The ancient, thick wooden door slammed solidly in Silas’s face, cutting off the miniscule amount of heat that escaped the castle to warm him from the plummeting coastal December air. The envelope in his hand was nearly as dense as the door several inches in front of him.

And it meant nothing.

Addressed to the Earl of Lichfield…the previous Lord Lichfield.

The invitation to attend the wedding of Lady Tamsyn Hambly to Mr. Gryffyn Cardew, and Lady Morgan Hambly to Harold Mort, Viscount Blackwater, on the twenty-fourth day of December, 1811, at Castle Keyvnor had appeared a suitable time as any to make the acquaintance of his mother’s family. His funds had dwindled to such a low point—and the Marquess of Blandford had refused to set a wedding date before the new year—that he’d been reduced to doing exactly as Peabody suggested months prior.

He was in Cornwall to throw himself at the mercy of his estranged relations on his mother’s side.

The horrid irony that he was still betrothed to Lady Mallory Hughes was not lost on Silas.

Not even a little bit.

Tucking the embossed invitation into his inner coat pocket, Silas pulled his collar higher to keep the wind from his neck and ears.

His father had not responded to the missive—naturally, because he was dead.

And so, Silas’s name had not been added to the guest list, nor a room reserved for his arrival.

The castle was brimming with guests, and his “fair” aunt, who “loved her relations” was not available to sort out the issue.

Where did that leave Silas?

Admitting defeat. With no other recourse but to return to the tiny, dingy lodgings at the Crown & Anchor in Bocka Morrow, the final room available in town. The finer establishment, The Mermaid’s Kiss, had turned him away just as readily as the butler at his aunt’s castle.

His aunt, the Countess of Banfield, was in possession of a bloody damned castle!

Silas turned and stepped down from the stoop as the thought sank in.

Sybil would never have agreed to remain in London had she known her relations lived in an ancient castle. There was no doubt the vast rock structure was home to all sorts of ghosts and goblins. Slade would be joining him in Cornwall in a day’s time—likely at his besmirched room at the local tavern—due to his recent troubles in London and his need to remove himself from certain circles before…

Silas sighed. Now was not the time to ponder the predicament his twin had embroiled himself in.

Silas was in the wilds of Cornwall, preparing to meet his betrothed and resigned to overlook his better judgment to make the acquaintance of his aunt—devoid of proper lodging.

How was he to adhere to Peabody’s suggestion and keep his estranged, pauper status unknown if he were to greet Lady Mallory under such conditions?

At least he could gain a proper bath and pressed shirt at the Crown & Anchor.

The butler had promised to pass word to the countess of his arrival in Bocka Morrow. It would have been wise to bring his bloody calling card to leave with the servant; however, Silas had expected—foolishly—to be greeted by the open arms of family.

Fair and loving be damned.

Worse yet, Slade would arrive shortly.

Silas bloody well hoped the tavern did not sport a gambling room for his twin, or Silas would likely be returning to London on foot, his horse sold to satisfy debts incurred during Slade’s stay.

Even more feverishly, Silas prayed his aunt sent word sooner rather than later and summoned him to the castle.

Silas scanned the desolate coastal landscape surrounding Castle Keyvnor. The only break in the monotony of the view was a carriage rolling toward the castle and servants bustling in and out, hurrying to some point beyond the rear of the magnificent structure.

Yet, no sound could be heard beyond the rise and fall of the turbulent ocean waters.

It was this that drew Silas’s notice upon arriving in Cornwall: the quiet.

In Paris, the butcher began his work long before sunrise, and the streets were ever brimming with merchants, travelers, and vagabonds. The noise was incessant and comforting in an odd way.

There was nothing comforting about this eerily soundless castle on the cliffs.

Glancing back at the drive, Silas noted that the fast-approaching carriage was only several hundred yards from him now. This was not the way he’d sought to make his appearance at Bocka Morrow. He must be presented to all in a manner above reproach—shrouded in respectability—if he and his siblings had any chance of acceptance among society.

A reputation as the poor, estranged relation was not easily overcome in London.

He swung onto his waiting horse and set off across a barren strip of land toward town—and a tumbler of Scotch.