It was entirely possible that Envy had read Camilla’s emotions wrong earlier—perhaps she’d only been upset with Vexley for his public display and not his unwelcome touch.
Anticipation and nervousness were nearly identical at their core, so it was impossible to discern which emotion the artist was currently experiencing. It was rare that his supernatural senses couldn’t aid him, and Envy didn’t care much for this uncertainty.
But perhaps it was another opportunity. If he could determine what Camilla was up to tonight, then he could devise a way to make himself indispensable to her, thus ensuring that she’d help him in return. No seduction required.
“All right, then,” Vexley said finally. “Let’s be on our way.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Envy watched Camilla bolt for the door. Without drawing attention to himself, Envy quickly stood, but just as he pushed back his chair, he was stopped by Lady Katherine.
“Do be a dear and escort me to the drawing room, my lord,” she said, blocking his path.
He glanced from the meddlesome woman to the door, debating whether using his magic now would in any way count against him. It was small as far as risks went, but Envy couldn’t chance breaking any rules of conduct.
“It will be but a moment,” she added.
A moment was all Camilla had needed to slip away, a fact that her friend either seemed to know or had surmised just as he had.
Outmaneuvered by propriety, of all cursed things, Envy pasted on a pleasant smile and offered his arm.
“Of course, Lady Katherine. Lead the way.”
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.
