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 idiotic but wealthy Lords Walters and Harrington were attempting to entertain the Carrol sisters, two pretty honey-haired women tarnished by rumors that their father’s title had been purchased by the success of his gaming hell. She smiled politely at them and a few others but caught no glimpse of Vexley.
Camilla reached the punch and claimed a cup, sipping from it as she scanned the room again. Katherine and William were now speaking with William’s best friend, Lord Garrey. A man of thirty who—like most here—was known to grace the satire sheets from time to time.
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 annoyed to realize she wasn’t the only one doing so. Widow Janelle was practically wetting her lips as her gaze raked over him.
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.