CamillasConsequences (9 page)

“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!”

“You are finished, Fitzwellington!” The next part of my plan will be put into action within days, and from that moment on, he will be a social pariah. “Do not think that your letters are in any way distressing me. Stop sending them. They will do you no good.”

His features remain hard, angry. I wait for him to confess.

“What letters?” He nervously twirls the ends of his mustache.

“You sent me threats.”

“Did I?” he taunts. “It seems these letters do more than distress you.”

Damn him to hell! I am convinced he is responsible. My fingers curl tightly around my handbag. I have a mind to release the dogs and must bite my tongue to refrain from giving the command.

“The Chinese aren’t only skilled at building ships, Camilla. They’re tinkering with other devices as well and keeping them secret. When I purchased this ship, I bought a dragon as well.” His lips stretch into a sneer. “The Chinaman who sold it to me said it would bring me luck if I kept it on board. Let’s see if he was correct.”

A dragon? What nonsense is this? Fitzwellington picks up a small red lantern from a shelf and shakes it. A tinkling sound emanates from the interior, and the dogs whirl and growl at the door. Hannibal tucks his tail between his legs and cowers by my side. What on earth possesses him to behave in this manner?

A clattering noise comes from beyond the door. The sound is foreign, unknown and dangerous. Something large and metallic slides along the floor. Behind me, Fitzwellington’s bitter laughter rings in my ears.

“You should have left when you had the chance,” he scoffs, returning the lantern to the shelf.

A heavy object clanks and creaks, reminding me of Hephaestus’ automaton. A horrific sight appears in the doorway, a mechanical creature with the gaping jaws of a Chinese dragon, the body of a basilisk and the paws of a lion. Its mouth, filled with serrated steel teeth, chomps and gnashes.

Dear Lord above, what hellish creature is this? “Send it away,” I tell Fitzwellington.

He dodges behind the armor-plated beast and escapes through the door. I am cornered. My heart stops in my chest.

The dragon’s claws scrape at the floor and it scans the room with red-painted eyes. Suddenly, the creature lunges at me. The dogs howl, and Spartacus launches himself at the iron beast. His teeth gnash at the steel plates and he yelps in pain.

“Attack!” I shout at Ironheart.

Before Ironheart can obey, the dragon twists its head, opens its mighty jaws and seizes Spartacus by the neck. A desperate cry wrenches from my throat as jagged teeth crush the dog’s vertebrae. Spartacus hangs limply between the dragon’s jaws and blood gushes to the floor.

Oh Spartacus, dearest Spartacus.

Ironheart leaps at the dragon, iron fangs denting the steel carapace. The attack appears futile. Ironheart releases the dragon, crouches and then springs forward, knocking the beast onto its side. The underlying mechanisms in the throat are visible.

And vulnerable.

Between the interlocking metal pieces, I glimpse the grinding of gears and levers, the movement of clockwork mechanisms. I open my handbag, searching desperately inside. My fingers close over the electric prod pole.

Hannibal darts toward the writhing hulk of metal, snapping at its feet. I adjust the prod pole to the most powerful setting. The dragon’s mouth gapes wide as it attempts to clamp its jaws on Ironheart. My Canine shifts its grip to the belly, which is well-protected by more metal plates.

Gripping the prod pole tightly, I lunge forward, slipping on the blood-slick floor, and jab my weapon between two plates in the dragon’s throat. Gears spin and cylinders revolve.
Zap…clak-clack-clak. Zaaaap! Zaaaap!
I press again and again. Four-inch teeth snap a hairsbreadth from my face.

Zap-zap-clack-clack-clack-zap!
A wire sparks and sizzles. A cog ceases moving. The dragon’s right leg freezes suddenly. Ironheart takes hold of a metal plate and tears it away, exposing the clockwork heart. The dragon’s jaws snap, catching on my hair. I jam the prod pole against the heart.
Clak-clak-clak-claaaaack.
The lower jaw goes slack. The giant head rests on the floor, limbs convulsing. Once more I strike, sending a maximum jolt into the clockwork device.
Zap-zaaap-clack-clack-clack-zaaaap!

The dragon lies still. My entire body shakes so hard I collapse on the floor, my breeches stained with blood, and bury my face in my hands. A wet nose nudges my neck. Hannibal. I wrap my arms around him and hug him tight. I cannot remain here. Fitzwellington will return soon.

His devilish Chinese invention must not be repaired and reanimated. Wires snap and copper strips wrench as I pry the heart free from the dragon’s chest. I drop the bloodstained device into my handbag. Moving the dragon will be impossible, but I would dearly like to throw it overboard so Fitzwellington cannot scavenge the body for parts. Seizing the tail, I attempt a halfhearted pull. The dragon slides several inches along the floor. What incredibly lightweight materials, even lighter than those making up my beast machines! Encouraged, I put all my strength into the effort and drag the remains onto the deck.

“Stand guard,” I tell my two remaining mastiffs.

Hackles raised, Ironheart and Hannibal take their positions on either side of me. A long scratch mars Hannibal’s shoulder, the result of the dragon’s fierce attack. If Fitzwellington returns, there is no telling what he might do.

Have I attracted attention? I glance over the railing. Thank goodness the sun has set and darkness is upon us. Seamen and deckhands swarm busily on a few neighboring ships, where lanterns hang on the railings, but I have gone unnoticed. Crouching down, I grip the dragon’s scaly body and attempt to lift it over the side. This time, its weight overwhelms me.

There must be a way. I refuse to leave it here.

“Ironheart, take hold.” The Canine grips the dragon’s foreleg between its teeth. I grab the other. “Now up you go.”