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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 sca
Camilla reached the punch and claimed a cup, sipping from it as she sca
Garrey remained one of the most eligible men Season after Season, thanks to the fact that he’d one day inherit a dukedom. His wicked smile and boyish charm didn’t hurt, though his gambling was hard to overlook, as Camilla reminded Kitty regularly.
Miss Young and Miss Linus were also in attendance. Though Camilla doubted either of their parents knew they’d snuck off to visit Vexley’s home. Both women were nearing spinster status but weren’t fully on the shelf yet.
Their chaperone, Widow Janelle Badde, raised her glass to Camilla in hello. Camilla had always admired Janelle. She’d married a man three times her age and he’d died shortly after, leaving her a young, happy widow who took full advantage of her status, taking lovers and volunteering to play chaperone for her unmarried friends when the occasion called for it.
Society didn’t approve outwardly, but they couldn’t disapprove, either. Camilla had just turned back to survey the other half of the room when her gaze landed on him.
Lord Ashford Synton in all his commanding, irksome glory.
He stood alone, admiring a painting on the far side of the room, and hadn’t noticed her yet, so she took a moment to study him, feeling vaguely a
Camilla understood her reaction. The man cut a severe figure, even from across the room, candlelight gilding the sharp planes of his face. With a jolt, Camilla saw what was holding his attention. He was stepping 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 a
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.