Every Whispered Word (5 page)

“But now they know I'm in London to arrange for a steam pump!”

“Who?”

“Those two ruffians,” she hastily replied. She did not want Simon to know that she was being watched. “I'm just worried that now they will sell your invention to some other scientist, who will build it and take the credit and make lots of money from all your hard work.”

“I'm touched by your concern,” Simon reflected dryly. “What I don't understand is why your charming friends Stanley and Bert are so interested in your movements, and why you are clambering into carriages that don't belong to you and skulking down dark, deserted alleys with a stolen sketch and a six-inch dirk sheathed in your boot. Do you actually have a carriage waiting for you somewhere, Lady Camelia, or is that just another one of your charming fabrications?”

“My driver is waiting for me over on Great Russell Street, in front of the museum,” Camelia told him. “I felt it best that he wait for me there.”

“Let me guess. You had him park there while you went into the museum, making it seem as if you would be there for several hours—a perfectly credible way for the daughter of an esteemed archaeologist to spend an afternoon while she is visiting London. Then you slipped out of the museum via a different door and made your way to my house, thinking no one would suspect you had left without the benefit of your carriage.”

“It was a sound plan.”

“I suppose it was, right up until the moment your friends Stanley and Bert descended upon you. Evidently they are not as easily duped as you think. The question is, why are they so anxious to keep you out of Africa? Is there something about your excavation that holds a special fascination for them?”

“I told you, I am on the cusp of a very significant discovery. There are many archaeologists out there who would love to take over my dig and receive credit for what I find.”

“Those two didn't strike me as the archaeological type.”

“Of course not—they are just thugs who have been employed by someone else—someone who has instructed them to watch my movements and try to scare me off.”

“I had no idea the field of archaeology was so cutthroat. Do you have any idea who this rival archaeologist might be?”

“No. Everyone in the British Archaeological Society pretends to scoff at the idea that there is anything of consequence to be found in South Africa, but I believe someone understands the magnitude of the find I am about to make. They think if they can scare me away, I will be willing to sell my land for whatever I can get to the first bidder. They are wrong. I will never leave Africa. And I will never leave my dig until I have unearthed every last relic that is there to be found.”

“I admire your determination.”

A sliver of hope lit her eyes. “Then will you help me?”

“No. I am as committed to pursuing my own inventions as you are to finding your African relics, Lady Camelia. I will, however, escort you to your carriage.” He strode down the alley and retrieved her hat.

“I don't need you to escort me,” Camelia informed him briskly, annoyed that he was still unwilling to help. “I can assure you I am quite capable of getting to my carriage on my own—I do it all the time.”

“Indulge me,” Simon urged, handing her hat to her. “Surely that is the least you can do, to repay me for stealing my sketch?”

“You just said you didn't need it anyway.” Camelia jammed the wilted, grimy headpiece onto her head. “You said you had it committed to memory.”

“Then indulge me as a way of repaying me for gallantly coming to your rescue when you were in distress,” Simon suggested. “I must say, I thought my performance as a lovelorn drunkard was particularly brilliant.”

“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Kent, but I didn't actually need your help. I had the situation well in hand.”

“I suppose if you think being held captive by a seven-foot-tall giant while another man threatens to snuff you and waves a pistol in your face is having it well in hand, then yes, I'd have to say you had the situation going beautifully.”

“I was just about to stab that big man in the thigh when you staggered down the alley.”

“Really? Have you ever done anything like that before?”

“I have hunted and helped to butcher large game countless times. I'm quite sure I could slash the muscles of a man's thigh without any trouble.”

“Thank you for the warning.” He extended his arm to her.

“Forgive me, Mr. Kent, but are you not concerned about being seen in your relative state of undress? You seem to have forgotten your hat and tie, and your shirt is unfastened.”

“I left my house rather quickly.” Simon was amused by her sudden sense of propriety. “I'm afraid I often leave my house inappropriately dressed—it is one of the consequences of being almost constantly preoccupied. Does my lack of a hat bother you?”

Camelia watched as he slowly closed his rumpled shirt over the chiseled curves of his chest. “Not at all,” she returned, meeting his gaze evenly. “I'm well accustomed to seeing men without their hats.”

“Good. Then you won't object if I take you back to your carriage?” His shirt now properly fastened up to his neck, he offered his arm once more.

She sighed. “If it makes you feel better, I will indulge you, Mr. Kent.” She laid her hand lightly upon the thin fabric of his coat sleeve. His arm was surprisingly hard, and heat permeated the cotton of her glove, making her palm tingle.

They walked along in companionable silence, trading the charcoal dankness of the alley for the smoky gray light of the streets. Men and women in elegant evening attire were strolling and passing by in carriages, making their way to parties and suppers and the theatre. Camelia knew she and Simon made an odd pair as they walked along, she in her pitifully crushed day gown with her tangled hair and drooping hat, and Simon in his damp trousers and rumpled coat. People cast them disapproving glances, evidently thinking they had no right to be walking amidst their betters, or worse, assuming they meant some mischief like picking pockets. Their censorious stares irritated her. She glanced at Simon, wondering if he was also bothered by the attention they were drawing.

To her surprise, his expression was almost cheerful as he walked along. Either he didn't notice the way people were frowning at him, or he was wholly unbothered by it.

“I had forgotten how extremely pleasant an evening stroll can be,” he remarked. “I really must try to get out of my laboratory more.”

“How did you make those explosions in the alley?” asked Camelia, curious.

“I used some firecrackers that I had made for the amusement of my younger brother and sisters, which I had left in my coat pockets. I was planning to set them off for them the next time I visited.”

“Those huge balls of fire were just firecrackers? They sounded like gunfire.”

“I like to make my firecrackers big and noisy,” Simon told her. “I add metallic salts and a chlorinated powder to intensify the colors and make the explosions burn even brighter. My mother is always complaining that one day I'm going to blow something up, but my brother and sisters think they're grand.”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“There are nine of us all together, but only three of them are still young enough to be impressed by a big brother who can make explosions. The rest of them remember all the fires I nearly started when I was a lad, when I was trying to discover how much gunpowder it would take to blow the lid off the roasting pan, or see how much light could be generated from an oil lamp stuffed with five wicks instead of just one.”

“And did you ever start any fires?”

“A few,” Simon admitted, shrugging. They turned down the street where a half dozen carriages were waiting in front of the British Museum. A small crowd of children and adults was clustered in front of one of them, laughing and pointing at something. “But fortunately I never managed to actually burn the house down, though our butler, Oliver, was always sure that I would.”

“That's my carriage.” Camelia indicated the modestly sized plain black vehicle that the children were pointing at.

“What are those children looking at?”

“My driver. He tends to draw quite a bit of attention wherever he goes.”

Simon walked with Camelia toward the front of the carriage, to see just what it was about this fellow that the children were finding so fascinating.

Seated upon the coachman's bench was a lean African man of some fifty years or more. His skin was as dark as coffee and deeply lined from years of exposure to the harsh African sun. His jaw and forehead were squarely cut, his cheeks sculpted but also slightly hollow, indicating that there had been times in his life when food had not been abundant. He sat with his back straight and his head high, staring straight ahead, his demeanor proud to the point of arrogance, betraying a nobility and strength of spirit that Simon found immensely compelling. A magnificent swath of fantastic robes was wrapped around him, woven of the most brilliant scarlets and sapphires and emeralds. On his head he wore a simple leather broad-brimmed hat, which seemed at odds with the rest of his exotic attire, but was eminently more practical than the glossy felt hats that fashion dictated the gentlemen of London wear. His rich, dark skin color, extraordinary robes, and strange hat would have been more than enough to invite the curiosity of everyone passing by, but it was none of these things that was causing the children in the crowd to yell and squeal with laughter.

It was the monkey bouncing up and down on his head, tossing cherries at them.

“Zareb, I asked you not to let Oscar out of the carriage,” chided Camelia.

“He wanted to see the children,” Zareb explained.

“More like he wanted to feed them,” Camelia muttered. She held her arms out to the monkey, who screeched with delight on seeing her and flew off Zareb's head, landing safely in her embrace. “Really, Oscar, if you want to come out with me you're going to have to learn to stay in the carriage.”

Oscar chattered in protest and wrapped one slender, furry arm around Camelia's neck.

Zareb's currant-colored eyes swept over Camelia, swiftly taking in her disheveled appearance. Then he shifted his gaze to Simon. He stared at him a long moment, as if he were trying to delve beyond the matter of Simon's own rumpled appearance and see what lay beneath. Finally he turned his attention back to Camelia.

“Can we return now?”

“We can return to the house,” Camelia said, knowing that wasn't what Zareb meant. She turned to Simon. “Thank you for escorting me to my carriage, Mr. Kent, and for coming to my assistance. I do apologize for causing so much disruption to your day, and for losing your sketch.”

“No apology is necessary.” Now that the time had come once more to say good-bye, Simon again found himself strangely reluctant to leave her. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“Of course,” Camelia said, trying to restrain Oscar from pulling out the last few hairpins that remained in her sun-streaked hair. “I'll be fine. If for any reason you change your mind, Mr. Kent, I'm staying at number twenty-seven Berkeley Square. I'll be there for another few weeks—after that we'll be returning to South Africa.”

Simon hesitated. He wasn't quite sure how to properly take his leave of her. A gentleman would kiss her hand, but given the fact that she was now using both hands to keep her monkey from playing with her hair made that somewhat impractical.

“Well then, I'll see you again, Lady Camelia,” he said awkwardly, as if he thought he might just bump into her one day on the street. He opened her carriage door and extended his hand, preparing to assist her into it.

Oscar scampered up his arm and plopped himself down on his head, startling him.

“Oscar,” said Camelia, “come down from there at once!”

Oscar squawked defiantly and shook his head, holding fast to Simon's hair.

“Come down now, Oscar,” Camelia began in a warning tone, “or there will be no ginger biscuits after dinner.”

The monkey flashed her a cheeky smile, causing the crowd of people still gathered around the carriage to laugh.

“Down, Oscar,” Zareb said. “Patience.”

Oscar hesitated, as if thinking about this. Then he patted Simon on the head and leaped onto the worn velvet seat of the carriage.

“I'm sorry about that,” Camelia apologized. “He doesn't usually do that—he's fairly well-behaved.” That wasn't even remotely true, but she saw no reason for Simon to think otherwise.

“That's all right. Do you always take him out with you?”

“Not always, but I'm afraid he finds staying in the house rather confining. He is accustomed to having much more freedom when we are home, but I can't let him wander about London on his own. He is supposed to stay in the carriage when we go out, but he doesn't like it. He is not used to being locked up.”

“I can appreciate that.” Simon assisted her up into her carriage and closed the door.

Camelia regarded him hopefully. “Do you think you might reconsider my offer, Mr. Kent?”

Simon hesitated, torn by the imploring look in her extraordinarily green eyes. For one brief moment, he was tempted to say yes. Unfortunately, he also was painfully aware of his obligations. He had sworn to his brother Jack, who owned a rapidly growing shipping company, that he would devote as much of his time as possible to the development of a better engine for marine propulsion. Jack wanted North Star Shipping to boast the fastest ships in the world, and Simon was determined to make that happen. Then there was the myriad of other inventions he was working on, including his clothes-washing machine, which had to be ready for unveiling at the Society for the Advancement of Industry and Technology fair in just six weeks. Much as he disliked the business side of his profession, there were, unfortunately, practical financial matters that he could not ignore. So far several of his inventions had been manufactured on a limited basis, but that had not generated sufficient income for him to continue his work.