CAMILLA FUSSED WITH her skirts as the carriage rattled over the cobbled street and, next to her, Lord Edwards prattled on about a rooster named Peter.
Apparently, Edwards was having newfound trouble with his cock.
Something Camilla prayed wasn’t a euphemism.
She met her friend’s gaze across the carriage, noting that Lady Katherine had pressed the back of her gloved hand to her lips, likely stifling a giggle. A fact that didn’t surprise Camilla in the least. Camilla and Kitty were made of the same twisted material; they simply hid that fact well. Most of the time.
“… which is why, dearest,” Edwards said to his wife, “we ought to go to Winterset to oversee the estate as soon as possible. We simply cannot permit Peter to run amok.”
If only society felt the same way about Vexley.
“Darling,” Katherine soothed, impressively without any hint of mirth in her tone, “we aren’t due back to our country house for months. I’m sure the chickens will be fine until summer.” She flicked her attention to Camilla. “You will join us again, at least part of the time?”
“Of course.”
Warmth suffused Camilla along with gratitude. When she’d had to rent out her family’s country estate the past summer, Kitty had made sure Camilla stayed for nearly the entire season with them. And Camilla had never said so aloud, but even if she hadn’t been forced to rent out her
father’s country home, going there after he’d died would have been torturous. She worried she would feel the ghost of his presence wandering the halls, smell the piping-hot chocolate he always made for them to sip despite the summer heat while he painted and told stories of Fae-kissed humans, beholden to the mysterious fairy king.
In some stories the king was cruel, in others he was godlike and benevolent. As she got older Camilla understood that it was all nonsense, but she adored how Pierre loved his legends, even if, by the end, he clung to them too desperately as his grip on reality loosened.
“Perhaps Miss Antonius can paint Peter’s likeness.” Kitty heaved a sigh.
Camilla was saved from any further mention of the fowl’s foul behavior when the carriage rolled to a stop. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, her nerves tingling as the driver came around to open the door and help her down.
They’d arrived at Gretna House, Vexley’s home.
A town house on Greenbriar Park, in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods on the east side of the Green.
The building—an off-white stone accented with wrought iron terraces and flowering trees and bushes, which cascaded along its front—was perfectly maintained, matching all the other town houses on the street. A beautiful stone fence separated the tiny front yard from the cobbled avenue. Camilla exited the carriage with her head held high and stared at the town house, at the lights inside glowing warmly, the merry partygoers unaware of what all this had cost her. It was her illegal dealings that had helped Vexley purchase this house. Here stood a physical manifestation of
her crimes, taunting her with its decadence.
Much was at stake for her over these next few hours. Tonight, she’d either steal back her freedom, or she’d be forever trapped in Vex the Hex’s web of deceit.
Much too quickly their trio ascended the grand stairs, were divested of their coats and stoles, and were seen to the drawing room to mingle with the guests who’d already arrived.
Someone called out to Lord Edwards, but Camilla was so nervous she barely noticed when he and Katherine shifted course to say their hellos, leaving her to seek punch on her own.
She scanned the small group for Vexley. In the corner, the absurdly wealthy Lords Walters and Harrington were trying to entertain the Carrol sisters—two lovely honey-haired women rumored to have had their father’s title bought by the success of his gaming hell. Camilla offered them a polite smile and glanced at a few others, but still no sign of Vexley.
She made her way to the punch bowl, claiming a cup and sipping as she surveyed the room again. Katherine and William were deep in conversation with William’s best friend, Lord Garrey—a thirty-year-old man known for regularly appearing in the society satire sheets.
Garrey remained one of the most sought-after bachelors, thanks to his future dukedom. His devilish smile and boyish charm certainly helped, though Camilla often reminded Kitty that his gambling habits were hard to overlook.
Miss Young and Miss Linus were also present, and Camilla doubted their parents knew they had snuck away to visit Vexley’s home. Both were nearing spinsterhood but hadn’t quite been pushed to the shelf yet.
Their chaperone, Widow Janelle Badde, raised her glass to Camilla in greeting. Camilla had always admired Janelle, who had married a man three times her age and had become a young, carefree widow shortly after his passing. She embraced her status fully, enjoying lovers and volunteering as a chaperone for her unmarried friends when needed.
Society may not have approved, but they couldn’t openly disapprove either. Camilla was just turning back to scan the other half of the room when her gaze fell upon him.
Lord Ashford Synton, in all his commanding and irritating glory.
He stood alone, admiring a painting on the far side of the room, oblivious to her presence. She took a moment to observe him, feeling a flicker of annoyance upon realizing she wasn’t the only one doing so; Widow Janelle was practically licking her lips as her gaze swept over him.
Camilla understood the reaction. Even from across the room, he cut an imposing figure, the candlelight highlighting the sharp angles of his face. Then, with a jolt, she noticed what had captured his attention—he was moving closer to her favorite painting in Vexley’s home.
It was a watercolor of a field holding one rustic barn—something she’d imagined in the north, or even in one of her father’s tales. It was rich in
shades of green and cream, from the mountains in the background, which were a dark hunter, to the long grass in the foreground, a glowing, pale sage.
The painting evoked a sense of peace. The idea of simplicity, of a life lived without secrets, without a societal cage.
What would it be like to run barefoot through that soft grass? To hike her skirts to her knees and not give a damn about whether it was ladylike? Camilla longed to feel the dirt under her feet, to dance in her nightgown under the stars. To live without the rules of others binding her. She was a wild, untamed thing under all the pomp and circumstance.
She wondered what Synton saw, what he felt as he raised his hand, tracing the barn almost in reverence. “He is… something, isn’t he?”
Camilla started at Widow Janelle’s voice. Although she wasn’t even looking at Camilla. The woman’s gaze practically burned the clothes off Synton’s back.
“Do you know his name?” the widow asked hungrily.
Camilla bristled at the question, though her reaction made little sense. “No, sorry.” She quickly diverted her own attention back to the party.
“I’m parched. Would you like more punch?”
Widow Janelle made a noncommittal sound. Camilla returned to the nearby refreshments, leaving Janelle to her ogling. Vexley hadn’t graced them with his presence yet, indicating he was either already drunk or hoping to make a dramatic entrance. Either way, she might have a few extra moments to explore while everyone was otherwise occupied.
Excited, Camilla stepped away from the table quickly and bumped into someone who’d come to collect a glass of punch too.
“I’m—” Her words faltered as she glanced up. Two piercing emerald eyes stared down at her.
It took another second for her to realize that Lord Synton’s two strong hands had steadied her, preventing her from spilling her drink. The coldness in his gaze was at odds with the burning she felt where he gripped her tightly, his long fingers easily fitting around her upper arms.
“How did you get over here so quickly?” she asked.
His mouth quirked up on one side, his expression slowly thawing. “You saw me but didn’t say hello? I’m wounded, Miss Antonius.”
Synton’s voice was like a deep rumble of thunder in her ear as he finally
dropped his hands but didn’t step back.
“Perhaps I was getting the lay of the land. A lady must know where it’s safe to step,” she quipped.
“Yet you’re stepping all over my ego.”
“Forgive me, my lord. I had no idea you’d be so easily damaged.” He looked her over slowly, one brow arched.
“You attend gatherings here often?” “I do.”
Camilla realized two things simultaneously as the handsome lord’s expression shifted from indifference to curiosity—first, that he was as sinfully arresting as she’d pictured earlier when she’d almost given herself an orgasm in a moving conveyance, and second, that Synton must already have heard the rumors about these parties.
Heat flooded her cheeks.
Nothing untoward usually happened here, at least not while she was in attendance. Though couples did sneak off for trysts more than usual, and Vexley was in possession of a few fertility statues that were probably used for the exact purpose people speculated.
She quickly motioned to the still life paintings on the walls, tame by comparison.
“Lord Vexley is an admirer of fine art. I help curate his collection.” “Interesting.” He said the word like he meant repugnant instead.
Synton’s gaze turned shrewd as he looked her over again.
“What brings you here?” she asked to divert his attention. If he assumed she was here for a wild tryst, then she was very intrigued by what he would have to say for himself.
“So you’re responsible for most of his pieces? He doesn’t… work with anyone else?” Synton asked stiffly, ignoring her question entirely. There was an edge in his tone now, subtle but there. She’d think it hinted at envy, but of what, Vexley’s art?
Camilla hid her annoyance.
Answering a question with another question was an excellent diversionary tactic.
She wondered if he was really asking about the dark market, which often intrigued newcomers, but it was neither the time nor the place to discuss that scandalous enterprise.
Silverthorne Lane was an area most in high society pretended didn’t exist. She avoided it herself, after her father’s obsession with it had grown so intense in his final months.
She hadn’t wanted to fuel any of the rumors they’d faced toward the end
—society had whispered that her father had fallen in love with a Fae dealer there and had become addicted to the dark magic that could offer a few hours of oblivion.
Camilla knew neither was true.
Her father was obsessed with something far more dangerous.
“Vexley does purchase through me quite often, though I’m only one of many dealers.”
An arm slipped around her waist.
“Now, darling, you’re much more than an art dealer to me.” “Lord Vexley.”
Camilla’s spine stiffened at the most unwelcome weight of Vexley’s arm on her person.
When she thought it couldn’t get worse, the rake’s palm shifted lower, cupping her backside.
Camilla seethed from both the uninvited touch and Vex the Hex’s bold insinuation that there was more to their relationship. If she needed further proof that she must act tonight and win back her freedom, this was her sign. In fact, she prayed she wasn’t too late.
She quickly sidestepped, dislodging herself from the embrace without anyone—aside from Synton—noticing the lapse in propriety.
But Synton wasn’t looking at her at all. He was coolly staring Vexley down. His expression had turned so frosty with displeasure, for a moment she swore she could see her breath in the air.
“Do you always lay claim to things that don’t belong to you, Vexley?” Camilla’s lips parted in shock. Did Synton sound… jealous?
Luckily, Vexley snorted like Synton had told a clever joke, signaling that he’d already helped himself to a few glasses of spirits.
“You must be the newly arrived Synton. I’ve heard you’re quite the collector yourself. Though I doubt yours is as large as mine.”
Synton ignored the insinuation, his attention landing squarely on Camilla once again. “I’d love a private tour of your gallery, Miss Antonius, to see your taste. I’m in the market for several pieces for my own gallery at
Hemlock Hall.”
“Hemlock Hall?” Vexley interrupted, realizing he was being slighted. “That place is a wreck.”
“Miss Antonius?” Synton pressed, still not deigning to acknowledge their host.
Camilla understood immediately what Synton was offering. In his own bullheaded, arrogant way. She had no desire to be alone with him in Wisteria Way again, but that circumstance was far preferable to being within pinching distance of Vex the Hex.
“I can make time later this evening or tomorrow at first light.” “Tonight, then.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Camilla wasn’t sure she should be grateful for Synton’s interference. It felt a little like hopping from a cast-iron skillet into a blazing fire.
Synton had an agenda of his own, but at least she was choosing which devil to get into bed with. Proverbially speaking, of course.
An image of Synton lying sprawled across dark sheets, bronze skin gleaming, arms folded behind his head, flashed in her mind before she banished it.
“Come now, Synny.” Vexley either missed or ignored the anger flickering in Synton’s eyes at the nickname. “Camilla shouldn’t be traipsing around the art district at indecent hours.”
“Miss Antonius has made her decision, and I don’t recall inquiring after your uninformed and, frankly, rather dull opinion, Vexley.”
Camilla sank her teeth into her lower lip to keep from drawing attention by either gasping or laughing. Synton had well and truly dressed the disgraced lord down in his own home.
A beat later, Vexley’s face flushed scarlet, the tips of his ears turning the brightest shade of pink she’d ever seen as his mind caught up with the insult.
Objectively, Vexley was a physically attractive man, but the way his face contorted now made him look demonic.
“How dare—”
A knock came at the drawing room door, quickly followed by the butler. “Dinner is ready, my lord.”
Called to duty, Vexley immediately returned his demeanor to that of the
unruffled rake, his mouth hitching high on one side in a lopsided smirk.
“The time to feast has arrived!” he announced, then twisted on his heel, wavering only slightly before offering his arm to Camilla. “Miss Antonius. Friends. Shall we?”
Camilla felt Synton’s heavy gaze land on her once again, weighted with disapproval, but she didn’t dare to look at him, nor to publicly reject Vexley’s theatrical chivalry.
All she had to do was make it through this dinner.
Then, after the more polite crowd had departed and the drinking began in earnest, she’d sneak off to find that forgery and set it ablaze, incinerating Vexley’s hold over her once and for all.
