CamillasConsequences

by Helena Harker

  “Thank you.” His fists rest on his hips, and his arms are massive.

  Every muscle is defined, every sinew, every tendon, and I wish to run my fingernails along his flesh.

  “Regardless of your ownership of beast machines,” he says, “you are the subject of much conversation.”

  “Do you mean I am the victim of gossip?” As a woman, it is best to make myself appear vulnerable. It lulls a man into a sense of complacency and makes it far easier for me to take advantage of him at a later date.

  “Are you a victim?” His dark eyes gleam in the firelight, and his black, wavy hair falls to his shoulders.

  What a maddening reply. I do not know what to make of it. “What do people say about me then?”

  “Whenever your name arises in conversation, it is bandied about most unkindly.”

  I am taken aback by his honesty, but at the same time I appreciate him not withholding the truth. “Whatever are people saying?” In some ways, I have attempted to remain in the shadows, for I do not wish anyone to know my true mission in life. But I want the inhabitants of Upper London to know of me, and my displays of ostentatious wealth are one way to ensure that tongues are wagging. However, I should perhaps attempt to influence what people say about me. “Is there no one else in London who is the subject of gossip these days? Do women have nothing else to do but sit in tea houses and concoct falsehoods about me?”

  “I never said women were the ones speaking about you.” He picks up a pair of tongs and seizes the long piece of metal he was pounding into a new shape.

  The forge casts an eerie red glow behind him, and this workshop reminds me far more of Hades than paradise.

  “And who’s to say the rumors consist of falsehoods?” he adds.

  Oh! How insulting! Since I am holding a conversation with an uneducated man, I refrain from speaking my mind. Metallurgists may be well-to-do members of the middle class, but they are not particularly cultivated or accomplished. This one has a rugged, untamed appearance that gives me the most shockingly pleasant palpitations. “You do not know me and yet you judge me. You are being unfair.”

  After plunging the heated iron into a bucket, making the water hiss and steam, he goes on. “I am not judging you. I am merely telling you what people think. Most people believe you are a selfish squanderer, a haughty dame who considers she is above the upper classes.”

  Not entirely untrue, but not the kind of image I wish to portray. “Then it appears I shall have to socialize and alter everyone’s opinion of me.” I shift on the stool, attempting to find a more comfortable position. Impossible. “It so happens I am meeting an acquaintance for tea this afternoon.”

  With a powerful swipe of his arm, he rubs the sweat from his forehead. How I wish I could do that for him. I have a lace handkerchief that I would gladly sweep across his brow. It would also please me greatly to sit in his lap, lean against his muscular chest and trace my finger against the straight line of his nose.

  Camilla, stop!

  My heart pounds as fiercely as the metallurgist’s hammer. Why is it so hard to tame this part of me? A proper lady should feel no physical longing. She is restrained, modest and refined. Not coarse. Not vulgar. Not like the carnal beast within me that always strains against its bonds. My cheeks flush, and I do not know if the cause is the forge or the metallurgist.

  He stands before me clad only in a pair of soot-stained trousers. If I reach out, I can undo the top button. Would he allow me to?

  “This is no environment for a lady.” His tone is solicitous. “The high temperature is too much for your delicate constitution.”

  Delicate? Me? Despite my discomfort, I cannot help but smile. “I must return to the shop. The heat is overwhelming.” And so are you.

  He offers me his arm, and when he smiles, his teeth are perfectly even and white. What a contrast with his eyes, so dark they are almost black. It is difficult to tell where his pupils end and the irises begin. Taking care not to knock over the stool as I rise to my feet, I take his arm, wishing my fingers were not covered in lace. I cannot sense his flesh through the fabric. My hand closes tightly over his well-developed biceps, and it takes every ounce of propriety to keep from sliding my fingertips over his shoulders, his chest and his soft, full lips. He is so magnificently tall that my head does not reach his shoulder.

  “You live at Bleak Hills.” He opens the door, and the rush of cool air revives my senses.

  “Yes, that is my estate.” Does everyone know where I reside? Considering the size of my property, probably. “I have a simple request, Hephaestus.”

  “I will help in any way I can, Miss Covington.”

  Now that I am refreshed, I notice Devlin standing before the jewelry cabinet. His hands plunged in his pockets, he turns toward me.

  “You all right, miss? Your cheeks are red.”

  “It’s the heat. I am better now.”

  He looks out the window and waves as though he has seen someone he recognizes. “One o’ my mates. Unless you need me, miss, I’ll be on my way.”

  “If I need you, I’ll send for you.”

  He leaves the premises, threads his way through the growing crowd and streaks down the busy street, dodging passersby and trotting horses.

  I turn my attention to Hephaestus. “Are you able to repair my chain?”

  “I can repair any kind of jewelry.”

  What confidence. I drop the chain and pendant into his hand, which is easily three times as big as my own. He could close it over mine and crush my bones to powder if he so desired.

  He stares at the pendant as if I have given him a handful of diamonds. “Iron. Well-fashioned. Made by a skilled craftsman.” Although it is the chain that is broken, he holds the pendant up to the light and examines it with keen eyes. “Where did you obtain this?”

  “It was a gift.” The statement is not entirely a lie, more a stretching of the truth. Or is it? When a man gives you valuable jewelry against his will, can it still be considered a gift? “Iron is my favorite material. It is durable. Unbreakable. Men rode into battle in suits of armor made of iron.”

  “Iron is my favored metal as well, because it can be heated, hammered and shaped into whatever I desire.”

  Heat rushes to my face, as if I am once more standing before the forge. “I value its strength.”

  “I prefer its versatility, its malleability.”

  Our eyes connect. His stare is as powerful as his muscular stature. It threatens to melt my core, but I resist. What do I know of this man? Even if I develop an interest in him, his social status and mine are oceans apart, and no acceptable relationship could follow suit. In my dreams, I always picture myself being courted by a merchant or an aristocrat, someone whose wealth and status are superior to mine.

  “I did not mean to be uncouth by implying your behavior was the object of scrutiny,” he says in a conciliatory tone. “I apologize for the offense. The forge brings out my baser instincts, I’m afraid. You are a fine lady whose behavior is beyond reproach. Although you have an aura of mystery about you that many people find unsettling, there are also many who are in awe of your ability to run an enterprise as well as any man. Perhaps better.”

  The fact that he recognizes my accomplishments as a woman touches me deeply. Only a gentleman would take the trouble to apologize, and Hephaestus has done so with eloquence. Wherever did he receive his schooling? “Panoptography Limited has done well since I have taken control. The company is flourishing.” Since Samson’s death, I have run the company quietly from my estate, rarely interacting face-to-face with the employees who work in the main manufacturing center in Upper London. “I accept your apology.”

  “Like you, I spend much time alone. At the present time, I am trying to make a greater effort to reach out to others and broaden my social horizons. Although I am passionate about my work, I need to find other sources of passion to stimulate my senses.”

  His dark eyes remind me of obsidian, the black stone formed by the cooling
of molten magma. They transfix and hypnotize. I must not fall under their spell. Yet I wish to. “How long will it take you to repair the chain?” Despite my resistance, long-dead emotions stir within me.

  “Only a moment. It is but a broken link.” He disappears into his workshop, ducking his head to clear the door.

  It does only take a moment, and he returns—still bare-chested—with the chain draped over his palm. Even though I scrutinize the iron, I cannot tell which link required the repair. “Beautiful.”

  “Much like the woman standing before me.”

  Embers come alive in my breast, as if Hephaestus is stirring the remains of a fire, breathing life into it. He looks at me the way Samson used to look at me, with longing and desire. Quickly, I avert my eyes. The floor is not nearly so distracting. Now I must change the subject of the discussion and regain control of the situation. “How long have you been employed here?”

  “I am the owner, the laborer, the artisan. I am everything you need me to be.” His voice is warm, seductive.

  “I sincerely doubt it,” I answer in an attempt to maintain my distance. “No man is everything I need him to be.”

  “Surely there is a man out there for you. I believe there is someone for everyone.”

  At my age, an unmarried woman remains unmarried. It may as well be written in stone. It is once more time to change the subject of our conversation. “Do your automatons perform menial tasks? Dusting? Washing? If so, I wish to place an order for three of your inventions.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Covington, but there is no such thing as a true automaton. Beast Machines Incorporated owns the patent to the mechanisms that would make an automaton possible, but it seems they have chosen not to manufacture human-like devices. My knights are poor facsimiles. My attempts are conversation pieces, no more.”

  How disappointing. “Are you certain you cannot make one that acts as a butler and answers the door?”

  Hephaestus strokes his chin. “I suppose I could.”

  “I should love to have an automaton in my home. Please try. You are skilled.”

  “At many things.” He lets the words hang in the air, pregnant with meaning. “For example, I could take your iron heart and shape it into whatever I wish.”

  It sounds as if he is issuing a challenge. He does not know who stands before him, truly he does not. I am fierce. I am indomitable. “I prefer my heart the way it is, thank you.”

  He dangles the pendant before me, and I take it, fastening it around my neck.

  “Do you not recognize me?” He utters the phrase slowly, as though waiting for me to fully absorb the meaning. “For I am certain we have seen each other before.”

  My heart quickens. An encounter with Hephaestus would remain branded in a woman’s mind forever. “You are mistaken.”

  “Perhaps I am, but there is something familiar about you.”

  Mysterious. I do not like it. Men are normally simple, transparent and easy to deceive. Considering what he has said, and in light of this morning’s threatening letter and my not-so-proper nocturnal activities, perhaps I should be suspicious.

  At this moment, lust overwhelms suspicion, for I dearly want to see this man again. Why not keep him under observation by luring him into my web?

  Are you certain you only wish to observe, Camilla? Wouldn’t you prefer to taste him, touch him, lie with him?

  Oh yes, I desire all those things. “I am also impressed by your banister.” I tilt my head at the wrought iron railings that twist into vines. “Can you duplicate this style? I require a new front gate and would like to hire you to fashion one.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Miss Covington. Bleak Hills is a fine estate.” His gaze does not waver. “I admire the craftsmanship that went into your home, particularly the decorative scrolls on the iron fence surrounding the rear garden.”

  A chill creeps down my spine. Only someone who has set foot on my property would know this. Yet—save for a few well-paid hirelings—I do everything in my power to keep people at bay. “How do you know about the gate? From the road, it cannot be seen.”

  Hephaestus smiles. “I’ve never set foot on your estate. Once I drove by in a carriage on my way to Liverpool, and baying dogs leaped at the gate. Savage beasts.”

  “They are,” I say pointedly.

  “During my apprenticeship a few years ago, I worked for the metallurgist who made the fence, so I have admired its detail.”

  “I see. Is that where we met, when I spoke to the metallurgist with whom you apprenticed?” The fact that I have no recollection of him unnerves me. Usually, I have an excellent memory for people’s faces. Unless Hephaestus is indeed mistaken and we have never met at all.

  “You are so beautiful perhaps I only wished I had seen you before,” he says in the most casual manner. “If you will allow me to be bold, I have a question for you.”

  Boldness is an admirable trait. “Please ask.”

  “Recently, I received an invitation to a ball, but I have no lady to accompany me. Would you do me the honor?”

  Of attending a ball? With him? As if we are courting? For that is what everyone will believe. “Why, Hephaestus, you are brazen. We scarcely know one another.” My heart pounds as I picture myself twirling across the floor in his arms. “Which ball?”

  “The Countess of Winchester’s Autumn Serenade.”

  To be invited is a prestigious honor. “Why did she invite a metallurgist?” I ask bluntly.

  Hephaestus chuckles and his dark eyes light up. “I fashioned quite a few pieces of jewelry for her, brooches, earrings, pendants.”

  When did I last dance at a ball? Before I left for the Dark Continent. Samson and I attended the Prince of Wales’ Summer Solstice, and we waltzed in each other’s arms all evening long in celebration of our upcoming nuptials. He held me close, so close the prim society ladies frowned deeply every time we danced past them.

  “Perhaps it is too forward of me to ask you to a ball. Would you consider attending the opera with me?”

  A metallurgist who enjoys the opera? Hephaestus, you are most intriguing.

  “Don Giovanni is playing at the London Royal Theater in Piccadilly Square.”

  How appropriate, a tale of philandering and revenge. Perhaps too appropriate. I should say no. I wish to say yes, but I cannot. It would be a wonderful evening, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, listening to the exquisite sounds of sopranos and tenors.

  Since this is what I desire, to be courted by a man, should I not accept? I must give his proposal serious consideration. After all, I wish to find love.

  But only with a certain type of man, one who is my social equal, who can love me without eventually leaving me for another, who can conform to my exacting standards. What of my earlier promise to myself, to forego love in order to pursue my mission? Is it not possible to do both? Why shouldn’t I pursue both if the opportunity arises? Hephaestus stares at me as if he knows me, and his obsidian eyes cut into my soul.

  This decision cannot be made at a moment’s notice. “Regretfully, I must decline.”

  He seems crestfallen but does not give up. “If you wish me to replace your gate, you will have to see me, and I will ask you again.”

  I must say I admire persistence in a man. “Two days from now. Four o’clock in the afternoon. Do not be tardy.”

  “It will take much longer to fashion an entire gate. Six days hence, promptly at four. I look forward to seeing you.” He takes my hand, raises it to his lips and kisses it.

  Even through the glove, his touch is warm, and although I should pull away, I do not. When Hephaestus releases my hand, it takes all my self-control to stop myself from standing on my toes and kissing his lips. I imagine their firmness and their heat. Delicious. Forbidden. “Until then, Hephaestus.”

  When I leave the shop, a confusion of emotions overwhelms me. Suspicion. Arousal. Happiness. Wariness. Despite my trepidation, I am most eager to see Hephaestus again.

  Chapter Three
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br />   At precisely three o’clock, I enter the Chesterton Tea House. Ladies seated at small round tables look up from their cucumber sandwiches, their lips purse into little “ohs” of surprise, and a flurry of whispers races from one to the other. I nod at the high-society ladies, the ones I recognize from pictures in the newspapers. A few of them nod back. Only a few. I frown. These women have no idea of the services I have rendered for them over the past few years. If they did, they would ask me to join them and shower me with thanks. No matter, my goal is to see Lady Aldridge.

  There she sits, at a quiet corner table, accompanied by one of her daughters. Their hair is an identical shade of corn silk, their eyes the same vivid blue. In the daughter’s severe bone structure I recognize traces of Lord Aldridge. Lady Aldridge, on the other hand, is all soft contours and delicate mannerisms. She holds her fork in a dainty grip, plants the tines into a slice of tomato and lifts it to her mouth.

  Everyone’s eyes follow me as I stride across the room. Are they envious of my diamond earrings? Do they resent the magnificent Equine that pulls my carriage? Are they thinking of the latest rumor surrounding the solitary woman who resides at Bleak Hills? Or, as Hephaestus implied, do some of them secretly admire me for being a success in a man’s world?

  “Lady Aldridge,” I say with a smile, “allow me to introduce myself.”

  “Camilla Covington,” she says, as though tasting a new food and finding it bitter. She places her fork on her plate, and her shoulders stiffen.

  It is almost comical to see her daughter duplicate her movements, all rigid and proper, sending me the message that I am unwanted. The young lady, barely seventeen, her hair twisted into an elegant French braid, looks down her aquiline nose at me. She truly is Lord Aldridge’s offspring.

  Considering that I am here to better Lady Aldridge’s life, their chilly reception causes me to grit my teeth. I suppose I cannot fault the lady. She has no inkling that I have come here to help her deal with her husband’s multiple infidelities.