“And if I wish to terminate our courtship?”
“That is your right. But Devlin…”
“Will be handed over to the constables?”
“No. After our first encounter, you are free to stop seeing me. If you feel I am not a worthy suitor, I will simply terminate Devlin’s apprenticeship. He will return to the streets. Not prison.”
I inhale a long, relieved breath. Devlin will not sit in the prisoner’s box, will not be judged, will not be sentenced. Hephaestus has shown compassion, a worthy trait.
All I have to do is spend an evening at the opera with Hephaestus. In a public venue such as London’s Opera House, my honor will not be compromised, so why am I hesitating? He is, after all, offering me what I have fantasized about.
Am I to be courted by a metallurgist when it is my desire to be courted by an aristocrat or a wealthy merchant? Samson’s social status suited me perfectly. He was a brilliant inventor whose Panoptoscope company grew rapidly year by year. Why am I limiting myself to men from the upper echelons of society? My victims have been politicians, entrepreneurs, bankers, all of whom were wealthy and from respected families. Yet their scandalous behavior necessitated my intervention. I should give Hephaestus a chance to prove himself. He might provide me with precisely what I desire, despite the fact he is a member of the middle class.
“Very well,” I agree. “We have an understanding.” Our evening at the opera will also provide me with ample opportunities to learn about his past.
“Since you expressed interest in my automaton the other day, I made a few modifications. It has been altered to answer the door and show a visitor to the parlor. But it will do nothing else. I expect payment, of course, for the automaton is not a gift.”
“Of course.” I open my purse, digging past the threatening letter and seizing a handful of gold.
“Sovereigns will not suffice.”
I shut the clasp and stare at Hephaestus, who towers over me. His hand closes over mine. So warm. So firm. “What will suffice, then?”
“A kiss.”
A kiss? I have wanted Hephaestus to kiss me since the beginning, so why am I staring at the floor once again? If I develop strong feelings for Hephaestus, will he betray me as well? Perhaps it is time I allow myself to trust. I must stop seeing betrayal everywhere I turn. “A chaste kiss?”
“A passionate one, for when you look at me, there is hunger in your gaze,” he says, “but I see fear as well.”
“I am not afraid,” I lie, fingers twisting over the clasp of my purse.
Hephaestus grabs the handbag and tosses it next to my cloak. His powerful hands grip my waist. He lifts me off my feet, sending my heart into a fury of pounding, and sets me down hard on the work bench. A cry spills from my throat. His grip slides to my thighs, stopping above the knee. My muscles tense, and I cannot breathe. My palms rest over his and my thighs clamp together. Sweet Lord above, whatever will he—
Hephaestus spreads my legs and forces himself between them. His girth is massive, like the trunk of a tree. I cannot bring my legs together, cannot draw breath. My lungs are aflame. I open my mouth to cry out, but he leans over me, his lips closing over my lips. Oh the fiery heat of them. Their softness astonishes me, and my head tips back as I kiss him in return. There is a hunger in him that far surpasses my own, and his kiss becomes harder, as if he wishes to devour me whole.
Strong arms wrap around me and hold me tight, squeezing the air from my lungs, crushing my breasts against his chest. One hand twines into my hair, grabbing a handful at the crown and pulling. Soon, I am moaning in pleasure as my scalp comes alive with delightful tingles. I forget about the forge, the fire, the oppressive heat, and focus on the sweet sensations as Hephaestus lets my hair slide slowly through his fingers. How delicious, and he begins again, thrusting his hand upward, seizing the hair and pulling, pulling until I moan.
Our lips connect, exploring and searching, his touch heating me to the core. I kiss him back readily, with greater passion, my mouth adjusting to his. He pulls me closer, and my mound presses against him, sending a current of pleasure through my body. The elation is almost more than I can bear. Deliberately, I edge my hips upward until the current shocks me again, and I am floating on a cloud of ecstasy.
His lips give me a moment’s reprieve. My hands fly to his face, touching the roughness of his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw, the small cleft in his chin. At his temple, near the hairline, I find a small scar and trace its length with my finger. I ease both hands into his long black hair, and then wind one of the curling tendrils around my index finger before releasing it. I want to touch more of him, want to reach under his shirt and rub my palms against his chest.
His eyes burn into mine. In the light of the fire, they glow as bright as embers. “More?”
Words do not come forth, so I nod. His head tilts toward mine. I lose myself in another burning kiss. It waxes and wanes, from hot to blistering, every touch kindling my desire. Now I understand for myself why carnal acts are so irresistible. If this is the result of a kiss, how will I feel when he touches my pearl, or flicks it with his tongue, or after his cock slips into my cunny?
Grabbing my hair, he pulls my head back, exposing my throat. Hephaestus smothers it in kisses, intermingled with delicate nibbles, each nip of his teeth calling forth a whimper from my lips. He takes my throat in his hand, his thumb and index fingers resting below my jawline. He could do anything to me at this moment—tear at my bodice and expose my breasts, push me down on the work bench and climb on top of me—and it would be beyond my control.
And I want it to be so. Control rules my life. It is an obsession. Why not relinquish control and let Hephaestus do what he desires?
A finger glides down my neck, to the hollow of my throat, and hovers over the first button on my bodice. Hephaestus waits, his obsidian eyes bright and unblinking. It is difficult to think. Am I ready for more? Fantasy and reality are two separate entities. Do I truly want this to go further? He takes my pendant in his hand and closes his fist around it. My iron heart will melt in his grip as surely as if it were in the heat of his forge.
“What do you want more than anything, Camilla?” He squeezes my pendant, and my heart beats wildly in response.
“Love that is pure and true and unwavering.” I desire, more than anything, love that is idealized and romanticized, the kind of love every woman dreams of. I will settle for no less.
“Your standards are high, perhaps impossible for any man to attain.”
Are they? Surely my one true love can live up to my expectations. Does this mean Hephaestus is not the man who can give me what I crave? My heart thunders in confusion.
His hands settle around my waist. “You are a woman of intrigue, a recluse who lives a life of solitude in a grand manor.”
As a matter of fact, I leave home quite often, for much of my time is spent shadowing men to find proof of their philanderings. In order to do so, I skulk about the streets in disguise, most of the time at night, and occasionally in very disreputable areas of Lower London. “I venture into London when I must.”
“Several years have passed since your fiancé’s death.” His gentle tone soothes me. “Do you still grieve?”
I answer honestly. “No, I do not, but his passing changed my life forever.”
“You loved him?”
“Deeply. We shared many passions, such as Panoptography. I must say one thing about Samson. He did not share most men’s beliefs about women’s limitations. Whenever I asked questions about the Panoptoscope and its development, he shared his knowledge freely, asked my opinion, showed me how to tinker and make alterations of my own. I was his muse and his co-inventor. Panoptography Limited became the fruit of our combined labor.”
“Which explains the continued success of your enterprise, even after his passing.” His fingers inch farther up my rib cage.
“Yes.”
“Did he live up to your idealized standards for love?” Hephaestus sweeps a strand of hair from
my face and tips my chin so I have no choice but to look at him.
How do I answer? At this juncture, I cannot tell the entire truth. “At the beginning, yes.”
“And then?”
I sense a twinge in my breast. Regret. For there was good in Samson, and for too long I have only thought of the bad. An image of Delphine encroaches on my thoughts, and regret dissipates into the aether. Samson came to a just end, and I should never forget that.
“What gives you pleasure, Camilla?”
Pleasure is almost a foreign concept, since I have so little of it. “When I climb aboard my Silverwing, I soar through the sky like a hawk. The sensation is exhilarating. Have you ever tried?”
He nods. “A few times, but my travel experience has mostly been limited to dirigibles.”
“A Silverwing gives you freedom and tranquility.” As often as I can, I take to the sky. “All your cares remain on earth while you glide through the aether, unburdened.”
“What else gives you pleasure?”
“Panoptography. When I visited the Dark Continent, I brought my Silverwing, and I tracked herds of wildebeest during the migration, flying over the river where ravenous crocodiles attacked them. The savannah is a place of beauty and savagery. I took thousands of pictures.” Should I tell him about the rhinoceros? “Once, I approached black rhinos on horseback. I coaxed my skittish mount to stay in the presence of these potentially lethal animals and snapped as many Panoptographs as I dared. A male rhinoceros lowered his head to discourage me from nearing, but his gesture only goaded me into closing the distance between us.” My heart erupted into a fury of desperate beats, and my blood sang in my veins. The possibility of death made me feel so alive. At any moment, the mighty rhino might have charged. “In the end, one of those pictures became the cover for the International Wildlife Magazine’s fall issue.”
“You are brave to the point of recklessness. Panoptography is an endeavor you no longer undertake, however. Why did you stop and what else do you do now?”
In truth, I never stopped. I simply take pictures of an entirely different sort of animal, just as dangerous as those that populate the Serengeti. The second part of his question causes a lump to form in my throat, for I do not do anything else for pleasure. My life has been centered on revenge to the exclusion of all else.
Enough introspection. “What about you, Hephaestus? What do you do when you are not in the forge?”
His gaze falters, and it takes him a long time to answer. “My work consumes every moment of my time. We both need to broaden our interests.”
“What of your family? I assume your father was also a metallurgist.”
“No, he was not, and he did not approve of my penchant for art. He passed away most tragically.”
For the first time, I see pain behind his strength. I reach out to caress his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
Hephaestus grabs me by the waist and swiftly deposits me on the floor. I sway against his chest. He supports me, one hand against the small of my back, the other in the savage tangle of my hair. The beat of his heart resounds in my ears, steady and strong. I want to stay in his sheltering arms, for I have never been held this way before. Ever.
Hephaestus breaks the spell, placing my cloak over my shoulders and helping me tie it, hiding the sleeve of my blouse, which bears evidence of his hunger in the form of blackened handprints. He hands me my hat, and I pile my hair underneath to hide my unkempt curls.
“Should I keep the communicator?” he asks. “It will be easier for us to remain in contact.”
I look at the device, nod and instruct him how to use it. He ushers me to the door that leads to the shop, and I take a few steps, dizzy, almost in a swoon.
The door opens, and cool air refreshes me. Devlin sits on the stool, his face buried in his hands, the automaton—my automaton—standing guard next to him. Devlin, poor Devlin. In him, I saw a reflection of all the men who have betrayed the women in their lives. How unfair.
“Miss Covington has a proposition for you,” says Hephaestus.
Devlin’s head jerks up. “Proposition?” He stands, thrusts his hands in his pockets and looks everywhere except at Hephaestus.
“Hephaestus has agreed not to call the constables,” I say, “if you agree to be his apprentice. You can learn to make jewelry and earn an honest living.”
“What? He wants me to work for him?” Devlin’s mouth hangs open wide.
“Devlin, you work here or you spend the next two years picking oakum,” I say. “You stole precious stones.”
He speaks quickly. “Yes, Miss Covington. I didn’t expect no mercy, that’s all. Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Tentatively, he holds out his hand.
Hephaestus extends his own. As Devlin grimaces from the pressure Hephaestus exerts on his hand, calmness settles over me. There, it is over. Devlin is safe from Hephaestus’ ire.
“Will you have difficulty extricating yourself from your gang of thieves?” asks Hephaestus.
He shakes his head. “I’m gettin’ too old to be thievin’ with this lot. It’s time I moved on. Besides, there’s lots of littluns in Lower London to take my place.”
Little ones. Orphans. Boys cast out by families unable to feed them. I should open another school, this time for wayward boys. There is good in those boys. Circumstance has made them thieves, and I can save them if I try.
“Do we have an agreement?” asks Hephaestus, looking at me and not his new charge.
“We do,” I answer. “Devlin, I want a word with you before I go.”
We step outside, skirting the mass of people that has stopped by my carriage to admire Ironheart.
“Keep an eye on Hephaestus for me. I believe he is a good man, but I need to be certain.” My feelings for him are in danger of clouding my judgment. “Get to know him and report back to me.”
“All right.”
“I hope this is a suitable arrangement for you.”
He smiles broadly, and I see how he wants this. I am learning much about myself today, and I do not like anything I see.
“Don’t steal from him. Don’t disappoint me, Devlin.” I ruffle his hair, knowing he will not.
“I won’t.”
I glance back at Hephaestus, aware of what I have been missing. Do I want more? Yes, so much.
Should a proper, respectable woman want more? No.
Propriety and respectability be damned. I will have what I desire, and nothing will stand in my way.
Not even Darmond Fitzwellington. Since he is a creature of habit, he is undoubtedly aboard one of his ships at this time of day, so I urge the horse toward the docks, where the fastest of the intercontinental steam vessels are anchored. Few women frequent this area, and those who do generally earn their living by theft or prostitution. I will have to be careful, and I am glad for the long shadows that signal the arrival of dusk.
The streets are narrow and a confusing array of ships is lined at the dock, each disgorging its exotic cargo. One ship in particular stands out. Unlike the other steam-powered vessels, it is powered by underwater propellers. The ship’s lines are sleek yet foreign, reminding me of a Chinese junk, and I recall reading about this ship in the London Post. The Eastern Star is Fitzwellington’s latest acquisition, one of the fastest cargo ships in the world, built in China, made of lightweight iron and steel. Judging from the polished rivets and meticulous construction and the fact that the Star can cross the Atlantic in three days instead of the usual four, the Chinese shipping industry will soon surpass the English one.
Weaving between hansom cabs, pedestrians and dock workers, I negotiate the Carriola into a small space a short distance from the Star. Immediately, a group of ruffians surrounds the carriage.
“We’ll watch your horse for you, miss.” The lad, no more than thirteen, grabs hold of the Friesian’s bridle. When he catches sight of Ironheart, he takes a step back.
“For a couple o’ coppers,” says another who hasn’t yet seen the Canine. A wine-colored birthmark
covers half his face.
The third remains silent and sullen, his garments soiled, his hair in an oily tangle. Unless I agree, I may not have a horse and carriage when I return. I am well versed in their games, and it is best to play along.
“A shilling for each of you to look after my horse,” I announce. “But if you do not take good care of him, my beast machine will tear out your throat upon my return.”
“Yes ma’am!” they call out, eyeing me warily before staking a claim to the Friesian.
I disembark, followed by my dogs. I look up at the ship, at the gangplank leading to it, and catch a glimpse of Fitzwellington’s bald head as he strides to the wheelhouse. Quickly, I walk up the gangplank and find him poring over cargo manifests. He is standing instead of sitting, a direct result of my harsh discipline, I am certain.
“Is your arse still covered in bruises?” I taunt him.
He straightens his stocky frame and inhales a sharp breath. His eyebrows are almost as bushy as his mustache. His lips part, and his ruddy cheeks redden even further. “You!”
“Indeed.” I step forward, the mastiffs matching my every step, growls rumbling deep in their chests. “During our last encounter, I did mention that I would drop by to give you another reminder of my offer. Surely you did not forget.”
“My answer’s the same!” he thunders.
“Do not shout,” I say in a menacing tone. The dogs snap and snarl. Fitzwellington cannot look away from Ironheart’s powerful jaws.
“You are quicksand, Miss Covington,” he says. “I will not be drawn into your scheme.”
“I see. You must know the consequences will be worse if you do not give in.”
He eyes the dogs warily. “I’m untouchable. It will take more than a few Panoptographs to ruin my reputation and my wealth. I am a powerful man who dines with aristocrats, politicians and bankers. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a vindictive spinster.”
The last word stings.
He folds the manifests and places them inside his jacket pocket. “A woman cannot control me.”
“I controlled you quite well.”
His face darkens from red to plum, and he waves me off with his hand. “Be gone. Get off my ship!”
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