CamillasConsequences (2 page)

What must Aldridge be feeling, knowing he has such a powerful brute of a man under his control, for Tewkesbury is undefeated in the ring. Aldridge bites Tewkesbury’s shoulder again and again with savage intensity. Tomorrow, the boxer will undoubtedly be bruised. I cannot see Tewkesbury’s face, but if his moans are any indication, he is enjoying the sensation greatly.

Aldridge’s hips increase their fervor, and he rams his cock deep into Tewkesbury. His face takes on a faraway look, signaling his imminent climax. My rhythm matches his, and my nubbin screams for release. My cunny is wet, my undergarments soaked but I hold back. Now is not the time for orgasm. This spectacle—these two beasts buggering each other, committing a carnal sin—should not produce this desire in me. The sight of two men should nauseate me, but instead I am aroused, perhaps even more than when I watch the coupling of men and women.

Lust is a sin.

Buggery is a sin.

Love must be chaste and pure. It should not be tarnished by baser emotions.

With one last powerful thrust and a deep grunt, Aldridge climaxes, his entire body shuddering. When his motion stops, so does mine, although my body is overcome by physical desire, and I want to continue rubbing myself until I attain release. My heart thumps wildly in my chest.

Self-control is everything, I remind myself. I will wait.

The two men remain intertwined, and for the first time Aldridge shows signs of tenderness as he strokes Tewkesbury’s hair and leaves a line of soft kisses over the trail of bite marks. He pulls away, his cock now flaccid between his legs.

“Face me,” he says.

Tewkesbury turns around, and they kiss, long and slow, their hands roving over each other’s backs and buttocks.

I have seen enough to carry on with my plan. It is best to leave while the men are still occupied and unaware of my presence. I depress the knob on the ’Scope to halt the recording process, giddy with the knowledge that I have proof of Lord Aldridge’s deepest secret. He is a Uranian. Oh the power this will give me over him. As quiet as a shadow, I place the Panoptoscope in my leather shoulder bag and tread carefully through the damp carpet of leaves.

Aldridge needs to be in control. It is everything to him. In that respect, Lord Aldridge and I are quite similar. I must capitalize on this, turning his strength into his greatest weakness. He is a member of the House of Lords, no less, and as such he cannot afford scandal. Next week, he plans to vote against a proposed law that would give a woman control over her personal assets after she marries. According to the current law, a woman loses all of her possessions to her husband the moment the words “I do” fall from her lips. Aldridge wishes women to remain under a man’s control.

Preposterous. Aldridge cannot be allowed to stand in the way of this new law, which would be an immense step forward for all married women.

Now that I am farther away, I hurry through the dark, dank night, my boots making wet, squelching noises, the hem of my skirt completely soaked. Twigs catch my hair and scratch my cheeks. My Silverwing Aeroglider is still several minutes away, hidden behind a thicket a good distance from the road.

Since I wished to remain unnoticed, I left my lantern by the Silverwing, and now I regret this foolish action. The moon is nothing but a sliver, and I can barely see my own feet. After all my effort, I fear becoming lost in this marshland.

My boot suddenly sinks into the moss all the way to my knee, and my heart explodes in my chest. Blood races through my veins as I squat down, put all my weight on my right side and struggle to extricate my foot. After several attempts, where my boot threatens to come off my foot entirely, I shake myself free from a tangle of roots. My lungs are aflame, and I clutch my precious shoulder bag. The ’Scope is still safe and dry. I stumble onward with greater hesitation, testing the ground before placing my full weight on it.

A bog is a dangerous, desolate place. In some areas, only a layer of moss offers support, and if a man were to break through that layer, he would find nothing but ten feet of thick muck beneath. No firm ground. Nothing to cling to. No possibility of rescue.

One can easily die in a bog. I know this to be true.

This particular bog holds many secrets.

The darkest one is mine.

It is best not to dwell on the past, so I push away the memories and concentrate on every step. The night is so quiet, I feel as if I am the only being left on Earth. Pausing, I look up at a sky aglitter with constellations. Several minutes later, I arrive at the dense underbrush where I dissimulated my Silverwing, one of the few licensed to operate over London. It is an ideal means of transportation for an amateur aviatrix such as myself, particularly one who wishes to remain cloaked in darkness. I pull the eight-foot-long folded contraption from the bushes and press a knob near the rear vertical stabilizer. The wings, lightweight skeletons of alumino-composite and copper alloys, snap open over my head. A synthetic fabric stretches between each metal support. To me, the Silverwing will always resemble the wings of a giant bat.

Strapping my bag securely to my side and buckling myself into the harness, I press another knob that triggers the motion of the whisper-silent gears and cogs that will elevate me into the aetheric plane. I run a few steps and lift into the aether, higher and higher, the wind tangling my hair. I relax in the flimsy seat, my hands poised over the directional levers. The scattering of lights below is beautiful, but in Lower London they are diffuse, a result of the dense soot that spews from the factories.

My thoughts return to Aldridge. I lack patience with the imperfect creatures that God put on this earth before women. In some ways I suppose I can pardon God for His mistake. Perhaps Man was a trial effort, a crude sketch, a flawed rendering that merely prepared the way for the perfect entity who came after, Woman.

A long sigh escapes me. Since I spend so much time in pursuit of adulterers, it seems as if honorable men are as scarce as hen’s teeth. I have more than enough information to seal Aldridge’s fate. The more I consider my options, the more I wonder about his wife and three daughters. The eldest is almost ready to make her debut. Perhaps I should speak to Lady Aldridge. She may provide me with some enlightening information that will allow me to deal with her husband more effectively.

As the Silverwing glides silently through the sky, I look over my shoulder.
I am coming for you, Lord Aldridge, and I will alter your life forever.

I need to make a list of my enemies, and to do this I must take stock of my cabinet of curiosities. Sighing, clutching the letter against my drumming heart, I ascend the staircase. The east wing is always locked, for this is where I keep my darkest secrets. My fingers close around the large, heart-shaped pendant that hangs from a chain around my neck. Once I reach the top of the stairs, I open the heart, revealing three keys. I remove one and unlock the double doors. After securing the door behind me, I march swiftly down the empty hallway toward the last room on the left. I remove the second key and unlock my bedchamber.

A canopied four-poster bed overwhelms the large room, and the walls are covered in Panoptographs, a reminder of my previous life. I was on my way to becoming a renowned Panoptographer before my engagement to Samson. I had won several awards and even traveled by airship to the Dark Continent with the International Wildlife Society to take pictures of the great migration. Panoptographs of scavenging hyenas, snarling lions and galloping zebras surround me.

My favorite hangs over the mantle. The Panoptograph is of a lion, teeth bared, black mane flying in the wind, charging at its prey. At that moment,
I
was its prey, for I had placed the Panoptoscope as close to his pride as I dared, and he caught wind of me within minutes. He roared and attacked, and how the blood pounded in my veins as he raced toward me, a beast of beauty and death. My trembling finger snapped the picture. I grabbed the ’Scope and scrambled into the branches of a nearby tree to avoid having the flesh torn off my bones. Oh the beating of my heart! It took forever for the frantic rhythm to quiet, and I perched in the tree until dusk, the great male roaring beneath me. Eventually, he lost interest and he and his three lionesses wandered deeper into the savannah.

I cherish this image, because it reminds me of the proximity of death. Had I not found shelter in the tree, I would not be here today. Every time I look at my Panoptographs, I relive the sweet fear and the exquisite thrill of danger, for nothing compares to the hunt.

When the Society approached me once again a year later, this time to document an indigenous Namibian tribe, I was engaged to Samson. Nevertheless, Samson gave me his blessing and encouraged me to go. Men who permitted their fiancées to travel the world were rare indeed, and I appreciated his generosity in giving me the freedom to embark upon new adventures. Samson understood my wild and willful nature better than anyone, and he recognized my desire to stretch my wings and explore foreign lands.

We shall postpone the wedding, Camilla. Pursue your passion. We will wed upon your return.
So I boarded the airship and headed to the Dark Continent a second time. However, my absence allowed Samson to pursue passions of his own, one in particular named Delphine Delamore.

When I discovered his betrayal, I was most unforgiving. So my collection of curiosities began with Samson Thackeray, inventor of the Panoptoscope. How ironic that Samson’s own creation should become the source of his downfall.

My glass curio cabinet stands in a shadowy corner of my bedchamber. Instead of knickknacks, figurines and baubles, I keep Panoptographs of my conquests. The third and smallest key fits in the cabinet’s lock. I turn the key and the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

All the men I have hunted since Samson’s betrayal are here. These are my trophies, the source of my power, a collection of pictures that documents their transgressions. Minister Gordon Kincaid, who betrayed his wife in favor of young girls. Dashiell Mortensen, the celebrated actor, who pummeled prostitutes with his fists and paid the Scotland Yard constables to look the other way. Baron Laurence McDermott, who impregnated his orphaned niece when she was fifteen years old. There are many more. Which one of them might have sent the letter?

Or is it someone else entirely?

What of Darmond Fitzwellington, my most uncooperative prey to date? I have not yet finished with him, so his picture is not on display. He is a shipping merchant whose fleet sails from England to the Americas and onward to India and China. He travels extensively, and when I heard rumors that he fornicated with women in several ports while his wife waited patiently for him at home, I immediately set out to prove the veracity of the information. After spending a week in my villa in Marseilles, I captured his escapades with two French can-can girls.

Did Fitzwellington write the letter? Possibly.

I recall his cold gaze, ruddy cheeks, his shiny, bald pate and ridiculously twirled mustache. He is the type of man who slips to the back of one’s mind, for there is nothing whatsoever memorable about him save for his arrogance and stubbornness.

Carefully, I place the threatening letter on the top shelf next to the Panoptograph of Samson and Delphine. Each time I look at the image of their nude embrace, it fuels my desire to continue my mission to protect women from further betrayal. Regardless of the letter and how it has shaken me, I must carry on with my work. I slide my fingers along the cabinet’s glass panels, stopping at an empty space on the bottom shelf.

Soon, Lord Aldridge, you will be here as well.

* * * * *

Derrenger, dressed in his felt hat, waistcoat and gray trousers, harnesses the Equine beast machine for my afternoon jaunt to London. He works quickly, whistling a cheerful tune, his movements fluid and experienced despite his youth. When I ride into the city with Derrenger, young women of every social status pause to admire his honey-colored hair and confident smile. Many of the servant girls would swoon at his feet if he asked to court them.

The Equine is eerie, as it lacks the metal plates that cover the Canine, and the internal workings are clearly visible, including the clockwork heart and the twin miniaturized steam engines that resemble lungs.

Devlin rushes to the beast’s head and runs his hand along the complex network of wires and metal parts. “It’s a beauty, miss!”

“My Equine is the first to be manufactured for sale to the public. Until now, only the owner of Beast Machines Incorporated has had functioning Equines.”

The mechanized horse’s mane and tail are fashioned from wrought iron, and its eyes are shining copper orbs. I stroke the curving line of its neck, and the head bobs up and down in response.

Devlin stares at the massive iron hooves. “How does it compare to a real horse?” he asks my coachman.

“Better!” Derrenger adjusts the harness across the Equine’s back. “Never gets tired. Never has to eat or sleep. I don’t have to muck out its stall!”

Both men erupt into laughter. Derrenger fastens the final buckle and opens the carriage door. As Devlin and I ride into Upper London in a carriage that is as ornate and sumptuous as those owned by members of the aristocracy, I caution him to stay well back from the window. Since he is no longer a boy, his presence in my carriage might spark scandalous conversation. I gaze at the street, where people stop to gape at the trotting Equine. My fingers play with the chain around my neck, and when the carriage rattles over a gap in the cobblestones, the chain snaps. The pendant tumbles to the floor, clattering beneath Devlin’s feet.

Devlin scoops it up so fast his hand is a blur. “Pretty pendant, Miss Covington.”

My life is inside that pendant. “You have an eye for expensive trinkets, don’t you?” I say wryly, prying the heart from his fingers.

“It’s iron, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and rubies.”

“A very rapid assessment.” He has a keen eye to match his swift hand.

“Accurate?” he asks with a gap-toothed grin, leaning back against the plush velvet seat.

“Completely.”

“Heirloom?” He places his elbows on his knees. “You always wear it. It’s real important to you.”

“It is.” My fingers close protectively over the pendant, and I say no more. Sometimes I would like to confide in him, but I dare not. A secret must be kept to oneself. Otherwise, it spreads as rapidly as cholera and its consequences are as devastating. “You’re assessing its value, aren’t you?”

“The iron ain’t worth nothin’, but the rubies can be pried off and set in rings and necklaces.”

Always the thief. I cannot fault him, for it is his only means of earning a living. He has never known anything else.

Devlin straightens. “There’s a metallurgist on Larkspur Lane that could fix it for you. He specializes in iron. It’s only a few minutes away.”

My hand goes to my neck. I feel naked without my pendant. “Then let us go.”

I call to Derrenger, who promptly veers into another street. He halts the Equine by the curb, and a crowd of curious onlookers quickly gathers.

Since the crowd is fascinated by the Equine, I do not think anyone pays close attention as Devlin exits the carriage ahead of me and helps me down. A wide-brimmed hat, a frilly blouse and a many-layered skirt constrain my movements. Pink gloves accompany my pretty pink parasol. A woman’s attire is so cumbersome. I have tasted the freedom offered by men’s trousers, and given the choice, I would pick trousers over a dress at any time.

The Equine prances, great hooves clomping against the cobblestones. Smoke pours from its nostrils, the result of Derrenger activating the steam engines, which he often does to impress the throngs of onlookers. Women cry out and the crowd scatters. He tells them not to fear, that he is in full control of the Equine, and begins to explain how it functions. Within seconds, the crowd closes ranks again, gawking and admiring.

The shop’s sign catches my eye, each letter shaped in wrought iron and edged with what seems to be brass or copper.
Flames of Paradise
. A brass cherub is riveted over the entrance, wings outstretched and fingers curled in a welcoming gesture. Devlin opens the shop door like a gentleman and ushers me in.

“Just like you taught me,” he says.

I smile. Despite his origins, he is well mannered and tries hard to please. A confusing array of metal-works crowds the shop. Against a wall is a cabinet filled with jewelry crafted from brass, iron and silver. Precious stones glitter in their settings. Scattered throughout the remainder of the shop are wrought iron lamp posts, lanterns, chairs, chandeliers, picture frames, tables, gates, banisters. To my left stands a full suit of medieval armor, rivets sparkling, helmet shining. Oh the wonders! One of the iron banisters captivates me. Its railings are fashioned into twisting vines, complete with leaves. To think all of these items are birthed from the same material, heated in the same forge and molded into shape by the same craftsperson.

“Impressive, ain’t it?” Devlin only has eyes for the jewelry.

“Where is the craftsman?” The shop is empty.

“Anybody here?” calls Devlin.

No answer. A sudden motion to my left catches my attention. I whirl about, gasping, as the suit of armor wobbles, shudders and begins a slow, clanking march toward us.

“Bloody hell!” Devlin cries out, stumbling backward.

“An automaton!” The pendant almost drops from my hand, and I reach for Devlin’s arm.

The suit of armor’s gait is unsteady, the arms move stiffly and the parts grind against each other. But the inanimate has been given life! The armor—a knight—is ambulatory! What type of mechanism gives it this capability?

The knight halts before me and bends at the waist in a formal bow. While Devlin keeps his distance, I walk a full circle around this rudimentary automaton, examining every crevice for a hint of the marvels within. Clockwork? Gears and levers? Steam or electrical power?

My expertise in technology lies with the Panoptoscope, so I know nothing of automatons, and Beast Machines Incorporated only manufactures mechanized animals. The knight straightens, and its left arm rises. The index finger points to a door at the far end of the shop. Repeated clanking noises come from the other side, as though a piece of metal is being struck multiple times. The workshop?

I must meet the man who created this mechanical marvel. I march toward the sound, my skirts barely squeezing through the jumble of lawn ornaments and figurines.

When I throw open the door, dry heat blasts my face. I am confronted by the silhouette of a giant of a man in a blacksmith’s leather apron, his arm wielding a hammer. The forge blazes behind him, spitting a shower of sparks, and the heat overwhelms me. The smell of molten iron and burning coal clogs my lungs. The room sways.

Clang! Clang!
A muscular arm rises into the air, and the hammer swings in a downward arc, striking a red-hot bar of iron laid out on an anvil.

My dainty flowered hat catches on the edge of the door. I clutch at it before it falls, but I am too late. As I shield my face from the forge’s fiery breath, and attempt to steady my shaking legs, the hat flutters to the concrete floor. Blast! At least I manage to keep hold of the parasol.

But in a moment I stop thinking about my clumsy, exposed chignon and more about the fact that I might swoon in front of the metallurgist. I must sit down.

He drops his hammer, removes his apron and scoops up my hat. “Miss Covington,” he says, handing me the cause of my embarrassment. “You appear unwell. Have a seat.” He motions to a small stool.

The oppressive odor of burning coal nauseates me. Heat roasts my skin. This place is unbearable, and I wish I had not entered. I perch upon the rickety stool, far too close to the forge for my taste. Another automaton stands by the fire, hellish flames reflected on its polished armor. It bends over, presses a handle and bellows
whoosh
as a rush of air fans the fire. Now that I am sitting, the dizziness vanishes, but I am still adversely affected by the heat.

The metallurgist respectfully looks elsewhere until I have covered my chignon and adjusted the ribbon at the base of my chin. I, however, am not being similarly considerate, for I am devouring his bare chest with my eyes. Broad and powerful, it drips with sweat. A bead of perspiration runs down his collarbone and through the coarse hair that forms a line down his belly. I follow the glistening drop to his navel, and part of me—the part I try so hard to discipline and control—wants to lick it off his skin.