Prologue
Outside the lost city of Pagoria
1817
Sir Roderick Castleton fled as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. He stumbled forward in the darkness, his hands sweeping against the damp walls of the tunnel in a desperate attempt to right himself. Sweat poured from his face, and his breath tore from his mouth in tortured rasps.
Again, he fell but he scrambled up, throwing himself farther down the passageway. Just a few more feet.
The narrow tunnel fell away to a small clearing, but he didn’t stop. He ran for the crevice in the face of the rock, the last obstacle in his bid for freedom.
He slid sideways, scooting along the rough surface, ignoring the painful abrasions. He was so close. He could feel it. Freedom. Safety. The jagged edges protruding from the walls snagged his clothing as though holding him back, preventing his flight. The mountain itself seemed to tremble in anger.
He burst out of the crevice nearly shouting his exultation. He had made it! He sucked in huge mouthfuls of air as he sought to control his pounding heart. His hand groped for the ancient bracelet tucked safely in his pocket.
He grinned and threw his fist into the air. “I won! I’ve done it.”
The clear, star-filled sky yawned broadly before him touching the earth in the distance. He turned south, hurrying across the mountain meadow.
As he put more distance between him and the sacred city, the sky grew blacker. One by one, the stars disappeared, replaced by an ominous, suffocating cape of doom. With each step, his chest became more led-filled, his feet clumsy, slow.
The air swirled eerily around him, thin tendrils of smoke shooting through the air. Evil. His first thought was overwhelming evil. But no,hewas evil, not this presence.
The wind surrounded him, ruffling his clothing and his hair. Suddenly it was as if his eyes were open for the first time in his life. He could seeeverything. His mouth opened in a silent scream of denial as his every sin unfolded in an unending litany. He looked inward at his black heart, closing his eyes against the agonizing truth.
“No!” he screamed, waving his arms madly around him. “Get away from me!”
His deeds flashed before him, staring accusingly at him. How could he have thought to steal from the city? It would never let him go.
Tears streamed down his cheeks as he clawed at his face. He fumbled in his pocket and yanked out the bracelet, wanting to fling it as far away as he could. It seared his palm, and he screamed in pain. He looked down in horror as it glowed in his hand. He shook it frantically, but it remained.
The weight grew heavier in his chest and he sank to his knees. He clutched at his throat with his free hand, trying to break the invisible bands that squeezed tighter.
He was going to die. The realization was as clear as all his past misdeeds. He could have avoided it all. Good always prevailed. And he was evil.
As he fell to the ground, the bracelet slipped from his hand and rolled to a stop a few feet away. The key. He couldn’t lose thekey.
Chapter One
London, England
May, 1818
Thomas Hadley, Viscount Ridgewood, or Ridge as he was more commonly addressed, unfolded the note he had received from the footman. A surge of excitement curled in his stomach and spread rapidly through his chest as he read the contents.
In direct contrast to his mood, he calmly folded the missive and slid it into his coat. He sat back once more and motioned for a drink, his intent to celebrate such a monumental achievement.
The plush interior of the London Historical Society had often been likened to other gentleman’s clubs. Many a jest had been murmured that it was the thinking man’s White’s. Ridge had frequented the exclusive scholar’s haunt ever since he left Cambridge eight years ago.
The footman returned with his brandy, and Ridge performed a mock toast to the empty table across from him then downed the drink in one swallow.
Setting the glass aside, he rose from his seat and slipped his spectacles back on. He patted the piece of paper, snug in his coat. Such an enormous find could not wait. He would go at once to see the book seller who had sent the note.
The footman went ahead to summon his carriage, and Ridge walked across the expansive marble floor toward the foyer, his boots tapping a determined stride. He was nearly to the door when it swung open and a man swept in.
“Ho, Ridgewood, what a surprise to see you here,” Lord Clarence said with obvious sarcasm.
Ridge stiffened, his teeth grinding in irritation. But even the overstuffed, pompous, younger son of the Duke of Westchester couldn’t overshadow his satisfaction today.
