CamillasConsequences

by Helena Harker

  My vision blurs. I blink rapidly, focusing on the dust particles swirling in the light. Why do I watch this over and over? It used to strengthen my resolve. Every time I watched, my cold heart became colder and thoughts of revenge became clearer.

  But a small part of my heart still lives, and it craves a loving relationship. In romance novels, heroines always find the man of their dreams.

  Why can’t I?

  Because life is not a work of fiction. I cannot write my own ending.

  Why not?

  And why couldn’t that ending be written with Hephaestus? If I control the destiny of others, why can’t I control my own? Some of Aldridge’s comments have given me pause. Should I release the carnal beast within me? Should I accept the part of myself that I consider unacceptable?

  Outside, the dogs burst into a fit of barking, as though they have cornered prey. I stop the Panoptoscope display, freezing the lovers in the middle of another embrace. Damn you, Samson. We could have been happy together. Forever.

  I push aside the heavy curtains. Beyond the front gate stands a trio of Devlin’s fellow thieves, a rough gang of boys I have seen a few times in Lower London. What on earth do they want?

  I hurry into the crisp fall air in my breeches and riding jacket, for I was planning to take one of the saddle horses on a hack. The boys chatter in agitation, peering through the bars and gesturing for me to come faster.

  “Heel!” I call to the dogs.

  Ironheart obeys first, limbs moving effortlessly, steel body flashing in the sun. Spartacus whirls around and lopes in my direction, while Hannibal stands at the gate a few moments longer, hackles raised, teeth bared. Soon all three mastiffs are at my sides, whirling and leaping, growls pouring from their throats.

  The eldest boy waves to me frantically, his cap in his hand. “Devlin needs your help!”

  Fear runs lightning-hot through my breast. “What is it?”

  The boy grips the gate’s metal bars and presses his face against them. “He’s been caught thievin’!”

  Oh no. He could be sentenced to hard labor on the treadmill, or he might serve his time aboard one of the hulks on the Thames, or he could be sent into exile in the Canadas. It is a rough country, as cold as my heart, not fit for any civilized man or woman.

  “Which prison has he been sent to?” Not that it matters. Their conditions are equally deplorable.

  “No ma’am! He’s at Flames o’ Paradise. He stole some jewels from the owner!”

  From Hephaestus? Is Devlin mad? I remember his hungry stare as he hovered by the jewelry cabinet.

  “Hephaestus wants you to come now or he’s callin’ the coppers!”

  If the Scotland Yard constables become involved, that is the end of my Devlin.

  “Very well. Run to my coachman and tell him to harness one of the Friesians.” I will not have time to change my clothing. If I must go to London in riding attire, so be it. The boys streak away, their tattered jackets flying behind them.

  Ursula peers from the doorway, shielding her eyes against the sun, her figure slight and delicate. “What’s all the fuss, Miss Covington?”

  “Fetch my cloak, handbag and hat!” I call out. It is better to conceal my body to avoid a scandal.

  She disappears, and moments later she runs out, her small breasts bouncing under her powder-blue uniform, my garments and handbag thrown over her arm. A few stray hairs fly from her bonnet.

  “Thank you.” I adjust the cloak around my shoulders, ensuring my legs cannot be seen, while Ursula places the wide-brimmed hat on my unkempt hair. “I don’t know when I will return.”

  “I’ll keep dinner warm for you, miss. And you asked me to tell you right away if another letter came. The postman delivered it this mornin’.” She hands me a letter, her pale-blue eyes gazing inquisitively into mine.

  The cool air turns my skin to ice. It is the same type of envelope as before. Placing my thumb inside, I tear it open.

  “Is everything all right, miss?” asks Ursula.

  Her voice is distant. My fingers tremble as I pull the letter from the envelope.

  I’VE BEEN WATCHING. YOU’RE THE REASON SAMSON IS DEAD.

  My heart stops beating. No one witnessed what transpired that day. Who could possibly know of my involvement? Who has been observing me and feels it is time to come out of the shadows in order to pen threatening missives? I scan the stable, the field where my horses graze, the road that disappears over a slow rise to the east and into the busy streets of London to the west. Slowly, I fold the letter and place it in my handbag.

  Who is most likely to want revenge against me?

  Fitzwellington, because he refused to give in to my blackmail, even after a particularly savage flogging. I met him aboard one of his ships, the sleek steam-powered Western Wayfarer. While dock workers swarmed the upper decks, unloading the cargo of fine silks, cork and cinnamon, I introduced myself to him in the captain’s quarters, where he sat in front of his navigational charts, sipping a glass of cognac. Despite the Panoptographs that proved his dalliances with two can-can girls, he snubbed his nose at the list of assets I placed on his desk, including twenty percent ownership of his entire fleet. When I mentioned his wife, he scoffed at her frigid behavior in bed. Mentioning his five young sons did not melt his heart either, as he said any man worth his salt could bed four women at any one time, and he hoped his boys would follow in his footsteps.

  After that remark, he cursed at me and lurched to his feet, so I swung his cognac bottle at the side of his head. He slumped over his desk, unconscious, and I strapped him to it in a most undignified position. When he regained his senses, he found himself face down on the desk, his wrists tied on either side, his legs bound together, and his buttocks shamelessly exposed. In preparation for this moment I had purchased a flogger, the type preferred by Navy commanders who mete out harsh discipline on board their destroyers.

  Fitzwellington gritted his teeth through every stroke of the whip, always refusing to give in. I recall his expression after I administered the final lash. Defiant. Unrepentant.

  Vengeful.

  Although I have no definitive proof, I assume he is the one who sent the letters. I promised him another visit within a fortnight. It shall be today after I visit Hephaestus.

  “Miss Covington?” says Ursula, placing her hand on my arm.

  The gesture startles me.

  “You’re awfully distracted, miss.”

  “I’ll be fine.” With a sharp whistle, I command the dogs to follow, and they explode into a frenzy of yelps and wildly wagging tails. Spartacus nudges my hand. Hannibal rubs himself against my legs and snaps at Ironheart.

  As I exit the gate and head for the stable, I cannot help thinking I am surprised Devlin did not suffer this fate earlier. I wonder if I might have prevented his downfall.

  And I wonder if soon I will be facing my own.

  Derrenger appears in the door of the stable, leading a midnight-black gelding. “Where to, Miss Covington?”

  “I will take the reins today.”

  He nods. When I do not wish my whereabouts to be known, I drive the small Carriola, which is drawn by a single horse. While Derrenger busies himself with the harness, I take the aetherial communicator from my handbag and, with a steel-nibbed writing implement, pen a message to Devlin. Tell me you did not steal from Hephaestus.

  How the message flies through the air, I haven’t the faintest idea, but a few minutes later, the metal keys erupt into a fury of writing. Help me please or he’ll send me to prison.

  No, Hephaestus must show mercy. Minutes later, Derrenger has readied the carriage, and a Friesian with a wild, windswept mane trots up the lane and stops next to me. Derrenger disembarks and hands me the reins. The dogs swarming around me, I climb aboard, and Spartacus leaps on the seat and lies with his head on my lap.

  “Come!” Hannibal and Ironheart jump in. “Thank you, Derrenger!” I shout back at him as the gelding trots off. Devlin’s friends watch me go, still
muttering animatedly among themselves.

  By the time I arrive on Larkspur Lane, I am slightly more composed. “Ironheart, Hannibal, Spartacus, guard the carriage.” They take my place on the front seat, and passersby immediately halt at the sight of my Canine. One foolish man tries to pet Ironheart, but a sharp snap of iron teeth discourages him from trying again.

  I open the door to Flames of Paradise, a small bell tinkling to signal my entrance. Hephaestus dominates the shop, his arms folded, his leather apron covering a shirt stained by hours of work in the forge. His black eyes heat my blood, and I look away. Devlin sits on a stool beside the suit of armor, resembling a man awaiting a judge’s sentence.

  Or reprieve. He tilts his head to acknowledge my presence, yet does not meet my eyes. So he actually stole from Hephaestus? His demeanor seems to confirm it. Two other men, well-to-do individuals judging from their clothing, stand on the other side of the shop, one of them puffing on a pipe.

  “These are my witnesses,” Hephaestus tells me, his voice hard. “Thank you for your aid, gentlemen. If I require your assistance to prosecute this young man, I will send for you.”

  “You ought to call the constables now,” the taller man insists. “You’ll be doing it later anyway, I assure you.”

  His friend takes another puff on his pipe before pointing the stem at Devlin. “Hard labor is what he deserves.”

  Devlin flinches. They leave, muttering about the rising crime levels and the law’s inability to keep thieves in check.

  “Come into my forge, Miss Covington,” Hephaestus says, completely ignoring Devlin, “for we need to speak privately.”

  He swings open the door, and firelight glimmers beyond. I must step back into the unforgiving heat? Since Hephaestus’ jaw is clenched and his stance rigid, I keep quiet and hold my cloak tightly about my shoulders as I brush past him.

  “What has the boy done?” I glance about for a place to sit. Regretfully, there is none. Heat seeps into my pores, and I wonder how much longer I can remain standing.

  “He stole these from my jewelry cabinet, the one I keep hidden behind the counter.” Hephaestus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a matching silver pendant and brooch, both of them embedded with precious stones. “After your departure, he returned, and I caught him sneaking away. A few kind gentlemen helped catch him. He’s quick, he is.”

  Why would Devlin steal such exquisite gems from a shop we had just visited together? This places me in a very uncomfortable position. The forge spits a shower of sparks, and heat burns my cheeks. Considering that I interpret young Devlin’s refusal to look at me as an admission of guilt, I cannot defend him. Once a thief always a thief, I suppose, yet I am sorely disappointed.

  Despite my less-than-appropriate attire, I shrug out of the cloak, revealing my breeches. Hephaestus’ gaze burns hotter than the forge, traveling from the tips of my boots, up my thighs, to my waist. My nether regions have been set aflame as well. I fold the cloak over my arms so it hides me from the waist down.

  “If Devlin has damaged the pieces in any way, I will compensate you. Or I can simply purchase them. They were for sale, were they not? I am prepared to be generous.” Money always resolves disagreements. I give my purse a little shake, enough for Hephaestus to hear the clinking of gold sovereigns.

  Hephaestus places the jewels on his work bench. He stands closer to me, so close that if I reach out, I will touch his chest.

  “The jewels were given to me for repair, so they are not for sale.”

  How unfortunate.

  “Why do you keep company with a thief?”

  I cannot tell the truth. “I never knew him to be a thief. Devlin is a helpful boy who…runs errands for me.”

  “A thief runs errands for you?”

  “I did not know he was a thief,” I say forcefully. “What kind of woman do you think I am?”

  “Everyone in London would like an answer to that question,” he says. “You have no other ties to him?”

  “Of course not. Since this is obviously the first time he has ever stolen anything, I will ask you to please forgive him and allow him to leave.”

  “He picked the lock. He selected only items of value. He is experienced.”

  Blast! “He is but a boy. I will take him under my wing and ensure this does not happen again.” With all my money and my school for girls, why did I not help Devlin? Why did I never think to open a similar facility for boys?

  “I would recommend that you go through your purse, Miss Covington, to see if any of your valuables have gone amiss.”

  “Nothing is missing, I assure you.”

  “What about this?” Hephaestus places the communicator on the work bench. “I saw him using it. Did he steal it from you?”

  I explain the purpose of the device. “I lent it to Devlin so that we can stay in touch with one another.”

  Hephaestus explores every facet of the apparatus, clearly intrigued. “Why are these devices not sold to the public? Surely everyone would want to own one.”

  “I own the patent, and I have chosen to restrict production. But I am here to discuss Devlin, not the communicator. Will you let the boy go?” He must. “I can compensate you for your time, your loss of revenue, whatever you wish.” Please accept, because I placed Devlin in this position. All this time, I never offered him respectable work, although he asked me repeatedly. Instead of helping him, I used him.

  “Is money the answer to all the difficult situations in which you find yourself?” asks Hephaestus.

  “Obviously not this one.”

  “Who are you, Miss Covington?”

  I am a hypocrite. I find flaws in others but ignore them in myself. “Please release him into my custody.”

  “Londoners will not benefit if I return him to the streets to steal again.” He shakes his head, and his long hair brushes his shoulders. “I will call the constables and have the boy taken away.”

  “No!” Taking a step forward, I latch onto his arm.

  “Why not? What is he to you?” Hephaestus insists.

  Now I realize that my feelings for Devlin have always been tempered by the fact that he is a boy. When I think of Devlin years from now, I see him as another Samson or Aldridge. I am horrible indeed. The boy has infinite potential. He is intelligent, helpful, resourceful. My prejudice against men should not taint my opinion of him. Not all men betray the women in their lives, and I should not measure each man with the same yardstick. “Give him a second chance.”

  “No.”

  Why is he doing this? I have no leverage against Hephaestus. In dealings with men, I always have control, but not now. “I promise to send Devlin away to school. He will no longer be on the streets of the Warren, will no longer steal.”

  “You wish to send a young man of his age to school for the first time? To a private establishment? He is unruly, undisciplined.” Hephaestus’ eyes flash and his voice deepens. “He will feel the sting of the headmaster’s strap several times a day and will soon be expelled.”

  True. “Then he must learn a trade,” I say quickly. “Perhaps—and please hear me out as I suggest this—but perhaps Devlin, with his appreciation of fine jewelry, might apprentice with you.”

  Hephaestus shakes his head and grunts his disapproval. His flesh quivers under my palm.

  “Please allow me to finish. Although Devlin does not have the robust stature for heavy ironwork, he is dexterous, has a quick mind and knows all about precious metals and gems. He can easily be taught to fashion jewelry.”

  Hephaestus stares at me as if I am daft. “You wish me to employ the young man who stole from me?”

  “It is ironic, I agree, but yes.” It appears I am not being convincing enough. Since flattery works on every man, I will try it. “In your presence, he will learn the value of hard work. He will become a better man under your tutelage.”

  Hephaestus’ dark eyes grow darker. Sharp lines form between his brows. Dear Lord, what other tactic can I employ? What can I offer him? I wo
uld give a piece of my soul to be able to read his thoughts.

  He expels a long sigh, and my grip on his arm tightens. “Since you are so adamant, Miss Covington, I will agree to apprentice the boy.”

  My heart takes a leap.

  His voice is as rough as lava stone. “On one condition.”

  My heart cracks wide open. How often I have said those very words. Heat crushes my lungs, and it is difficult to breathe. I swallow and step back, my fingers plucking at the fabric of my cloak. Hephaestus takes the garment from my arms, pulling it from my reluctant hands. He gazes at my figure, setting my cheeks aflame. I may as well be nude. Tilting my head, I hide under the brim of my hat, until Hephaestus removes it as well. I try to stand very still, but my body quivers. Being exposed in this manner is most shameful.

  And yet…hunger stirs within me.

  The fire crackles. The automaton leans forward, silvery arms pressing down on the bellows, and a burst of air fans the flames. Hephaestus is fanning my flames, for a rush of heat spreads through my cunny. In my fantasies, he ravishes me, strips me bare, lays me out on his work bench and slides his member into my moist slit over and over again. In reality, however, I have experienced only a few chaste kisses from Samson’s lips.

  I value my virginity. It embodies my honor, my reputation, and it guarantees I am still a suitable marriage prospect.

  Is that what Hephaestus will ask for? My virginity? He seems to have no interest in my fortune.

  Hephaestus takes a breath. “I wish to court you.”

  “Court me?” I glance up. Of all the things he could demand from me, this is most unexpected.

  “Since you are a private individual who seldom ventures into society, I will ask for a few private engagements. No one need know but you and me.”

  “What do you mean by private?” In his bedchamber? In mine?

  “At the opera. You can enter the building as the curtain rises. I will wait for you in a private box. No one will notice you are seated with me.”

  This is far too simple a request.

  “As long as you allow me to court you, I will keep Devlin in my employ.”