Satire-sheet columnists often followed close on Vexley’s heels now, desperate to be the first to report on his next potential scandal. Everyone knew he’d been disinherited, so the source of his income was a growing mystery most of the city wished to solve.
Vexley laughed it off, claiming he was a smart gambler and made wise investments, but people still whispered more nefarious stories about his growing fortune.
Some rumors claimed he’d made a deal with the devil, while others whispered about a bargain he’d struck with the Fae. Camilla alone knew the full truth.
Due to what she called the Great Mistake, she now unwittingly funded his extravagant lifestyle and placed herself in danger of being caught by the press.
The last painting Camilla had created and sold for him had almost been discovered as the fraud it was, and if the collector hadn’t imbibed too many glasses of claret, then promptly relieved himself on a priceless sculpture, in front of the entire party of lords, ladies, and even a duke, thus causing quite the stir as the duchess fainted right onto the foul mess, Camilla’s reputation would have been ruined.
A scandal of that magnitude would destroy her hard-won standing as Waverly Green’s most sought-after art dealer. And the selfish scoundrel standing before her—with his damnably charming smile and freshly pressed suit—knew it and clearly couldn’t care less.
“Honestly, Camilla darling—”
“Miss Antonius,” she corrected primly.
Camilla’s smile was nearly as tight as the grip on her paintbrush.
Vexley, or Vex the Hex, as she’d taken to calling him in her head, had been blackmailing her for that one horrid mistake she’d made eons ago, and—after they’d struck a bargain for his silence—he was supposed to have purged the memory into the rare magical stone after she completed three forgeries to sell for him.
The trouble with scoundrels and blackguards was, they hadn’t a modicum of honor.
They were now approaching six forgeries, and Camilla needed this to end.
No matter how talented she was, if anyone found out what she’d done, aside from possible arrest and facing the gallows, she’d never sell another painting in Waverly Green. Or any of the surrounding towns or villages in Ironwood Kingdom, for that matter. Not that she ventured outside Waverly Green often.
Ironwood Kingdom was a small island nation that could be traversed by carriage in a handful of days, but everything she knew was in her city and at the country estate two hours north of it. If she were forced to leave Waverly Green, all Camilla’s hopes and dreams of having her gallery flourish to keep her father’s memory alive would wither and die.
Men like Vexley could thrive on scandal and ending up in the satire sheets, but women—especially of her station—weren’t afforded the same status. Camilla needed to walk a fine line, showcasing the art she curated in scandalous ways but never becoming the subject of scrutiny herself.
Through personal experience with her father’s most famous painting, Camilla had learned early on that high society loved a bit of drama and a good show—as was evidenced by the soaring popularity of satire sheets and caricatures.
Luckily, for now, society couldn’t stop talking about her unique exhibitions. Short of committing a heinous act of violence upon Vexley’s person, Camilla would do nearly anything to keep her gallery and name free from the more vicious gossipmongers, who loved nothing more than to tear others down for a passing bit of drawing room entertainment.
She often read the gossip sheets just to remind herself what was at stake, to serve as a constant warning of how carefully she needed to tread as she fought to maintain her glittering reputation in society while also garnering respect as a gallery owner. They’d tolerated her taking over her father’s gallery because they’d loved Pierre and his unconventional nature. But she knew the gossips were waiting like carrion vultures, hoping to swoop in and feast.
Camilla’s true hope was to one day win people to her gallery through her own paintings alone, and that would never happen if her reputation was in any way sullied.
She stole a quick glance out the window, relieved that no columnists were lurking, waiting to report on Vexley’s current whereabouts. She could already imagine the unflattering headlines if they found the Angel of Art and the Devilish Deviant cavorting alone.
“I can no longer help you with that other matter,” Camilla said quietly. “If you’d like to commission a custom work,” she added before Vexley could continue any paltry attempts at charming her, “I’m more than happy to—”
“Cannot and will not are extremely different things, Miss Antonius.”
She seethed at his arrogant, dismissive tone. As if she were unaware of the difference between the two and he’d just shared earth-shattering news with her.
Vexley raked his ice-blue gaze over her face, taking liberties to admire her lips a bit longer than was considered polite. His attention shifted to her cool silver curls, her delicately upturned nose, and naturally golden skin.
Camilla’s deep silver eyes were always what drew a suitor in, though, and at the moment, Lord Vexley was seemingly transfixed by them.
She’d heard rumors that that half-lidded, come-hither look he was giving her now had worked in seducing several widows and even some women who weren’t lacking a husband.
Lord Philip Vexley was an unrepentant rake, and rumor had it that his troublesome mouth was quite pleasing when he got someone between his silken sheets. He hadn’t visited Camilla’s bedchamber, nor would she ever invite him there.
Blackmail, she found, dampened any thoughts of passion.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he drawled, ignoring the steam Camilla was almost certain billowed out from her ears whenever he adopted that condescending tone. “You aren’t exactly in a position to turn down the work, are you? What with the information I have about that one little famous painting you sold me. You remember the one, don’t you? I still have it.”
“Vexley,” Camilla warned, glancing around the quiet room.
No columnist had showed up, and since it was the middle of the week and it was near closing, the gallery was blessedly empty. Due to her limited funds, she’d had to dismiss her assistant this morning, a choice that broke her heart. And was now proving even more terrible as the opportunistic scoundrel closed in on her.
“In fact, it’s such a fine painting I had to hide it from view,” he continued, pressing a hip against the large desk as if leaning in to share a secret. “Lest anyone try to steal it from me.”
The famous painting was a forgery, the first and the last she’d ever wanted to create. Two years prior—and nearly eight years to the day after Camilla’s mother abandoned them—her father had abruptly taken ill with a mysterious affliction and could no longer work.
Camilla had emptied their coffers in a desperate attempt to save him, and she would do it again. She’d had several physicians visit their home, had even ventured into the forbidden dark market in search of a magical elixir, convinced his illness was not of this realm.
All attempts to battle Death had been in vain.
It had hurt terribly when her mother disappeared, one bright morning the spring before Camilla came of age, but her father’s death had truly broken her heart.