Every Whispered Word (7 page)

“Only a little.” Camelia bent to pick up the two-and-a-half-foot-long creature. “Rupert is a tiger snake, so his venom isn't particularly harmful to humans. I think he was just a little intrigued by your boots—normally, he likes to keep to himself.”

Elliott regarded her incredulously. “Don't tell me you brought him here as well.”

“I didn't actually intend to bring him—he slipped into one of my cases when I was packing. By the time I discovered him, we were already at sea. He hasn't been any trouble, though. As long as he's well fed and has a warm place to curl up, he's perfectly content.”

“I'm delighted to hear that,” Elliott managed, eyeing the snake warily.

“There now, Rupert, you stay in here with Harriet and behave yourself,” Camelia instructed, laying the bulbous-eyed snake on one of the faded velvet dining room chairs. “I'll be back in a little while to give you some lunch.” She closed the dining room doors behind her, then led Elliott upstairs to the drawing room.

“I'm worried about you, Camelia,” Elliott began as she seated herself on the sofa. “You simply cannot go on like this much longer.”

“Like what?”

“Living here in this house alone, with that wild menagerie of yours. People are talking about you. The things they are saying are not acceptable to me.”

“First of all, I don't live here alone. I live with Zareb.”

“Which is a problem. As an unmarried woman you shouldn't be living here with a man, even if he is just your servant. It isn't seemly.”

Camelia refrained from pointing out yet again that Zareb was not her servant.

“Seemly or not, that is my living situation. You know Zareb has been taking care of me since I was a little girl, Elliott, so I'm surprised that you would think that there is anything inappropriate about the fact that he still lives with me after all these years. Nothing has changed.”

“Your father died, which changes everything,” Elliott insisted. “I know it's difficult for you to understand, Camelia. You've spent most of your life following your father around on his excavations, living in tents amidst dozens of natives, without a proper governess or chaperone to watch over you. And while your father was willing to indulge your desire to be with him and let you live such an inappropriate life for a young girl, now that he is gone you really need to think about your reputation.”

“The only reputation that interests me is my achievement as an archaeologist. If people must talk about me, then they should focus their attention on my work, not whom I live with or what animals I brought with me from Africa. I really can't understand why those things should be of any interest to them.”

“What people should do and what they actually do are two entirely different things. Whether you like it or not, your reputation as an unmarried woman also affects your reputation as an archaeologist. You came here to try to raise more funds for your expedition—but have you succeeded?”

“I have been somewhat successful. I'm not finished yet.”

She did not want Elliott to know the enormous difficulty she was having raising the money she needed to continue her work. From the moment her father died, Elliott had tried to convince Camelia that she should just give up on the site and sell it. Elliott had worked the site for fifteen years alongside her father. Although his love of Africa and his loyalty to Lord Stamford had kept him there over the years, he had gradually become convinced that there was little of value there. Elliott's deep fondness for Camelia made him protective of her, and Camelia knew he did not want to see her use up what little money her father had left her, and devote what could be many years of her life, only to fail as her father had.

“How much money have you managed to raise?” he asked.

“Enough to keep us going for a while,” she replied vaguely. Of course it wouldn't keep them going much longer if Camelia had to pay her workers more to keep them from deserting her, but Elliott didn't need to know that. “I expect to secure more shortly. I plan to approach the members of the British Archaeological Society at their ball this week to tell them about the excavation. I'm sure once they hear about the extraordinary new cave paintings we found last October, they will be very anxious to give their support.”

“Cave paintings can't be moved to a British museum,” Elliott pointed out. “The society members are more interested in supporting ventures that will give them a handsome return on their investment, which means finding objects that can actually be removed and sold to a collection.”

“Which I'm certain we will find, once we get the site cleared of water and continue digging.”

“Have you managed to find a pump?”

“I will.”

“Have you heard anything from Trafford?”

“I had a letter from him this morning. They are still trying to take the water out by hand.”

“Is that all he reported?”

“Unfortunately, a wall collapsed and one of the workers was killed—a lovely, hardworking young man named Moswen. Four others were injured.”

Elliott ruefully shook his head. “Now the rest of the workers will be even more convinced that the site is cursed.”

“Which you and I both know is nonsense. There's no such thing as a curse.”

“It doesn't matter what you and I believe, Camelia—what matters is what the natives think. If you can't get anyone to work the site, the land is virtually worthless.” He regarded her soberly. “You should seriously consider the De Beers Company's offer to buy it, Camelia. They have made you a very reasonable offer, considering the land has not proven to be of any value.”

“I believe the land is of extraordinary value, Elliott.”

“In twenty years your father never came across a single diamond.”

“My father wasn't looking for diamonds.”

“I'm just pointing out that given your current financial situation, you are fortunate that the De Beers Company is interested in acquiring it simply because they want to expand their holdings around Kimberley.”

“I've told you, Elliott, I will never sell the land to De Beers so they can eventually destroy it in their search for diamonds—whether they plan to do so next year or fifty years from now. That land is a precious window into the past, and it needs to be protected. Which is why I have to get back to it as quickly as possible. When I'm there, the workers are not so afraid. I suppose male pride makes them think if a white woman is willing to work the site, then they should be at least as brave.”

“Pride has nothing to do with it. I know you hate to hear this, Camelia, but the Kaffirs see you as a source of money, nothing more. Once that money is gone, they will abandon the site and you will be left with nothing.”

“Then I will dig the site by myself,” Camelia insisted. “For as many years as it takes.”

“You are as stubborn as you are proud. Just like your father.”

“You're right. I am.”

He sighed. “Very well, Camelia. Have it your way. As I also had planned to attend the Archaeological Society ball, I will escort you.”

“That's very kind of you, Elliott, but it really isn't necessary. Zareb will drive me.”

“Zareb will only cause people to talk,” Elliott argued. “Everywhere he goes people are drawn to your carriage because of the ridiculous sight he makes, wearing those outlandish African robes of his. You shouldn't permit it, Camelia—you must instruct him to wear something more appropriate to a servant, at least for the time he is here.”

“English clothes are meant for the English.”

Camelia and Elliott turned to see Zareb standing at the doorway. His expression was composed, but the taut line of his mouth told Camelia that he had not missed Elliott's reference to him as a servant.

“I do not make the mistake of thinking that being in England makes me one of them,” Zareb continued, “any more than being in Africa makes an African out of you, your lordship.” He set the tray he was carrying down on the table in front of the sofa. “Your tea, Tisha.”

“Thank you, Zareb.” Camelia doubted Elliott understood that Zareb had just insulted him. Elliott would never think any white man would want to be like an African.

Oscar leapt onto the table and snatched a ginger biscuit from a plate, knocking a pitcher of milk onto the floor in the process.

“Oh, Oscar,” sighed Camelia, scooping the monkey up and drying his milky paws with a linen napkin, “must you always get into everything?”

Content to be in her arms, Oscar began to ravenously eat his biscuit.

“I must be going, anyway, Camelia,” Elliott informed her. “I hope you will reconsider my offer to take you to the ball.”

“Thank you, Elliott, but I really would prefer to go in my own carriage,” Camelia assured him. “I know you enjoy those kinds of affairs, but I find them tiresome. I would hate to think that I was forcing you to leave early on account of me. I'm sure you are eager to talk to the members about your new importing business here.”

A hint of frustration shadowed his elegantly chiseled face. However much he would have liked to further argue the issue with her, Camelia knew he would not do so in front of Zareb. Despite all the years he had spent in South Africa, Elliott still held the rules of British society in the highest esteem.

One did not argue in front of servants. Ever.

“Very well. I will see you there.”

He bent forward to kiss Camelia's hand, but the fact that it was still ink-stained and now damp with milk from Oscar's furry paws made him reconsider. Instead he opted for a small, formal bow, then followed Zareb downstairs to the front door.

Heat radiated from the heavy brass door handle as Zareb laid his hand upon it. It warmed his palm and seeped into the stiffness of his fingers, which had been aching since he had arrived in the wretched dampness of England. Something was about to happen, he realized. Something powerful.

Slowly, he opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Zareb,” drawled Simon. “I'm here to see Lady Camelia.”

Zareb regarded him calmly, assessing the anger emanating from him. It was powerful, but not intense enough to have caused the warming of his hand. No, the energy radiating from the disheveled white man standing before him was not attributable to his barely contained fury. There was another force embracing this peculiar looking inventor, whose tongue suggested a gentleman, yet whose attire and mannerisms betrayed a casual contempt for the trappings of his kind.

“Certainly, sir,” Zareb said, opening the door wider. “Please enter.”

Simon marched into the front vestibule.

Elliott took one look at his rumpled jacket, wrinkled shirt and trousers and assumed he was some sort of deliveryman. “Forgive me,” he began in a polite but unmistakably patronizing tone, “but deliveries are not normally made to the front door.”

Simon regarded him with curiosity. The man before him was exceptionally handsome and impeccably dressed, two attributes which for some strange reason only served to irritate him. “I'll keep that in mind the next time I'm arranging for a delivery.”

Elliott frowned. “It seems I have made an error. My apologies. I am Lord Elliott Wickham,” he said, attempting to mitigate his insult. “And you, sir, are . . . ?”

“Simon Kent.”

A flicker of surprise lit Elliott's gaze. “The inventor?”

At that moment Oscar bounded into the hallway, shrieked with pleasure, and scurried up Simon, planting his bony little rump firmly on his head.

Simon scowled.

“Mr. Kent!” Camelia regarded Simon in surprise as she descended the stairs. His expression was taut, which she supposed was understandable given that Oscar was now rooting through his red hair, happily looking for bugs. “I didn't expect to see you quite so soon.”

Simon stared at her, momentarily unable to respond. She was wearing a simple day gown of pale green silk, which served to accentuate the extraordinary sage shade of her eyes. The gown clung to the curves of her breasts and hips like rainwater pouring across the supple bend of a fern, and a delicate frill of ivory lace trimmed the tantalizingly low scoop of her neckline. She wore no bustle, suggesting that she did not enjoy enduring the mandatory discomfort of feminine attire when she was not out in public, and her honey-streaked hair was only loosely arranged on her head, giving her a charmingly soft and disarrayed look. The scent of her flooded his senses once more, that summery rain-washed fragrance of sweet grass and citrus. Heat shot through him as she met his gaze with those wide, clear green eyes, making him feel aroused and strangely off balance.

What the devil was the matter with him?

“We need to talk, Lady Camelia,” he announced, manfully attempting to regain control of his reeling senses. “Now.”

“About what?” asked Elliott.

“Mr. Kent is an inventor, Elliott,” Camelia explained. “I went to see him yesterday to discuss a business matter.”

Elliott regarded Simon with interest. “Are you planning to sell Lady Camelia a pump?”

Simon gave him a second assessing look, which did little to contest the preliminary conclusions of the first. The man was an exceptionally fine example of the species known as the pampered English gentleman, from the patrician arch of his querying brow to the impossibly glossy sheen of his expensively cobbled chestnut leather boots. Simon felt an immediate and overwhelming dislike for him, which seemed just a bit unfair, given the fact that other than mistaking him for a deliveryman, his lordship had not done much to invite his aversion.

“My apologies, Wickhip, but this matter is between Lady Camelia and me.” Simon shifted his gaze back to Camelia.

“It's Wickham,” Elliott corrected mildly. “And I believe Lady Camelia will tell you that as I am one of her oldest friends, she will not object to your discussing whatever you came here to discuss in front of me.”