isolde watched as Lorenzo demonstrated the acoustic engineering behind the false shelving to his companions, explaining with evident awe how Matteo di Bianchi had ensured even sound testing would reveal nothing. The Italian’s expertise was evident in every observation he made, every theory he proposed.

These were not stupid men. Not casual treasure hunters who would give up after a few days of fruitless searching. They were educated, determined, and possessed enough knowledge to potentially unravel everything her father had charged her to protect.

Guilt twisted in Isolde’s stomach, sharp and acidic. She should never have allowed them to rent the hall. Should have refused their application, sent them away, to protect Grimsfell’s secrets as generations of Fairfaxes had done before her.

But what choice had she truly had?

When Mr. Silas Penrose, the family solicitor, had written to inform her of Lord Trenwith’s application to lease the hall, his letter had been characteristically brief and to the point. Lord Trenwith’s credentials were impeccable. A viscount with strong connections to the Crown, traveling with respectable companions for purposes of historical research. Refusing such an application without cause would be, in the solicitor’s carefully chosen words, “inadvisable and likely to generate precisely the sort of inquiry best avoided.”

Isolde had written back immediately, inking her concerns in veiled language that Mr. Penrose would understand. Could they not claim the hall was unavailable? That necessary repairs were underway? That the owner was indisposed?

His response had arrived the same afternoon, written in the precise hand she knew so well. The Penrose family had served the Fairfaxes for over a century, and Mr. Penrose himself had been her father’s friend as well as his solicitor. He would not guide her wrongly.

“The circumstances are delicate,” he had written. “Lord Trenwith has already begun making inquiries through multiple channels. A flat refusal at this stage, particularly without substantive reason, would raise questions we cannot afford to answer. Better to control the situation by permitting the lease under standard terms. I remain, as always, at your service should complications arise.”

Isolde had trusted his judgment because she had no choice. Mr. Penrose understood Grimsfell’s secrets. Not all of them, perhaps, but enough to appreciate what was at stake. If he believed allowing the lease was the safer course, then she had to defer to his expertise.

At least this way, Isolde reasoned, she knew what they were doing. Could observe their progress, understand their methods, potentially intervene if they came too close to discovering something truly dangerous.

They could have simply broken into the manor if she had refused them. Could have arrived under cover of darkness, forced entry, searched without her consent. At least as paying tenants, their presence was legitimate, their actions constrained by the rules of polite society.

And they were gentlemen, Isolde reminded herself. Lord Trenwith was a viscount, a man of standing and reputation. His companions seemed equally respectable. Educated, well-mannered, clearly people of quality rather than the dangerous sort Papa had always warned might come seeking Grimsfell’s secrets.

Not the villains Papa was worried about, surely?

But even as the thought formed, a wave of disloyalty crashed over Isolde. How could she be so certain? How could she presume to judge what her father would have wanted when he had left her so utterly unprepared for this situation?

Augustus Fairfax had died suddenly, felled by an apoplectic attack that gave no warning, no time for final instructions or explanations. One moment he had been alive, vital, discussing plans for expanding the kitchen garden and debating whether they should try cultivating Mediterranean herbs in the protected southern beds. The next, he was gone, leaving Isolde alone with responsibilities she only partially understood.

She had been nineteen years old. Barely more than a girl, despite her education and the years she had spent learning alongside her father. He had always spoken of their work together as if there would be endless time. Decades, perhaps, for her to gradually absorb the full scope of her duties as guardian.

But there had been no time. No gradual transition. Just sudden, devastating absence where her father’s steady presence had been.

Why had he not prepared her better? Why had he treated her as if there would be endless years to learn? He had shared pieces of information over the years, references to the family’s sacred trust, vague warnings about those who might seek what Grimsfell protected, but never the complete picture.

And why, this question burned hottest of all, why had he left only an unwed and sequestered young woman to guard the house? Surely, he must have known how vulnerable that made her, how difficult it would be for her to fulfill responsibilities he had never fully explained.

If he had truly believed the secrets were so vital, so dangerous, why had he not ensured she had proper support? A husband to stand beside her, or at least trusted advisors who understood what needed protecting?

But that was impossible, of course. What man would marry her? The port-wine stain that marked her face guaranteed she would never be acceptable as a wife, particularly not to the kind of gentleman who might have had the education and resources to help maintain Grimsfell’s secrets.

Her father must have known that. Must have understood that her disfigurement made marriage unlikely, if not impossible. So why had he not made other arrangements? Why had he not taken steps to ensure she would not be left alone and unprepared?

Isolde felt tears prickling at her eyes as frustration and confusion warred with grief. She missed her father desperately, missed his steady presence and academic confidence. But she also felt a growing resentment toward him for leaving her so unprepared, so isolated, so utterly alone in facing challenges she did not fully comprehend.

It was disloyal to think such things about a man who had loved her, who had done his best to give her a good life despite the circumstances of her birth and appearance. But the thoughts came anyway, unbidden and unwelcome, poisoning her grief with anger she had no right to feel.

And beneath it all, a question that made her feel disloyal even thinking it. What was she actually protecting? She knew the Hall of Reflections existed, knew the passages that honeycombed the walls, knew that Matteo di Bianchi had planned something significant here centuries ago. But the why remained frustratingly obscure.

Her father had spoken of a sacred trust, of secrets that must be guarded at all costs. But he had never properly explained what those secrets were, or why they mattered, or what terrible consequences might result from their discovery.

How was she supposed to be an effective guardian when she herself did not fully understand what she was guarding against?