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 nodded appreciatively. “Yes. Correct.”
A roll of thunder rattled the windows. Thomas cast a disparaging look outside. “It would appear that Miss Charlotte is in town and she asks that you join her at her home immediately. Her servant also bade me give you this.”
“Miss Charlotte? Lottie?” Charles asked with a note of surprise.
Thomas lifted a brow and handed the parchment to Charles. “Yes, Your Grace. She is apparently most eager to speak with you.”
Charles unfolded the parchment and glanced at the letter.
Don’t say no, Charles.
He couldn’t help but smile at that. How very like Lottie. She always had been bold with her requests, even when they were children. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d last seen little Charlotte Rossington, the vicar’s daughter from his local church near Somersville Manor. They’d grown up together, and had held a platonic fondness for one another ever since.
She’d grown into a beautiful woman, with dark hair and flashing blue eyes, and was so similar in coloring to him that people sometimes confused them as brother and sister. They’d been close enough to be siblings.
He hadn’t seen her since just before he’d left for his Grand Tour. There would be much to catch up on. By his estimation, and with his knowledge of her sweet, charming nature, she was most likely married with the brood of children she’d always wanted.
The night was abysmal, but even the storm was preferable to a dreary house filled with ghosts and failed promises.
Charles folded the note. “Have the carriage readied, Thomas.”
He smirked to himself as his valet departed. It truly had been far too long since Charles had seen Lottie.
It had indeed been a considerable amount of time since Charles had seen Lottie. He nearly did not recognize the sultry woman standing before him in the sumptuously decorated drawing room. It was too finely appointed for a vicar’s daughter—as was her tightly fitted gown of deep red silk far too tawdry. Especially when compared to the modest high-necked gown he’d last seen her in.
Gone was the wide-eyed innocence of her smoky blue eyes, and in its place was a smoldering vixen with a length of midnight curls tumbling over one nearly naked shoulder. A courtesan.
Charles stared a moment longer than was polite while the five years stretched out in the silence between them. Her fingers twisted against one another at her waist—a childhood show of nerves even her new guise could not mask.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
“I’m sorry about you,” he replied.
Lottie winced and looked away. “I didn’t have a choice, Charles. There is no choice when your father dies and leaves you destitute.”
Charles shifted his weight. The crisp new Hessians he wore pinched at his feet, and the slight discomfort was nearly unbearable when coupled with such agitation. “You could have wed.”
Lottie’s chest swelled and those damn fingers of hers started twisting again. “I could not.”
“What is this prattle?” Charles paced over the thick carpet. “Lottie, you’re lovely. You’ve always had the attention of men. How could you not find a husband?”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t find one.”
“If you could find a husband why would you not—” Comprehension washed over him like cold rain.
Lottie scoffed at his apparent
