Charles Pemberton was the new Duke of Somersville. The news was unwelcome, for it meant that in the six months it had taken him to return to London his father had died.

      He stood by the desk in the library within the massive structure of Somersville House, his father’s letter clutched limply between his fingertips.

      It did not feel right to sit at the desk, when for so many decades it had been the previous Duke of Somersville who had resided behind the great expanse of polished mahogany. The entire room had been off-limits to Charles for the majority of his life, and it left everything within him feeling too hard, too desolately foreign, to offer any comfort.

      Charles regarded the letter once more. Not the one which had taken months to reach him where he had been exploring in a remote location on the outskirts of Egypt. That one had informed him that he must return home immediately. No, he held the letter which reminded him of a promise made—a promise woefully unfulfilled.

      Rain pattered on the windowpanes outside, filling the room with an empty, bleak drumming. It was fitting, really, as it mirrored the torrent raging through him. His father had been the biggest part of his life—the reason Charles had sought to travel from the first. To witness the wonders of the world which had made his father so much larger than life in his eyes. To make his father proud of him for the first time in Charles’s life.

      And now the Duke was dead.

      Ridiculous that the notion still had not thoroughly soaked into Charles’s mind. Or perhaps it was his own guilt which prevented it. After all, he’d vowed when he’d left for his Grand Tour that he’d seek out the Coeur de Feu—the renowned ruby stolen from a French collector in the mid-sixteen-hundreds. It was said to be the size of a man’s fist and to burn with a fire at its core—hence its name: the heart of fire.

      It was the one artifact that had eluded his father, and therefore the one with which the previous Duke had become obsessed. It had been Charles’s intention to seek out the stone, but he’d been so busy in the last years, experiencing new cultures, learning from the people there and their way of life. Time had seemed limitless and his father had seemed immortal.

      Charles’s legs were too heavy to keep him standing, and yet still he could not bring himself to rest in his father’s cold chair. The grand home and all its fine furnishings might belong to Charles now, but he very much felt a stranger among his father’s effects rather than their new owner. His new title fitted as uncomfortably as did the rest of his inheritance.

      He looked down at the letter, which his father had left for Charles to read upon his return to London. It had been hastily written before the Duke’s death and was crumpled from where it had been found, clutched in his fist. Even to look at it wrenched at Charles. He hadn’t been there for the funeral. He hadn’t been there to say goodbye.

      The note was not filled with lamentations of time lost or proclamations of affection for Charles, who was his only living child. No, the letter contained only one scrawled line.

       Find the journal and use the key to locate the Coeur de Feu.

      Of course. The Coeur de Feu. Charles’s greatest failure.

      “The key” was a flat bit of metal the size of a book, with twenty-five small squares cut into it. The Adventure Club insignia had been stamped into the bottom right corner, indicating the key’s proper direction for use. Its size matched perfectly with the various journals his father had had in his possession, all embossed with a gilt compass—the insignia of the Adventure Club.

      The club had been started by his father and the Earl of Westix, and other members of the ton, several decades prior.

      Charles had, of course, tried fitting the key into the journals. While the size of the metal piece matched perfectly with the books, it did not reveal anything more than garbled letters. Charles had tried to scramble the random offerings, rearrange them and put them together again. Yet none of his attempts created successful words—at least none that made any sense.

      “Your Grace...” A voice sounded on the edges of Charles’s thoughts.

      Charles braced his fingertips over the desk atop one of the books, lest he leave prints on the polished surface. His father had always hated fingerprints on things.

      “Your Grace?” the voice said again.

      Perhaps the journals the late Duke referred to in his note were not within this collection. Westix had a stash, after all. Charles had been present and had seen his father’s objections on how the artifacts had been split after the final venture of the Adventure Club fifteen years before—specifically the ownership of important artifacts and documents.

      “My Lord,” the voice snapped.

      Charles turned in response to the familiar form of address. His valet, Thomas, was at his side with a parchment extended.

      “With all due respect, Your Grace, you are Your Grace now.”

      Thomas was ever the loyal companion. The man had traveled around the world with Charles, never once complaining, no matter how dismal the conditions. And they had indeed been dismal at times.

      Regardless, Thomas always managed a smile and a pot of warm water for a proper shave. And so it was that Charles knew his valet was not being disrespectful in issuing the gentle reminder.

      Charles