As they bounced over the cobbled street, Camilla realized she was still on Synton’s lap, his firm thighs bulging beneath her. She shifted, but he made no move to release her.
“Have him turn here.”
Synton did as she instructed, and within moments they’d pulled in front of a seemingly ordinary house.
Each time Camilla saw its cheery exterior, her heart ached.
Her father had purchased the building on the street behind their town house ten years prior—within a week of her mother’s abandonment. Some had called it grief, or madness, and they weren’t wrong. He’d renovated it into a house filled with secrets over the last few years of his life.
To anyone passing by, it appeared to be a normal home. But the front door and windows were only excellent sculptures, secured to the walls. The true entrance was located around the private, gated alley beside it. After the gate was manually opened, by tugging the hidden latch, it revealed a secret door in the building’s side, tall and wide enough to drive a carriage through.
There were no neighbors to the right, only a stone wall too tall to climb over. And the three-story town house itself successfully blocked any other prying eyes.
It was her father’s favorite creation. He’d always loved secret entryways but had become especially obsessed with them toward the end. Camilla never quite knew what to make of this. She suspected it related to his love of the old stories, and perhaps a little to her mother, as if one magical door might unlock all her secrets and reveal where she’d gone when she left him.
No matter the reason, in that final decade, doors, portals, entryways, and passages all became Pierre’s greatest source of inspiration. He’d painted them, sculpted them, and made this whole house as an ode to whatever world it was he desperately wished to find.
Camilla had never shown any of this last phase of his work before. It was better that no one knew who he’d become. And while her father might not have understood, she did: some doors were not meant to be opened.
After she had instructed the coachman how to open the gate, they pulled up in front of the massive door. “Have your driver pull the lantern on the right toward him,” Camilla said.
If Synton was curious about the odd request, he didn’t let it show.
A moment later, the door opened wide, and they drove the carriage into the dark space beyond. They waited for the door to close behind them before Camilla exited the coach.
Synton followed her out, his attention sweeping across the cavernous room, only dimly lit by a few flickering gas lanterns. He quickly took in every bridle, saddle, and stack of hay before looking her over anew.
“What a lovely barn. And how do you plan on sneaking past the columnists?”
“You confound me, my lord. Of all the questions you could ask,
He raised a brow.
“I’ve heard of your father’s eccentricities, Miss Antonius. I’m assuming this was his doing. A fine workspace, I’m sure, but at present, I am more concerned with getting you home than delving into your unusual family history.”
Camilla could hardly believe Synton had gleaned so much from that cursory glance. When her father had been alive, he had used the space as his studio. He’d claimed he needed the space, and the quiet, to truly work. In the back was a staircase that led to a washroom and two bedrooms on the second floor that contained all his art supplies. The third floor had remained an open expanse dedicated solely to showcasing his work.
No one except Camilla had had access to this studio, and until this moment, no one but her and her father had ever set foot inside.
“What I cannot piece together,” Synton went on, “is the reason we’re here. Are you planning on waltzing down the street on foot, as if you’d been out for a stroll?”
“Of course not. I’m going through the secret tunnel, naturally.”
She pointed to a pile of what appeared to be broken wheels in the corner.
It was another of her father’s creations. When she turned the topmost wheel, it would release the trapdoor hidden beneath.
“Thank you for your help this evening. I’m capable of traveling the rest of the way on my own. If you press against the haystack, it will open the side door again. Good night, my lord.”
Synton appraised her with cool calculation.
“I will not be so easily dismissed this time, Miss Antonius.”
He brushed past her and strode into the tunnel after releasing the trapdoor. His steps were sure and steady.
“Come. I’ll escort you home. We still have business to tend to anyway.”
ENVY SPLIT HIS focus between the annoyed woman striding ahead of him—now sans his overcoat, as she’d promptly tossed it in his face—and the secret, arched tunnel.
When he’d been informed at dinner tonight that Camilla’s father was a bit eccentric, he hadn’t gotten the impression he’d been the sort to build secret art studios and subterranean tunnels, filled with doors that seemingly led nowhere.
