Throne of the Fallen

AFTER A QUICK scan of the corridor to ensure that she was alone, Camilla all but ran toward the staircase leading to the rooms on the upper level, the sound of the dinner party growing louder as everyone moved toward the door she’d just exited through.

Hopefully most of the guests were too inebriated to notice her hasty exit and would be focused on the naughty games Vexley had not so subtly hinted at.

It never ceased to amaze her that even the most level-headed man could become so simpleminded with the promise of sin. During her first few Seasons, she’d secretly watched couples sneaking off during balls, rushing to the gardens to give in to their desires. Men were clapped on their backs, deemed rakes and rascals, if they were discovered. Yet the women were tossed aside as harlots, condemned for acting on what was natural to both parties. It was unfair and rankled Camilla more than she ever let on.

Men had the luxury of remaining eligible bachelors while still feeding their sexual appetites, yet women were warned to remain saintly should they refuse the noose of wedded bliss. And Camilla played that game too, loathing it but unwilling to forsake her reputation, her highest bargaining chip in this realm.

Thinking of desire, she thought again of Lord Synton, then quickly shook that away. With any luck, he would become distracted by one of the many ladies who’d openly admired him during dinner.

Annoyance overtook her nervousness for a moment, though Camilla had no right to feel that way. It was just that the idea of Synton sneaking off for a clandestine affair rather than seeking out her company irked her. In her fantasy he’d been consumed only with her, focusing on her pleasure the same intense way she studied a subject she painted.

It was that intensity she’d loved imagining, that feeling of being wholly consumed by another person.

Just once she wanted someone to want her. Not her art. Not her talent. Her.

Sometimes she felt so alone. Her father was gone, so was her mother. The fantasy of Synton had reminded her of all she didn’t have but wanted. But in truth Synton hadn’t looked in Camilla’s direction or sought her conversation during dinner at all.

Which was precisely why she would never confuse fantasy with reality again.

Shoving those distracting thoughts away, Camilla focused solely on the task at hand: find the forgery and destroy it.

Wide oak planks creaked noisily beneath her slippered feet, causing her pulse to speed as she grabbed a fistful of her skirts and leapt onto the first step, ascending out of view right as the dining room door crashed open against the wall and the sound of voices spilled into the corridor like uncorked bottles of wine.

“Oi!” Vexley yelled. “Watch it, Walters. Or you’ll cause a bigger scandal than Harrington did when he pissed on that statue.”

Camilla didn’t dare stop as the boisterous laughter grew closer. She’d overseen the installation of almost every piece of art in Vexley’s home, giving her an intimate knowledge of its layout. The first door on her left contained a reading room with a few shelves of books, two comfortable chairs, and a decent fireplace. It was much smaller than the main library downstairs and remained mostly unused by the lord.

She tiptoed inside, closing the door with a quiet snick, relieved to see the fire burning gently. Vexley might not pick up a book as often as he picked up a hand mirror, but he was vain enough to want to give the appearance of being well-read, should anyone secret themselves away to steal kisses in this chamber.

“Right, then. The painting.”

Camilla got to work straightaway.

She rushed to feel along the bookshelves for any hidden latches. When she’d scoured each, she stepped on each floor plank, listening for the most minute difference in sound that would indicate a compartment below the floor.

She pushed against the paneled wall, growing more frantic as the minutes ticked by. There was no closet, no door, no candelabra that opened a secret room. No other place to hide the painting.

Before turning to go, Camilla glanced behind the canvas hanging above the mantel, making sure there was nothing secreted behind the portrait.

Though portrait was a stretch. It was a nude man who looked startlingly like Vex the Hex, sprawled across a cloud. His hand was wrapped around his engorged member, paused midstroke, his gaze fixed presumably on whoever had caught his fancy.

By polite society’s standards it was rather lewd, but as someone who studied art, Camilla was unfazed by the male form.

She fought the urge to flick his cursed bollocks, and, satisfied that the room was not harboring the forgery, she cracked the door and listened for a few beats before exiting.

Voices carried up the stairs like ghosts of lovers past, but this floor was still otherwise unoccupied by the living.

No couple had sought it out, at least for the moment, but as this was one of Vexley’s parties, it was only a matter of time.

Camilla crept down the corridor and quickly slipped into the next room—the bathing chamber. She conducted the same search as before, tapping the walls, pushing at panels, and looking behind other artwork. She dropped to the floor and peered under the claw-foot tub, running her hands over the underside and the floor just in case.

Nothing.

Camilla pushed herself up to her knees, surveying the room from a different angle.

Her father had always told her to pay attention to the details of a room—that sometimes looking at the negative space revealed more than staring at an object directly.

It was a trick that worked wonders in the woods of their country estate. Camilla once spied a heron standing tall among the trees by spotting its legs in the space between the tree trunks.

Unfortunately, there was nothing out of the ordinary here.

Camilla investigated a linen closet that she prayed held her salvation, but she saw nothing more than neatly folded towels, a silk robe, and extra bars of soap.

Her next two searches, of the guest rooms, provided the same frustrating results, except with the added tingle of trepidation when she swore she was being watched.

She waited in the shadows, back pressed to the wall, heart pounding, for whoever it was to reveal themselves, but of course no one was there.

At last, she paused outside Vexley’s personal bedroom suite, certain there was no way he’d actually have hidden the forgery there. Vexley had said it was away from public view, and knowing what she did of his nighttime activities, his bedchamber entertained more guests than his receiving room.

Still, she refused to leave any nook or cranny unsearched.

With a prayer that luck would be on her side, Camilla entered the one chamber she’d sworn she’d never visit. The overwhelming scent of Vexley’s cologne almost sent her running back in the direction she’d come, but unless he had some secret tunnel that led from his parlor to his bedchamber, Vexley wasn’t waiting for her inside.

This was it, then. She stepped fully into the expansive bedroom, leaving the door cracked to alert her to the sound of anyone approaching.

Camilla wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find—an oversized bed with messy sheets, a few naked women pleasing themselves or each other while they waited—but a standard-sized bed with pristine coverings, handsome yet plain bedroom furnishings, a well-tended fire on the far wall, and the very painting she’d been looking for proudly displayed above the headboard was not it.

“Vexley, you plumb fool.”

Of course he wouldn’t be able to resist showing off the forgery to his lovers.

Without delay, Camilla hiked up her gown and climbed onto the bed.

Her fingers had just closed around the gilded frame when she heard a sound that sent ice shooting through her veins: the creak of the floorboard directly behind her.

She froze, debating her next move. But one thing was certain: with the painting fully in her grasp, she couldn’t let go now.

The fireplace was at the opposite end of the room, but if she moved swiftly, she might manage to toss the painting in before Vexley could snatch it away. It wouldn’t be fully destroyed, but it should be tainted enough that he’d no longer display it or use it against her.

She waited for Vexley to demand she drop the forgery at once, but no cocky or snide remarks came.

Perhaps the noise wasn’t from someone who had followed her into the room. Everyone had been drinking quite heavily—she didn’t think they’d be able to sneak up the stairs, let alone slip undetected into this chamber. Maybe it was just a creaky old house.

But Camilla knew that wasn’t the case; the heat traveling along her neck indicated that someone was indeed in the chamber with her. She steeled her nerves and slowly turned, ready to toss the canvas out the window or throttle Vexley with it if need be.

“Please. Don’t stop on my account.”