CamillasConsequences (10 page)

Ironheart stands on both hind legs, jaws still firmly holding the dragon. I pull just as hard on the other leg, and the dragon’s tail and back legs hang over the side of the railing. Excellent. After pausing a few moments, I resume my task, pulling and pulling until at last the entire body teeters across the ledge. With a final shove of my shoulder, the Chinese dragon tips over and splashes into the murky water below.

Disheveled, tears running down my face, I descend the gangplank with my mastiffs. Casting a look behind me, I search the windows of the ship for any sign of Fitzwellington. From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of furtive movement. It must be him, but there is nothing else I can do except make good on my threat to ruin him.

And ruin him I will. I toss a handful of gold sovereigns at the boys guarding my horse. As they run wild to pick them up, stunned by my generosity, I take the reins and contemplate my revenge. Fitzwellington will pay dearly.

Three days later, the loss of Spartacus still weighs heavily on my heart. I have not left the house at all, spending most of my time perusing books in my well-stocked library or mulling over the Panoptographs in my cabinet.

When my two faithful companions prick their ears and burst into fits of barking, I open the door to discover Devlin strolling up the lane with the automaton clanking and creaking by his side. It walks with great lurching strides, and Hannibal bolts past my legs, barking furiously. Oh dear, I am afraid he will knock down the knight! Hackles raised, fangs bared, he gives it several cursory sniffs before losing interest. The entire time, Ironheart remains by my side.

“Come in!” I call.

Devlin beams as he crosses the threshold of my sanctum for the very first time, the automaton keeping a noisy pace after him. Once inside, he hesitates, as if in a forbidden realm, and then steps farther into the grandeur of the foyer. Hannibal snuffles at the knight one more time, his claws clicking on the polished marble floors.

“Never thought I’d be allowed in here, miss!” Devlin drinks in his surroundings, the opulent tapestries, the staircase, the crystal chandelier. He is lost in the spectacle, until the knight nudges him from behind. Whirling around, he says, “The automaton works, miss. Where do you want it to stand?”

Hephaestus’ genius amazes me. “By the door.”

“Where’s Spartacus?” Devlin looks about.

“He was the victim of an unfortunate accident,” I say with unnecessary sharpness.

“Sorry, miss. I know how you love your dogs.” He does not press for additional information.

Quickly, Devlin utters a series of short commands, and the knight stands at its new post, ready to greet a visitor. And when will my automaton be able to welcome its first caller? I never allow anyone in, after all. I should have asked Hephaestus for a guard instead of a butler. How foolish of me.

As I contemplate the parlor’s open door, glancing at the ghostly white sheets that cover the furniture, Devlin gives me an explanation of the automaton’s rudimentary mechanisms. The sound of a knocker will trigger an automatic response. The knight will open the door and show the guest to the parlor or another room of my choice. What he says is of little importance, for I know my beautiful new acquisition will only stand by the door and be one more object for Ursula to sweep with her feather-duster.

The knocker suddenly raps three times. I start and both dogs howl and snarl until I bring them to heel. “Sit!” I command. Hannibal utters a last yip before he and Ironheart stand by my side.

Whoever can it be? Before I manage to answer, the shining knight turns on its heel and marches awkwardly to the entrance. It extends a hand, the joints bending stiffly, and opens the heavy oak door. It bends at the waist, and with a sweep of its arm, invites the caller inside. A stooped, white-haired stranger stands there, aghast, spectacles askew on the bridge of his nose.

“It is but a rudimentary automaton,” I reassure him, as color mounts in his cheeks and he shrinks back, tottering on the edge of the first step. Before he falls over, I catch him by the arm.

“These are the documents you require, Miss Covington.” The man holds out a thick envelope, and I take it from him.

Across the top, the words
Lord Aldridge
are scrawled in bold, angry strokes. So this man must be his barrister. Inside the envelope are riches I will add to my already substantial assets. By this time, I must be the wealthiest woman in London. The profits from the diamond mine will help fund my new school for wayward boys.

“Thank you, sir.”

He straightens his spectacles and peers at the automaton from a distance. “Do you wish to verify that all is in order?”

Certainly not while Devlin is within earshot. “I trust you have not made any errors. If you have, you will soon hear from me.”

The dogs growl while the automaton lurches and clanks toward the staircase.

“Hephaestus says the first time you have to tell it where to go!” Devlin takes off after the knight.

“The parlor is to the left!” I call out.

The barrister gazes at me in puzzlement. He cannot comprehend why his client has signed over so many assets to someone such as myself. Since he is bound by oath to keep these secrets, and I am certain he values his reputation, I do not think he will discuss this with anyone.

How many other barristers have I come in contact with? Do they speak among themselves? Could one of them, and not Fitzwellington, have left me the notes? He did not confess, after all, or perhaps he did not in order to increase my torment. If that is the case, he succeeded. The mystery is infuriating. Who knows my secrets? Who? When I discover who it is, he will suffer my wrath. I recently purchased a whip with blood knots, and I will gladly use it to flay his skin.

The barrister walks back down the long laneway to the main gate, and I shut the door. The automaton returns slowly to its place. The knight is indeed a wonderful, yet impractical, addition to my home.

“How are you doing with Hephaestus?”

“Very well!” Devlin’s face lights up. “I sleep next to the forge. I get three meals a day. He’ll pay me wages if I work hard enough.”

Excellent. “Thank you for bringing the automaton. I am pleased your arrangement with Hephaestus is a productive one.”

“It is, Miss Covington.” He smiles, showing off his gap. “It’s the kind of arrangement I always wanted.”

And that I always denied him. “Have you shadowed Hephaestus as I asked?”

“Yes, miss. I followed him to his house.”

“What sort of home does he have?” I know nothing of his personal life.

“Modest. Wrought iron everywhere in the garden. He keeps a valet and a housekeeper.”

“Is she attractive?” Most single men do not keep female servants for it generates much talk of inappropriate behavior.

“Don’t worry none, miss. She’s old enough to be my grandmother. She cooked us dinner two nights ago. Lamb stew. Best I’ve ever had.”

I am relieved. “Do you think he might be a danger to me in any way?” Devlin is an excellent judge of character, undoubtedly because he spent so much time consorting with unsavory individuals.

He grins and shakes his head. “No, miss. He’s a good man. I’m sure of it. He don’t go to no bawdyhouses. Alehouses neither. He stays home and reads. His library’s piled to the rafters with books! If he has friends, I haven’t seen any of them. He’s always alone.”

“Have you discovered anything about his past before he opened Flames of Paradise?”

“He won’t answer questions. He’s private. Like you. And I’d need more time to learn more about him, because I work long hours. So does he.”

“Then I see no need for you to investigate further. Since you have joined the ranks of respectable Londoners, this is the last time I will require these types of services from you.”

I go to the vanity and take one of my extra communicators from the small drawer. “Here. Send me messages when you can. Tell me how you are. I still wish to hear from you.”

“Yes, miss.”

Sighing, I offer him a few shillings for his services and bid him farewell.

* * * * *

In the early evening, I unlock the door beside my bedchamber, which leads to my dressing room. Inside an immense wardrobe is a sumptuous array of fashions, from ball gowns to men’s hunting attire, to the soot-stained rags suitable for a chimney sweep. During my nocturnal forays, it is often necessary for me to conceal myself, and I am certain even the director of the London Royal Theater would be envious of my collection of costumes.

Among the gowns, I catch a glimpse of white lace. My throat constricts. I blink away red-hot tears. My wedding dress. In anticipation of my nuptials, I had the gown made months in advance. The French tailor followed my instructions to the letter, fashioning the veil and train from silk tulle, trimming the elegant organza bodice with pearls and using soft, kid leather for the gloves. Despite the gown’s association with Samson, I still hope to wear it one day.

A tear slides down my cheek, and I wipe it away. I should not reminisce about my shattered life while there is work to be done. There are many ways to ruin a man. Tonight, I will attempt a novel strategy to expose the transgressions of Darmond Fitzwellington. He will rue the moment he chose to unleash his dragon on Camilla Covington. Yes, he certainly will.

Quickly, I wrap bandages around my chest to flatten my breasts, then select a black hat, a pair of trousers and a white shirt. When needed, I can masquerade as a boy rather successfully. Only my voice threatens to give away my gender. I will go unnoticed at Upper London’s Grand Panoptorium, and I will present the audience with a special showing of an as yet unreleased film.

After I finish dressing and adjusting my hair under my hat, I remove the smallest key from my locket and open my cabinet of carnal curiosities, where I recently added a picture of Lord Aldridge sodomizing Tewkesbury. The incriminating Panoptographs I took of Fitzwellington are not displayed in full view, because he is not yet a conquest. Later this evening, however, I will put them in a place of honor on the top shelf. For now, I hold the Panoptograph of him with the two can-can girls and gaze at it. To think he has a wife and five children at home.

I arrive at the theater in a hansom cab, a bag slung over my shoulder. Inside, I am carrying the canister that contains a single cellulose reel. Walking at a leisurely pace, keeping my head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone, I go to the rear of the building. The layout is very familiar since Samson inaugurated the Grand Panoptorium shortly before he betrayed me.

I walk up the stairs as if I am an errand boy on an important run. The public does not have access to this area, and I do not want anyone to question my presence. Only a few men glance in my direction as I pass by. Finally, I reach the cubicle that contains the Panoptoscope projection equipment. A young man checks his pocket watch and nods at me.

I speak in a throaty voice. “Mr. Halliburton needs you. Now.”

Since Mr. Halliburton is the ill-tempered owner, the young man bolts from his chair and dashes down the stairs. I remove the cellulose reel from the metal case and substitute it for the reel the audience expects to watch, a documentary about the Dark Continent’s Kansizi Warriors.

A pang pierces my chest as I read the title.
The Menacing Kansizi—A Warrior’s Journey into Darkness.
How I miss the adventures of Panoptography, capturing moments in time, trekking into unexplored areas and bringing the memories home with me. When I subsequently exhibited my work, I basked in public adoration. Now I hide my Panoptographs in my cabinet.

Once the switch is complete, I descend the stairs as if in a hurry to tend to another errand. The back row of the theater offers a dark place for me to dissimulate myself, and I eagerly await the spectacle that is about to unfold. A middle-aged couple sits in front of me, and the woman addresses her husband.

“My brother recently purchased a Panoptoscope and he is capturing all sorts of images.” As she turns her head, the iridescent peacock feathers on her hat sway from side to side. “They are much less expensive than they used to be. I am thinking of purchasing one for myself. Whatever happened to that fine young lady who took all the Panoptographs of the Dark Continent?”

“Broken-hearted,” the husband answers, patting her gloved hand. “Her fiancé’s dirigible went down. Some women never recover from heartbreak. She hides on her estate most of the time.”

“My aunt bought one of her Panoptographs of a lioness and her cubs.” She squeezes his hand in return, as if she truly loves him. “I miss her work.”

The woman’s words tug at my heart, as do my memories of the Dark Continent. I liked being admired for my talent and courage. During my final exhibition, while hanging on to Samson’s arm, I related my harrowing tales to all who would listen.

The lights dim, the red, velvet curtains open and the whir of the Panoptoscope machine fills the theater. The film begins, and after an initial moment of shocked silence, the audience utters a series of gasps and muted cries. Darmond Fitzwellington is bound to a chair. He wears neither a shirt nor trousers. About his waist, he sports a can-can skirt, and two women prance around him in stockings, high heels and nothing else. Coarse, dark hair covers his chest and legs, and he laughs at their antics, calling, “Show me your cock alleys, you harlots!”

Fitzwellington does not know I have this footage. When I attempted to blackmail him, I showed him different pictures, where he engaged in coitus with these two performers. Does he actually believe bankers and politicians will still invite him to dinner after he has been seen wearing the frilly, pink apparel of a can-can girl? He is mistaken.

When Fitzwellington reserved a hotel room in Marseilles and invited the girls to meet him, I simply reserved the room next door, cut a hole through the wall behind a painting, and began to film. Considering the conditions, the results were far better than expected.

For several seconds, no one moves from their seats. Then women cry out in disgust, husbands utter a rallying cry in support of their wives, and young men laugh and point at Fitzwellington’s attire.

“It’s Darmond Fitzwellington!” a man’s voice rings out, thick with outrage. “He’s shipping me silk from India for my shop. I’ll never deal with him again!”

Exactly the reaction I hoped for. Women rise from their seats, pushing their husbands along in front of them. On the screen, the redheaded can-can girl lifts Fitzwellington’s skirt, exposing his member. It is proudly erect, and the woman reaches down and grasps it with her hand. The other woman joins her, kneeling before him and rubbing his bollocks.

The film cuts abruptly—the young man operating the Panoptoscope display machine suddenly came to his senses—but the exodus continues. There was far more titillating footage to come, but sufficient damage has been done, so I am satisfied. I rise from my seat and stalk off in mock indignation.

“What of his poor wife?” a woman murmurs to her husband, clinging to his arm as they hurry out.