CamillasConsequences (7 page)

“How did you know?” She quivers, transferring the scones to a serving dish. “I didn’t want to, but he’s a Lord. I can’t say no to a Lord. If I hand in my resignation, he will never give me a reference to find work elsewhere and I’ll end up in the Warren, selling the only thing I’ve got left.”

“He will never hurt you again.”

Her hands fly to her face and she bursts into sobs. I wrap my arms around her and hold her to my breast. “I promise he will never hurt you. That power has been stripped away from him.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I am the sponsor of a girls’ boarding school.” Finding an opening for one more girl will be difficult, and she will be one of the eldest in attendance, but I will ensure she is taken care of. “I would like you to attend. How old are you?”

“Seventeen, miss.”

“Girls are schooled in all the basic subjects, such as reading, writing and mathematics, in addition to deportment and etiquette. Students are also given the opportunity to learn a trade so they can seek employment after graduation. Do you have any special skills?”

Wiping her eyes with her apron, she nods and gestures for me to follow her to an adjoining room. One of Lady Aldridge’s gowns lies across a sewing table. Rarely have I seen such exquisite beadwork.

“I sew some of the lady’s dresses.”

Wonder of wonders! The girl is already an accomplished seamstress. “I believe you will be able to open your own dressmakers’ shop.”

The girl beams. “It’s my dream.”

“Then let us ensure it becomes a reality. Take this.” I offer her a calling card with the name of the headmistress, a woman I trust implicitly. “Mrs. Fotheringham has dealt with many young ladies in your situation. She is strict but kind. Fetch your belongings and we will go there immediately in my carriage. It is time to put Aldridge behind you.”

“Thank you dearly, miss.” She wipes more tears from her face and smiles. “You have a kind heart.”

Do I? Few people would agree. “Now hurry and we will be off. I will wait in my carriage.”

She scurries through another door and disappears. As I exit the house, I cannot help but think of the letter. Who sent it? It is as if I can feel the weight of a stranger’s eyes upon me. A tremor comes alive in my breast. So this is what it feels like to be observed, scrutinized. Who is watching me? What does he really know of how I obtained my fortune? I swallow, and my mouth is strangely dry.

My bedroom’s red brocade drapes are drawn shut against the late afternoon sun. Alone in the dark, the Panoptoscope projection machine whirring beside me, I sit in my plush armchair and watch Samson embrace Delphine. My fingers dig into the upholstery. She is sitting on the edge of his bed—what should have been
our
marriage bed—completely nude, thighs apart. As he kneels between her legs, he cups her breasts, presses his lips against her nipple and kisses it, then takes it in his mouth.

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?”