Throne of the Fallen

His attention dipped to her paint-splattered smock. She hadn’t removed it upon his arrival, and the slight pressing of his lips indicated that he wished she would.

“Don’t play coy, darling. You know why I’ve come.”

“As we’ve previously discussed, my lord, the debt has been paid. I’ve even secured a memory stone for you. All you have to do is feed that particular memory to it.”

Or so Camilla had been told by the dark-market dealer she’d purchased the alleged magical stone from. She hadn’t felt any buzz of magic, though that wasn’t exactly a surprise, all things considered. Still, Vexley refused to accept the stone.

He gave Camilla a bemused look as if her denying him something he wanted were more outrageous than a magical stone that could withdraw any memory he chose to give it.

Lord Vexley wasn’t quite a dandy, but he certainly spent money like one. He was the firstborn son of a viscount and as such had indulged in only the finest things for the whole of his spoiled thirty years.

Four years prior, after a rather scandalous theater incident that involved not one but two stage actresses and a very public display of drunken affection during what was now called “the intermission of infamy,” his father had cut him off from his inheritance and named his brother the heir instead, a bold move that should have shocked all of Waverly Green’s elite.

But much to his family’s surprise, Vexley’s antics hadn’t disgraced him in the slightest. If anything, he’d become something of a rapscallion legend around the Green.

Society praised incorruptible morals above all, especially for women. But virtues never held the same appeal as sin. They weren’t as thrilling to gossip about over tea, and no matter how prim and proper high society claimed to be, they all loved a good scandal, the more salacious, the better. Nothing in Waverly Green was ever as entertaining as watching someone’s fall from grace.

Satire-sheet columnists often followed close on Vexley’s heels now, desperate to be the first to report on his next potential scandal. Everyone knew he’d been disinherited, so the source of his income was a growing mystery most of the city wished to solve.

Vexley laughed it off, claiming he was a smart gambler and made wise investments, but people still whispered more nefarious stories about his growing fortune.

Some rumors claimed he’d made a deal with the devil, while others whispered about a bargain he’d struck with the Fae. Camilla alone knew the full truth.

Due to what she called the Great Mistake, she now unwittingly funded his extravagant lifestyle and placed herself in danger of being caught by the press.

The last painting Camilla had created and sold for him had almost been discovered as the fraud it was, and if the collector hadn’t imbibed too many glasses of claret, then promptly relieved himself on a priceless sculpture, in front of the entire party of lords, ladies, and even a duke, thus causing quite the stir as the duchess fainted right onto the foul mess, Camilla’s reputation would have been ruined.

A scandal of that magnitude would destroy her hard-won standing as Waverly Green’s most sought-after art dealer. And the selfish scoundrel standing before her—with his damnably charming smile and freshly pressed suit—knew it and clearly couldn’t care less.

“Honestly, Camilla darling—”

“Miss Antonius,” she corrected primly.

Camilla’s smile was nearly as tight as the grip on her paintbrush.

Vexley, or Vex the Hex, as she’d taken to calling him in her head, had been blackmailing her for that one horrid mistake she’d made eons ago, and—after they’d struck a bargain for his silence—he was supposed to have purged the memory into the rare magical stone after she completed three forgeries to sell for him.

The trouble with scoundrels and blackguards was, they hadn’t a modicum of honor.

They were now approaching six forgeries, and Camilla needed this to end.

No matter how talented she was, if anyone found out what she’d done, aside from possible arrest and facing the gallows, she’d never sell another painting in Waverly Green. Or any of the surrounding towns or villages in Ironwood Kingdom, for that matter. Not that she ventured outside Waverly Green often.

Ironwood Kingdom was a small island nation that could be traversed by carriage in a handful of days, but everything she knew was in her city and at the country estate two hours north of it. If she were forced to leave Waverly Green, all Camilla’s hopes and dreams of having her gallery flourish to keep her father’s memory alive would wither and die.

Men like Vexley could thrive on scandal and ending up in the satire sheets, but women—especially of her station—weren’t afforded the same status. Camilla needed to walk a fine line, showcasing the art she curated in scandalous ways but never becoming the subject of scrutiny herself.