Throne of the Fallen

“Don’t get pissy because I was right,” Pride snapped icily. “I told you to court her first, then ask her to paint the throne for you. Why else would she help a stranger do something so dangerous? Put yourself in her position—would you risk yourself?”

Envy grunted, and Pride studied him more closely.

“Wrath said you’re abysmal at strategy, and you’re proving him correct.”

Envy swallowed a retort. Wrath and Emilia had visited his House of Sin a month or so previously, and he’d narrowly avoided them discovering the slow decline of his court. Thankfully the worst symptoms had been held at bay by a curse that was recently broken.

Pride mistook his silence for quiet contemplation.

“If you’re that repulsed by Camilla, perhaps one of our brothers might seduce her in your stead. I’m sure Lust or Gluttony would be willing to help,” he said. “Perhaps they’d even team up if she asked them nicely.”

“You’re not offering,” Envy pointed out, watching his brother’s face carefully.

Pride glared at him but finally shut up.

Envy glanced back at the gallery, annoyance rocketing through him.

Even in the dreary storm there was something otherworldly about the building, something enchanting. Much like the vexing woman who owned it.

Pretending to court her wouldn’t be a hardship. But he had enough to focus on without adding another distraction, and mortal courtship was rife with inane rules and tiresome ballroom dances. He had no patience for promenading around for others to gossip about.

He had a game to win. And he’d wasted enough time.

“I’m quite through with your ego for one night.” Envy yanked his House dagger from its sheath, the emerald in its ornate hilt winking in the growing darkness. Princes of Hell couldn’t be killed by one another’s daggers, but they could be sent right back to their circle of the Underworld, whether the prince wished to travel or not.

“Go home, Pride. Unless you’d like a matching scar on the other side of your face.”

“Stubborn prick.” Pride held up his hands and stepped back. “Why won’t you just ask for help?”

Envy pressed his lips together, remaining silent.

His brother gave him a disgusted look.

“With Camilla’s first refusal, you’ve now got two chances left to unlock the next clue, right?” When Envy still refused to speak, he added, “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

THREE

“HONESTLY, HAVE YOU considered selling the gallery and moving to the country?” Lady Katherine Edwards asked, handing Camilla a glass of sherry. “Vexley would surely lose interest with time, especially if a buxom theater singer caught his fancy. Again.”

“Mm. If only I could be so lucky.”

Camilla sipped her drink as she warmed her slippered feet by the crackling fire in Lady Edwards’s finely appointed drawing room. A beautiful redhead with dark brown skin who didn’t believe in holding her tongue, but who could certainly hold her own in society, Katherine had been Camilla’s dearest friend since they both debuted ten years prior.

Katherine had been new to Waverly Green herself then, and she’d bonded with Camilla immediately over their both being outsiders of a sort. Even after she’d married, Katherine had kept their weekly dinner plans, becoming like a sister over the years, someone Camilla confided almost all her fears in.

With a few exceptions…

While Katherine might be Camilla’s dearest friend, even she didn’t know the full truth behind Vexley’s proposal.

“Well, if he’s hell-bent on courting you, why not consider his offer?” Katherine asked, settling back into her velvet chair as Camilla took a generous sip of her sherry to drown out the absurd idea. “He is the son of a viscount. Grandson to an earl.”

The door creaked open as a large gray-and-white feline nosed its way in.

“Bunny!” Camilla immediately brightened, and Katherine snorted.

“I had a carriage sent for her earlier. I know how lonely she gets when you’re working.”

“You’re looking as regal as ever,” Camilla said lovingly to her cat, who gave her a once-over, then sat and began washing her long, beautiful fur.

“Anyway,” Kitty said, “back to the matter at hand. Why not Vexley? He’s from good stock.”

“He is the disgraced son and a notorious scoundrel. Satire sheets have now dubbed him ‘the Golden-Tongued Deviant,’ for heaven’s sake, Kitty. Did you not see that last caricature of him? Lewd would be too mild a term for it. It was so explicit I heard that three carriages collided outside the storefront where the illustration was displayed last week.”

“And I heard that seven new lovers visited his bedchamber because of that very satire sheet,” Katherine volleyed back. “I also have it on good authority that the moniker is quite fitting. And it has nothing to do with his scintillating conversational skills or lack thereof.”

Outside, the light rain that had begun earlier turned into a menacing storm, the howling winds now whipping tree branches against the windows like great demonic beasts as the two women cozied up to the fire with their glasses of sherry.