CAMILLA SET HER paintbrush down, looking her canvas over with a critical eye.
An act that was more difficult than it should have been.
Normally she could see exactly what a painting needed, where to shade, where to highlight, where to add more depth or color. But today, it just wouldn’t come. She was still too damn exhausted to think clearly. After a night spent tossing and turning, kicking off her sheets, then getting tangled up in them, frustrated beyond measure, she’d been so tired she’d forgotten her ritual—her mother’s locket still hung around her neck. Yet this painting had demanded her attention from the moment she opened her eyes.
So here she was, in her gallery before sunrise, apron cinched at her waist, skin already speckled with paint she prayed hadn’t made its way onto the necklace after all.
Before her wasn’t quite a self-portrait, but a scene heavily inspired by her bath the previous night.
Despite her agitation, Camilla thought it was already rather lovely; it captured her as all the things she wished she could openly be. Soft, feminine, boldly powerful. Someone who owned her desire without apology, without pretending to humble herself for a world that oppressed.
She’d captured herself submerged in a claw-foot tub, one hand draped across her lower belly, knees bent, golden legs jutting up from the water. Flower petals floated on the water, hiding that secret place between her legs, which had throbbed with every sinful word that came from Synton’s lips the night before. In the painting, one foot was propped against the lip of the white tub, revealing flowers stuck to the silky skin of her exposed thighs.
Camilla’s mind flashed back to that bath. As she’d washed away the wretchedness of her evening, she’d understood that there was one thing the water could not cleanse—her memories of the filthy things Synton had said in his deep, velvety voice that had made her burn not with anger, but scorching desire.
And his own arousal…
God, he had been pressed against her, hard and wanting.
When he’d moved his hips, slightly grinding against her, she’d nearly seen stars.
Honestly, she ought to call upon a physician and inquire about a tonic—something was clearly amiss. Surely she ought to be traumatized by his bold and abhorrent behavior.
Also by the fact that he’d lied about why he wanted the hexed painting. He was clearly hiding something. Then when he’d demanded to know if anyone else had asked for a hexed object, she’d gone cold.
She’d forgotten about the note.
A request from a mysterious collector had come earlier that week, asking after an illustrated book of spells. The note was unsigned, had no return address, so Camilla had tossed it aside, not thinking about it again until now. What could Synton know?
Shall I fuck you against this wall?
He certainly knew more about that. Camilla ran the slick bar of soap down the side of her body, mimicking his featherlight touch. If she closed her eyes and drew up the memory, the heat of him still lingered.
Along with annoyance.
Camilla had been wrong when she’d thought Vexley was the most aggravating man she’d ever known. Synton now proudly claimed that honor, except—most maddeningly of all—she couldn’t stop thinking of him.
Shall I fuck you against this wall? First with my fingers, then my cock.
Camilla had been rendered speechless. Not by his crude words, but by her immediate internal reaction to them.
Yes. God, yes. She’d never wanted anything more.
In public Synton had been the perfect gentleman, seeming offended by Vexley’s crass behavior. How different he was when no prying eyes were near, how wondrously sinful.
His whispers felt like their own dark secret. And Camilla was certainly fond of those.
Then he’d gone and ruined everything by negotiating it as payment for her services. As if he could not simply desire her without a price being attached!
His stupid proposition made her feel lonely all over again.
When Camilla had debuted, just after her mother’s disappearance, she’d almost been like any other young woman of her station—charmed by the idea of some prince waltzing her across a ballroom, declaring his love.
In truth, everything had been horrid.
Her father’s eccentric behavior and her mother’s absence had made her a wallflower, standing in the shadows while her friends danced and flirted. It got worse her second and third Seasons, until she stopped believing in her fairy tale.
It had been a foolish dream anyway, one her mother had warned her against.
From the moment Synton strode into her gallery she’d felt drawn to him, a bit of that bright-eyed girl returning, longing to be wanted madly. More fool her, she supposed.
The bell over the door rang loudly, jarring her into the present. She glanced at the clock, startled to see it was now afternoon.
“What have you done with it, you thieving little chit? Did you give it to him?”
Vexley’s thunderous accusation broke the peace of the day and her muddled memories of the night before. Damn. The forgery.
Camilla twisted from her painting, stunned by the absolute fury on Vexley’s face as he advanced, hands clenched at his sides.
Instinct made Camilla want to run far and fast, but some little innate voice warned her to stand her ground, that Vexley was mad enough to give chase and it would be far worse for her if he caught her then.
Camilla kept her voice calm and even. “I’m not sure what you mean, my lord. What have I done with what? And who have I given it to?”
“Do not play coy with me today! You know precisely what I’m inquiring about.”
Vexley towered over her, a serpent ready to strike.
“Where is the forgery? I have spent the entire morning tearing my home apart and it is most certainly not there, so I’ll ask you once again nicely before I stop being a gentleman, where is the damned thing, Camilla? Did you give it to Synton?”
She blinked up at him, hearing the words but having difficulty understanding.
If Vexley believed he was acting like a gentleman, then she might as well declare herself the Seelie Queen of Faerie.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” Camilla’s pulse roared in her ears as she focused on the most important thing he’d said. Surely she’d misheard him. “Have you lost it? Or moved it and forgot?”
“You think me a fool, Miss Antonius, but I assure you I am not. No, I did not lose it. It was right where I’d left it before dressing for dinner last night. And when I awoke, it was gone.”
Camilla’s mind spun. This was quite possibly the worst news. She’d been certain she’d have another chance to steal the painting back.
Vexley had to be wrong.
The alternative sent invisible spiders skittering across her skin. If someone else had the forgery now…
She straightened her spine, playing for time. “You had enough spirits to fell an elephant during dinner, Vexley. Are you certain you didn’t move it and forget?”
“Don’t.” He leaned in, blue eyes wild. “You leave early. Not saying goodbye to anyone. And Synton also mysteriously vanishes. Then I awake to a missing painting. If you aren’t in cahoots with him, then I wonder, what happened to Lady Katherine, too? What would her husband think of such unbecoming behavior, such scheming? Especially if it were to become the talk of the ton. Satire sheets simply love a scandal, Camilla.”
“Lady Katherine knows nothing of the forgery, and you’d do well not to threaten her.” Camilla held her ground, nose stubbornly a few inches from Vexley’s own. “I went home at a respectable hour and that somehow makes me guilty? What of the dozen or so others who showed no such tact? You know as well as I do that Harrington or Walters would love to possess that piece for their private collections. They have no idea it’s not the actual painting. Do you truly hold them in such high esteem as to think they wouldn’t steal it, given the chance?”
“Were you not telling me this very week that you wanted our arrangement to end?” he pressed, spittle foaming in the corners of his mouth. “I may not be a detective inspector, Camilla, but that certainly sounds like motive. If you’re working with Synton, there will be hell to pay.”
His hand rose quickly to circle her throat. He rested it there lightly but with dark promise.
Trapped, Camilla went very still.
His gaze raked down the front of her bodice, pausing on the swell of her breasts in her morning gown. For one horrifying moment, she thought he’d rip open her dress.
“Deliver it back by week’s end, or I will see you ruined.”
The bell over the door tinkled pleasantly, alerting them that they were no longer alone.
Camilla’s breath stayed lodged in her chest as precious seconds passed by and Vexley didn’t unhand her. Instead, his pale eyes glittered with malice—he knew exactly what she feared, and he enjoyed it.
But finally, Vexley straightened, his expression changing from fury to lazy indifference before he finally stepped aside, pretending he’d been admiring the art behind her.
“Have that wrapped up and sent over to Gretna House, Miss Antonius. I rather like it after all.” He fixed her with an even gaze. “The splashes of red remind me of blood. They’re raw. Powerful. You know I’ve always found broken things darkly appealing.”
His ability to don a new mask so swiftly was disturbing. Wondering how she’d never noticed it before made her unease grow.
“Of course, my lord.” She accepted his ruse, even if her smile felt as strained as the tension still winding between them. She finally caught a glimpse of the door, where a satire-sheet columnist seemed far too intrigued by their interaction.
“May I assist you with something, sir?” she asked cheerily.
“Lord Vexley!” The columnist ignored Camilla, instead calling after Vexley, who’d swept through the gallery as if he’d suddenly remembered he had somewhere more important to be.
“A moment… is it true that Walters fought with a garden statue last night and lost?”
Vexley paused, debonair act reinstated. “Come now, Havisham. You don’t believe I’ll give up my friends’ secrets that easily, do you?”
Vexley flashed his legendary grin, slowing his pace to saunter out the door, apparently without a care in the world. Camilla waited until he and Havisham had exited the gallery before dropping onto her stool, muscles trembling. She had no doubt that Vexley would make good on his threats if pushed. In fact, he’d seemed ready to kill her then. Her hands came up to her throat, the icy sensation of the lord’s touch chilling her to the core. She’d known Vexley would be angry if she succeeded in stealing the forgery, but she’d never imagined him causing bodily harm.
He’d never been violent before. Nor had she heard any rumors of his being involved in fisticuffs. Vexley had convinced everyone he was simply a drunken, lovable rogue.
But what did she truly know of the lord?
No one respectable visited the dark market as often as he did. Silverthorne Lane was a place where magic slithered through the streets, drinking the life and emotion from visiting mortals. She’d seen it happen firsthand with her father, knew how dangerous a place it was. Once he’d started going there, life as they’d known it had ended.
Initially, as Pierre grew sicker, Camilla, too, had ventured there, damning all consequences. If that was where her father had fallen ill, she believed she’d find the cure there too. And she’d felt the power there, sensed the allure.
After her father had died, she’d gone only twice more.
The first time was when she’d met Wolf, the legendary hunter, tempted by the life beyond Waverly Green he might have offered her.
The second time, she’d gone to warn him away, to ensure that he kept their night of passion a secret. Camilla wanted to stay in Waverly Green, and no one could know she’d thrown her reputation away in a fit of desperation, needing to remember she was still alive, even in the darkness of her grief.
Wolf had left with a vow, but only after promising he’d return one day.
She still prayed that would never happen. Vexley and Synton were trouble enough.
Speaking of… she’d been a fool to think that just because Synton hadn’t pressed her for more information last night, he’d leave it be. One thing she could agree with Vexley on was that somehow, some way, Synton had snuck back into Gretna House.
Camilla would be damned if she’d let one more man blackmail her.
If Vexley was actually going to ruin her, she would at least have the satisfaction of seeing that wretched painting destroyed by her own hand.
Furious, Camilla put a sign on the door informing patrons that the gallery was closed for the day, then went to hire a coach.
She had a sudden need to visit Hemlock Hall.
As she stepped out into the cobbled street, she sensed someone behind her. She spun around, noticing a man leaning against the building across the street. His features were hidden by a hat he’d tugged low over his brow, his size and form indistinguishable under a black cloak.
He had on leather gloves that gave her pause.
Camilla waited for him to push off the building and leave, but he didn’t. He remained where he stood, silent, foreboding.
Vexley wouldn’t have hired someone to watch her, would he?
The answer to that was a simple yes.
She swallowed and hurried to the end of the street, calling a coach. When she climbed in and glanced out the window, the man was gone.
