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Our driver/tour guide parks in front of the main entrance, under a covered structure he informs us is called the porte-cochere. We also now know it was added in 1897 to protect the archduke and his visitors from the sun when entering and exiting the castle.

And all that is very interesting, but I only have one truly burning question. I gesture toward the pale pink roses blooming in profusion in the sun just beyond the protective shade. “What variety are those?”

Tomas frowns, flummoxed. “I…I don’t know.”

It looks like it pains him to admit that.

“Thank you for driving us here,” I say when we get out of the car, changing the subject. “It would have been a long walk with our luggage.”

“You’re welcome.” His expression brightens, and he rounds the back of the vehicle. “Let me get your things for you.”

Tomas sets our suitcases on the cobblestone drive. It probably has a fussy name, too, but he doesn’t offer it, and I don’t dare ask this time.

Another car arrives, its windows deeply tinted, but the driver doesn’t get out, making me think he’s waiting for someone instead of dropping them off.

A woman emerges from the entrance, but I don’t think she’s who the man is waiting for. She’s wearing a knee-length navy dress with a starched white Peter Pan collar and is accompanied by a man wearing slacks and a vest in the same color.

“Welcome to Anghelescu Castle,” she says. “My name is Mihaela, and I manage guest relations. This is Orin. He’ll carry your bags for you. You are the Yorks, correct?”

This is all very fussy and proper, and both Noah and I are far out of our element. Our occasional visits to Cassian’s home didn’t prepare us for European aristocracy.

“Yes,” Noah says.

She nods. “Follow me, please.”

We walk up the steps and pass through the large doors. I gawk at everything. It’s all so…grand.

“It looks like a castle,” I whisper to Noah, my eyes latching onto the massive crystal chandelier in the foyer.

“It is a castle,” he responds, amused.

“I know…but itlookslike one.”

Our footsteps echo in the gargantuan space, the narrow carpet that cuts through the foyer doing little to muffle the sound. There are paintings, tapestries, and even suits of black armor lining the hall-like space.

It’s almost too ornate, bordering on gaudy. But even that adds to its strange charm.

We’ve just about reached the end of the massive space when a tall, lean man turns the corner ahead of us and stops. He must have been changed in his late twenties, and he has sandy brown hair that’s cut in a style that can only be called expensive.

His eyes fall on Noah, and then they move to me. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place why.

Beside me, Noah tenses.

“Hello, Montgomery,” the man says in a British accent that makes me think of Jane Austen movies.

Noah dips his head. “Your Highness.”

“First names, please. I’ve just learned Cassian made you his heir. We’re peers now—there is no reason for the formality.” He turns to me, smiling. “And who is this?”

Noah nods, looking kinda uptight—like maybe he doesn’t like this man very much. He sets his hand on the small of my back, gently possessive. “This is Piper, my wife.”

The man crosses the space, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. His eyes dance over mine, slightly flirtatious. There’s also something about his expression that feels a little malevolent.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Piper.” He drops my hand, but his eyes remain on my face. “My name is Jameson, and I am the head of the Staulington line.”

Noah meets my eyes. “This is Alfred’s father.”

That’s why he looks familiar. He resembles Alfred. Or rather, Alfred resembles him.