Free CamillasConsequences by Helena Harker Page B

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.

Chapter Five
     
    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