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.