Every Whispered Word (20 page)

She would be forced to sell it, or she would be left completely destitute.

“Very well.” Simon turned abruptly and went back into the dining room, closing the door behind him.

“This way, lass,” said Oliver, indicating the staircase. “I'll get ye settled while Doreen an' Eunice see to yer tea.”

Squaring her shoulders for whatever Elliott was about to tell her, Camelia followed Oliver up the staircase and into the simply furnished drawing room above. She seated herself on the worn emerald velvet sofa and clasped her hands tightly together. Elliott paced the room until Oliver had left. Finally, he and Camelia were alone.

“Why are you really here, Camelia?” he demanded. “And please don't tell me any more nonsense about a leaky roof. I would think after all the years we have known each other and been close friends, you would at least trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

His expression was wounded. A stab of guilt went through her, making her feel small and ashamed. Elliott was right, she realized. He had been her father's protégé, associate, and dear friend for much of Camelia's life. In that time he had proven his loyalty and devotion to both her and Lord Stamford countless times. Elliott would do anything for her—even marry her as a way of protecting her.

He did not deserve to be lied to by Camelia.

“I'm sorry, Elliott,” she apologized. “You're right. I'm here because someone broke into my house last week and ransacked it, destroying most of my father's precious art and artifacts. It actually happened the night of the Archaeological Society ball. Simon was with me when I went home, and when he saw what had happened, he very kindly insisted that I stay with him.”

“My God.” Elliott's eyes were wide with concern. “Have the police done an investigation? Do they have any suspects?”

“I didn't inform the police.”

He regarded her incredulously. “Why on earth not?”

“Unfortunately, it wasn't just a simple robbery. As far as I could tell, nothing was actually stolen. It seems whoever broke in did so with the intent of frightening me, as opposed to actually stealing anything.”

“What makes you think they were trying to frighten you?”

“They smashed everything they could get their hands on, Elliott. It was as if they were trying to destroy absolutely everything I cared about.”

“It could just as easily have been drunken young hoodlums who thought it would be amusing to break whatever they found,” Elliott argued.

She said nothing.

“Is there something else, Camelia?”

Reluctantly, she admitted, “They left a note.”

“What sort of note?”

“A note warning me not to continue excavating my site.”

His mouth hardened into a grim line. “What did it say?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don't remember, precisely.”

He knelt down before her and took her hands, forcing her to look at him. “Tell me, Camelia.”

She sighed. “It said something about death coming to those who disturb the sleep of Pumulani.”

“Death?” Anger clouded his gaze. “They actually used the word ‘death'?”

“It may have been something else,” she amended, worried now that she had told him too much. “I don't really remember.”

“We must inform the police of this immediately,” he decided, rising. “I can't believe you have already let a week go by without doing so—and I can't believe that fool Kent hasn't insisted that you do so. If I had been with you that night, I would have made bloody sure the authorities were brought in so they could start searching for the scum who did this!”

“The police mustn't know,” Camelia protested. “An investigation would be reported in the newspapers, and all of the British Archaeological Society would hear of it. That would make the few members who have reluctantly given me financial assistance worried about me, causing them to withdraw their support—ostensibly for my protection. They would also question the viability of excavating the site itself, which would destroy any possibility of my being able to solicit support from anyone else.”

“They are men of science, Camelia,” Elliott argued. “They aren't going to be frightened by talk of curses.”

“You don't know that for certain, Elliott. I don't think archaeologists are entirely unaffected by the idea of curses, regardless of how much they protest otherwise. You and I both know there have been many bizarre accidents over the years as men have unearthed sacred tombs and treasures around the world. I think privately we all worry on some level that sometimes we may be unearthing something that is better left undisturbed.”

“That doesn't sound like you, Camelia.”

“I know.” She traced her fingers along the faded velvet arm of the sofa and managed a small, forced laugh. “I don't think staying in London is particularly good for me. Sometimes I feel disoriented, here—like I don't know who I am.”

“You have just been driven from your home under the most appalling of circumstances, and been forced to leave everything you love to come and stay in the house of a complete stranger,” he reflected, seating himself beside her.

“You know you could have come and stayed with me, Camelia,” he chastised gently as he took one of her hands in his. “I'm surprised you didn't ask me to come and fetch you right away. But I'm here now, and I'll wait while you pack up your things. You can even bring Zareb and your animals.” His expression was faintly long-suffering as he finished, “I suppose I'll have to get used to them eventually.”

Camelia regarded him blankly. “I didn't mean to suggest that I wanted to go and live with you, Elliott,” she clarified. “It's London that feels strange to me, not this house. Everyone here is actually very nice to us, as long as Rupert isn't scaring poor Doreen out of her wits more than once a day. Of course Oscar has been tormenting dear Eunice something fierce, but I actually think that both of them secretly like each other. Eunice is always threatening to turn him into a polishing mitt, but at meals she's the first one to start fixing him a plate of all the choicest bits. I'm a bit worried that once we get back to Africa he's going to have cravings for oatcakes and sticky toffee pudding.”

Elliott regarded her incredulously. “You cannot be serious, Camelia—you can't stay here.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, you have your reputation to consider—however much you may want to ignore it,” he insisted, seeing she was about to protest. “As I'm sure you are aware, everyone believes Kent is somewhat mad—just look at the way he dresses and keeps himself, for God's sake. He's unshaven and unkempt. He looks as if he just stumbled out of Bedlam.”

“He has been working night and day on my steam pump, Elliott,” Camelia pointed out, feeling protective of Simon. “I think his ability to focus on his inventions to the exclusion of all else shows remarkable commitment and discipline.”

“It shows he becomes abnormally obsessed about things,” Elliott countered. “There is also the fact that he comes from a very unsavory background to consider. Lady Redmond found him in some filthy prison cell in Scotland, for God's sake, where he had been imprisoned for stealing.”

“He was barely more than a child at the time, Elliott.”

“He was nearly fifteen, Camelia, which made him virtually a man—especially for a young thug who had lived his entire life on the streets. It's well known that he has a dangerous violent streak in him—apparently while he was in prison he beat the warder so badly the poor fellow could never walk properly afterward.”

“That was my brother Jack who beat the warder,” drawled a low, untroubled voice. “I merely vomited on his boots.”

Camelia looked up to see Simon standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe. His grease-streaked arms were folded across his chest, and the ink stains from his fingers had soiled the badly wrinkled folds of his shirt. His demeanor was relaxed, as if it didn't bother him in the least to come upon them in his drawing room clandestinely discussing the sordid details of his past. But his eyes had darkened to the steely blue color of a sky just before a summer storm breaks. There was anger there, yet Camelia could see there was vulnerability, too.

It was the same poignant vulnerability she had seen in his gaze the night she sought him out in his study.

“Please forgive us, Simon,” she quickly apologized. “We should not be talking about your past.”

Simon shrugged. “I don't care whether you talk about my past or not.” That was a lie, but he'd be damned if he let Wickham think he had managed to upset him.

“Since you are so interested, Wickhip, I think I should at least clarify a few salient points. First of all, Lady Redmond took me out of prison when I was nine, not fifteen. I had been imprisoned for breaking into a cottage and gorging myself on a basket of apples and a bottle of spirits—it may have been whiskey, but as my appreciation of liquor was rather limited at that time, I cannot be sure. The apples, as I recall, were rotten and foul, but given the fact that I had not eaten in over three days, I did not particularly care. The spirits left me completely stewed, which is why I was still there when the owners returned home. I was thrown into the Inveraray jail, where I promptly vomited all over the warder's boots. This did little to endear me to him. I was given twelve stripes of the lash and sentenced to thirty days in jail, to be followed by five years at a reformatory school. Lady Redmond came to the prison some three weeks later and bribed the Governor to release me into her care, with the understanding that she would be responsible for me for the duration of my sentence. Is there anything else you would like to know?”

Camelia stared at him, unable to find any words. In that moment she understood with piercing clarity just how deeply Simon's past continued to haunt him. Whether that was because the ugly wounds of that past could never heal, or because the world around him refused to let him forget, she could not be certain.

“Forgive me, Kent,” Elliott said, breaking the strained silence. “As you can appreciate, my concern is only for Lady Camelia and her reputation.”

Simon tilted his head slightly. “Of course.”

“And I have assured Elliott I need no such protection,” Camelia added, trying to dissipate the tension that now filled the room.

“I'm afraid you don't understand the power of London gossip,” Elliott returned. “But Kent here does—don't you?”

“I make a point of not listening to gossip, Wickhip,” Simon told him, feigning complete indifference. “I have too many other things demanding my attention.”

“Then your ability to disregard it is admirable. Unfortunately, Lady Camelia is a woman, and does not have the luxury of ignoring what is said about her.”

“Nonsense, Elliott,” protested Camelia. “You know very well I have never paid any attention to what people were saying about me.”

“That was in South Africa. Things are different here.”

“But I have no intention of staying here. As soon as Simon finishes building his pump, we will be setting sail for home.”

“Regardless, for the next few months that you are here, you must pay greater attention to protecting yourself from vile gossip and innuendo.”

“Actually, we will be leaving for South Africa in just a few days,” Simon interjected.

Camelia regarded him in astonishment. “We will?”

He nodded.

A beam of pure joy lit her gaze. Simon stared at her, utterly captivated. For the past week he had been working like a madman, existing without more than an hour or two of sleep at a time, pausing only for the few minutes it took to eat and drink whatever food Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen had been kind enough to bring to him at what he could only assume were regular intervals. All because he was utterly determined to build Camelia her steam pump. He had told himself the sooner she returned to Africa and got her excavation underway again, the sooner he could come back to England and get on with his own bloody life. But as he stood there, feeling her pleasure wash over him like a great, calming wave, he realized that getting Camelia out of his life had not been his primary motivation, however much he may have liked to believe that. He had wanted to ease the terrible longing she felt for Africa.

The only way he knew to do that was to build her a pump and take her home.

“Are you saying you have managed to build a steam pump in just a couple of weeks?” demanded Elliott, incredulous.

“It isn't completely finished,” Simon acknowledged, shrugging. “But the voyage to Africa will take more than three weeks by steamship, and then the journey to Pumulani will take time by train and wagon beyond that. I can finish assembling and adjusting the pump while we travel.”

“That's wonderful!” Camelia jumped up to hug Simon, then suddenly stopped herself. “Really wonderful,” she said, regarding him intently. “Thank you for working so terribly hard upon it.”

“Well, this is good news.” Elliott tried his best to sound enthusiastic as he slowly rose from the sofa.

Simon cast him a knowing glance. He knew Wickham was desperate to keep Camelia in London. After all, that was where his lordship was trying to establish his new business and life. He wanted Camelia with him, hovering quietly and devotedly by his side. It would be a bit difficult to court her and convince her to marry him when she was off happily digging in the dirt several thousand miles away.

“Perhaps, Camelia, you will reconsider staying with me, at least until you are ready to leave for Cape Town,” Elliott suggested. “My mother is there with my three sisters, so you will have an appropriate chaperone. I really think that will be a much better situation for you than the one Mr. Kent has so kindly offered you here. I'm sure you don't want to impose upon him any more than you already have.”

“Camelia has not imposed upon me at all,” Simon assured him, affecting a remarkably credible expression. “In fact, I have barely noticed she is here. However, if she would prefer to go and stay with you, that is, of course, entirely up to her.”