CHAPTER ONE
Twelve Years Later
“You need new paints? Again?”
Miss Ophelia Wexley, the only child to the Viscount Whitebridge, brought her green eyes up from the row of potted paints laid out before her and met Theo’s questioning look. The Mayfair marketplace by the park was busy today. Far too busy for Ophelia’s liking, but she had let two of her dear friends, Lady Theodosia Harleigh, Duchess of Caldermere, and Lady Rosalind Duskwell, Duchess of Stapletone, coax her out of the house. They’d been shopping for a few hours now, and while Theo and Rose had been drawn to stalls of jewelry and books, Ophelia had found herself wondering to those that sold paints, canvasses, and brushes.
“What of it?” Ophelia asked, glancing back down to the paints. She picked up one of cerulean blue, admiring the deep hue of it.
“Well, it is just that you seem to be painting quite a bit lately,” Rose remarked after sharing a glance with Theo, “Yet you have yet to show us your finished projects as you normally do.”
Ophelia subtly bit her bottom lip, thinking of the secret she could not share with her friends. There used to be a time where she could where she could tell them anything. Now, though, life had grown…complicated.
“I will show you when they are ready,” Ophelia replied, trying to sound casual, “I am…”
She floundered, trying to think of a quick lie.
“I am growing more finicky with my work,” she finally added. “My standards for perfection are increasing, I am afraid.”
“Goodness you sound like Tristan,” Theo teased.
Ophelia gasped and crinkled her small, sharp nose; feigning a look of great offense.
“Do not dare compare to me the Lord of Perfection!” She playfully scolded.
The three of them laughed, then Ophelia turned back to the paints. She handed the pot of cerulean paint to the stall merchant, along with pots of black, violet, and a deep emerald green, and forced her hands not to shake as she reached into her baby blue silk wrist bag and drew out her precious few coins.
“Interesting choice of colors you have picked,” Theo mused as Ophelia put the paints in her basket.
“Oh?” Ophelia asked, turning back to her friends. “Why is that?”
“They are the colors of a peacock, are they not?” Rose asked.
Ophelia let out a dry laugh as the three of them continued to walk again.
“Yes, I suppose they are,” she agreed, playing coy. Another secret.
“You have not seen it yet, have you?” Theo asked, looping her arm through Ophelia’s.
“Seen what?” Ophelia asked, her excitement growing.
“The mystery painter has broken into the Royal Gallery again,” Rose said excitedly. “Or rather, he painted the gallery this time! The front doors from top to bottom now resemble the most beautiful, lifelike portrait of a peacock with the wordssocietatum rebel!”
Ophelia hid the smile threatening to bloom on her lips, and gave a bored eye roll.
“Oh.Him.”
Theo and Rose each let out a short laugh.
“I cannot believe you, as an artistandas someone who adores the disruption of society, do not like the mystery painter’s work,” Theo teased. “I thought you would be his biggest admirer!”
Ophelia shrugged.
“I have seen better,” she said with a bored sigh.
It was true. The peacock hadn’t been her best work. She would have preferred to add some golden accents and better brush strokes. Unfortunately, she underestimated the size of her secret project and had nearly run out of paint; forcing her to use broader, clumsier strokes to finish it. It wasn’t her worst work, though, and as always, she’d signed itSocietatum Rebel.
“You and your demands for perfection,” Theo sighed, “Dare I say you truly are starting to sound like Tristan.”
