Throne of the Fallen

ALL CAMILLA WANTED to do was crawl into a hot bath and forget that this cursed night had ever happened. To have had the forgery in her hands and to be unable to grab it felt like unjust cruelty. If only she’d had a few more minutes alone or if Vexley hadn’t come drunkenly knocking, maybe she’d be soaring high on her newfound freedom.

Instead, she felt leaden with despair.

She’d not only lost the greatest opportunity she’d had, but she’d also nearly died on that godforsaken roof and would have to answer Kitty’s questions regarding Synton and the unfortunate lack of anything untoward occurring between them.

She wondered if he felt that strange allure with everyone—she certainly had never become enraptured by physical desire quite like that. Except for maybe that one time with her hunter. Even then things had been different.

Camilla had wanted Wolf, had thoroughly enjoyed their night of passion and being completely free to act however she pleased; he’d been a tireless lover who matched her in so many ways, even if he’d reminded her of how lonely she was, how much she yearned for someone like her, and tempted her to live as he had.

It was wonderful while it lasted, but it wasn’t the same urge she felt around Synton. He made her want to shed her own civility and indulge her passions.

Which was dangerous for her life here.

“Dreaming of strangulation, Miss Antonius?”

Synton’s deep, rich voice drew her attention to where he sat across from her in the carriage, his face half hidden in shadow as they rolled down the cobbled street toward her town house.

“Pardon?” she asked.

Synton leaned forward and she followed his gaze to her lap.

She’d been flexing her hands in a way that did look rather threatening.

“Your tone sounds far too intrigued by that thought, Lord Synton. It leads one to believe you’re a secret deviant.”

“And your tone sounds far too intrigued by that revelation, Miss Antonius.”

A smile twitched at her lips.

When they’d first gotten into the carriage, they’d only spoken twice. Once for Camilla to give her address and the second for Lord Synton to insist upon draping his overcoat around her.

It was a slow sort of torture to be surrounded by his intoxicating scent and feel the warmth of his body that had lingered in the fine material when he’d shrugged the coat off and immediately placed it around her shoulders.

She’d been relieved when he hadn’t pushed to visit the gallery—after her night, she was far too drained to show any paintings at this late hour.

Plus, Camilla wanted to put some much-needed space between herself and the lord after their awkward encounter in Vexley’s bedchamber.

Largely because she couldn’t sort out whether she was more relieved or embarrassed that Synton hadn’t wished to touch her. Obviously, he’d been physically attracted to her—his arousal had been plain as day. Which made her wonder if he was attached to someone else, or if he’d been repulsed by the idea of touching her.

He’d said he was worried about being trapped in marriage, which might be the biggest reason behind his refusal to even kiss her.

At least he hadn’t mentioned the forgery.

Camilla was more upset with herself for that slip than for anything else. Synton didn’t seem like the sort to spread news, but she really didn’t know him. It would be quite the salacious bit of gossip to share at the next party or ball—the gallery owner and artist who led a secret life selling forgeries and deceiving society.

As if he’d plucked the very worry from her head, Synton said casually, “I won’t tell anyone. About the forgery.”

Relief flooded her system until he added, “As long as you answer two questions truthfully.”

Camilla felt her agitation rising again and fought the urge to roll her eyes as he continued.

“If you lie, I’ll know. Do we have a deal?”

He watched her closely, his emerald gaze intense, until she reluctantly nodded, her silver gaze holding his with as much defiance as she could muster.

“Is Vexley using that forgery against you?”

She blinked, surprised by his intuition. And she wasn’t certain why, but she believed he was telling the truth about knowing if she lied.

“Yes.”

“Has he asked you to paint anything else?”

“Yes.”

Camilla tensed, waiting for him to press for more information.

A beat of silence passed while he studied her features, his own expression impossible to read. Synton now knew one of her darkest secrets. As if the threat of scandal weren’t enough, he now held the same power over her as Vexley.

“I am nothing like him, Miss Antonius.”

Something dangerous flared in his gaze.

Did he just read my mind?

“Of course not. Control your expressions. They betray your thoughts as clearly as speech.”

Without uttering another word, Synton sat back, his face half hidden as he turned to look out the window once again.

Camilla realized it had been a purposeful action—that he did not want her to glean anything from him in return. It felt like a small victory, all things considered.

They traveled the rest of the way in silence, Camilla practically on the edge of her seat, vibrating with nerves as her home finally came into view. Greenbriar Park, where Vexley lived, was only two streets away, but they were long avenues and took ages to traverse at night because of the street cleaners and the market carts making their creaking way home.

She inwardly sighed when the carriage stopped one door down, just as she’d instructed. Home. A bath. Her bed. Blessed distance from this man who was starting to know too much and, she suspected, had quite a past of his own.

“Thank you for—”

One moment Camilla’s hand clasped the door handle, the next she was on Synton’s lap, his iron-like arm banded around her waist to hold her still. The curtains that had been tied back from the window were swinging shut.

“What—”

“There is a man outside your home, Miss Antonius.”

Synton flicked the edge of the curtain back just enough for her to peer out, scanning the street. It looked empty to her.

“On the west side, over there. He’s watching your door and he’s highly agitated. I need to know why.”

“How do you know he’s agitated with me?” Camilla felt exhausted.

“Is there a jealous lover I should know about?” Synton pressed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I don’t see… Oh.”

There, in the darkest part of the shadows, Camilla caught a minuscule flicker of movement. How Synton had noticed it was beyond her.

She swore under her breath when another figure moved next to the first.

“Satire-sheet columnists. With all the excitement tonight, I forgot they sometimes watch the homes of Vexley’s party guests. They report on who left with whom so they can fuel more gossip. We should be all…”

Camilla closed her eyes, remembering the glaring reason why she couldn’t pretend it was Lady Katherine dropping her off.

Even in the dark alley where Synton’s carriage had been waiting, she’d noticed SYN painted across the doors in silver ink. The lord didn’t have to come inside for the columnists to run wild with their headlines:

ANGEL OF ART SUCCUMBS TO SYN

Beyond the danger of the scandal, Camilla also did not need Vexley to discover that Synton had taken her home—if Vexley believed another man was a threat to their arrangement, she had no doubt he’d do something rash to secure her forever.

“There’s a place we can go to avoid them,” she said at last. “Have your driver pull onto the next road.”

Camilla would be forced to reveal one more secret to Synton tonight, it seemed.

He pounded a fist against the roof and the driver rolled on.

As they bounced over the cobbled street, Camilla realized she was still on Synton’s lap, his firm thighs bulging beneath her. She shifted, but he made no move to release her.

“Have him turn here.”

Synton did as she instructed, and within moments they’d pulled in front of a seemingly ordinary house.

Each time Camilla saw its cheery exterior, her heart ached.

Her father had purchased the building on the street behind their town house ten years prior—within a week of her mother’s abandonment. Some had called it grief, or madness, and they weren’t wrong. He’d renovated it into a house filled with secrets over the last few years of his life.

To anyone passing by, it appeared to be a normal home. But the front door and windows were only excellent sculptures, secured to the walls. The true entrance was located around the private, gated alley beside it. After the gate was manually opened, by tugging the hidden latch, it revealed a secret door in the building’s side, tall and wide enough to drive a carriage through.

There were no neighbors to the right, only a stone wall too tall to climb over. And the three-story town house itself successfully blocked any other prying eyes.

It was her father’s favorite creation. He’d always loved secret entryways but had become especially obsessed with them toward the end. Camilla never quite knew what to make of this. She suspected it related to his love of the old stories, and perhaps a little to her mother, as if one magical door might unlock all her secrets and reveal where she’d gone when she left him.

No matter the reason, in that final decade, doors, portals, entryways, and passages all became Pierre’s greatest source of inspiration. He’d painted them, sculpted them, and made this whole house as an ode to whatever world it was he desperately wished to find.

Camilla had never shown any of this last phase of his work before. It was better that no one knew who he’d become. And while her father might not have understood, she did: some doors were not meant to be opened.

After she had instructed the coachman how to open the gate, they pulled up in front of the massive door. “Have your driver pull the lantern on the right toward him,” Camilla said.

If Synton was curious about the odd request, he didn’t let it show.

A moment later, the door opened wide, and they drove the carriage into the dark space beyond. They waited for the door to close behind them before Camilla exited the coach.

Synton followed her out, his attention sweeping across the cavernous room, only dimly lit by a few flickering gas lanterns. He quickly took in every bridle, saddle, and stack of hay before looking her over anew.

“What a lovely barn. And how do you plan on sneaking past the columnists?”

“You confound me, my lord. Of all the questions you could ask, that is the most burning one? No matter where you’re from, a secret door cannot be common.”

He raised a brow.

“I’ve heard of your father’s eccentricities, Miss Antonius. I’m assuming this was his doing. A fine workspace, I’m sure, but at present, I am more concerned with getting you home than delving into your unusual family history.”

Camilla could hardly believe Synton had gleaned so much from that cursory glance. When her father had been alive, he had used the space as his studio. He’d claimed he needed the space, and the quiet, to truly work. In the back was a staircase that led to a washroom and two bedrooms on the second floor that contained all his art supplies. The third floor had remained an open expanse dedicated solely to showcasing his work.

No one except Camilla had had access to this studio, and until this moment, no one but her and her father had ever set foot inside.

“What I cannot piece together,” Synton went on, “is the reason we’re here. Are you planning on waltzing down the street on foot, as if you’d been out for a stroll?”

“Of course not. I’m going through the secret tunnel, naturally.”

She pointed to a pile of what appeared to be broken wheels in the corner.

It was another of her father’s creations. When she turned the topmost wheel, it would release the trapdoor hidden beneath.

“Thank you for your help this evening. I’m capable of traveling the rest of the way on my own. If you press against the haystack, it will open the side door again. Good night, my lord.”

Synton appraised her with cool calculation.

“I will not be so easily dismissed this time, Miss Antonius.”

He brushed past her and strode into the tunnel after releasing the trapdoor. His steps were sure and steady.

“Come. I’ll escort you home. We still have business to tend to anyway.”