Every Whispered Word (4 page)

He was right, Camelia realized. The one steam engine she had managed to lease for her dig right after her father died had suffered countless breakdowns during the few brief days it had actually worked. Then it had mysteriously fallen over and smashed its gears, destroying it completely. The leasing company had demanded that she pay for the ruined machine, then refused to lease any equipment to her again.

Mr. Kent's machine would be useless unless someone with adequate knowledge of such a piece of equipment could be engaged to run it.

“Would you be willing to come to South Africa and train someone to use it? You would only need to stay a week or two,” she hastily assured him. “Just long enough to demonstrate how the machine works and familiarize someone with its maintenance.”

“Someone might be able to master operating it in two weeks, but learning to maintain it and repair it would take weeks or even months beyond that,” Simon pointed out. “I'm afraid I don't have the time or the inclination to sail to Africa to do that—I have far too many other projects demanding my attention at this time.”

“Of course I would offer you more, to compensate you for your time,” Camelia added. “I would increase your stake in the profits to ten percent over five years—surely this would satisfy you for the time I am asking you to invest.”

“Lady Camelia, I'm afraid I do not share your fascination with scrabbling around in the African dirt. I hope you understand.”

Camelia pressed her lips tightly together. What a complete and utter waste. She had spent two weeks poring over his articles in
The Journal of Science and Mechanics
while writing him letter after letter, politely asking him for a visit. In that time she had convinced herself that she would be able to persuade the reputedly odd but brilliant Simon Kent to provide her with the steam pump she so desperately needed. Two precious weeks lost, with absolutely nothing to show for it. Panic flared within her.

Her gaze fell to the greasy sketch on the table before her.

“Of course I understand,” she said calmly. “I hope you will forgive me for entering your home unannounced, Mr. Kent, and I thank you for your time.” She placed her enormous hat on her head. “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, feeling about helplessly at the back of it, “I seem to have lost my pearl hat pin. It must have fallen on the floor—do you see it anywhere?”

Simon scanned the littered floor. “Here are some hairpins,” he said, bending to pick up a half dozen wire fastenings strewn amidst the remaining debris, “but I'm afraid I don't see—”

“Oh, here it is! It was just caught in the top of my hat.” She jabbed the pin into the loose tangle of her hair and moved swiftly toward the stairs leading to the main floor.

“I'll see you out,” Simon offered.

“That won't be necessary,” Camelia assured him airily, mounting the staircase as quickly as her damp, heavy skirts and bustle would permit. She strode across the entranceway and flung open the front door. “I hope I have not caused too much of a disruption to your day, Mr. Kent.”

She gave him her sweetest smile, then turned and proceeded to make her way down the stone steps to the street.

Simon watched as she hurried along the sidewalk toward an elegantly appointed black carriage, her crinkled skirts swishing heavily about her, her pale blond hair falling in a tempest of waves beneath the wilted roses of her ridiculous hat. He wondered why her driver had not waited with her carriage directly outside his door. Perhaps she had instructed him to park a little further down the street so that she might enjoy a brief stroll. Whatever the reason, her stride was quick and determined as she walked, her beaded reticule swinging from her gloved wrist. The mauve and pewter colors of early evening swirled in a dusky veil around her, and as she reached the carriage she turned and waved.

Then she opened the vehicle's door and climbed inside, evidently so anxious to depart that she did not wait for her coachman to climb down and assist her.

Simon closed his door and stood in his front hall a moment. The leaden light had fallen like a caul over the barely furnished area, making it seem unusually oppressive and gloomy. He debated lighting the gas lamp fixture on the wall, then decided against it. He rarely ventured from his laboratory until the middle of the night anyway, and with all the straightening up he still had to do, he would probably be down there until the early hours of the morning. As he headed back down to the kitchen he noticed that his trousers were wet and clinging to him, and his sodden shirt was open nearly to his waist.

Wonderful, he thought dryly. Now on top of being labeled reclusive, absentminded, and profoundly eccentric, he could add being an exhibitionist to his list. Lady Camelia had not seemed to mind his state of undress, he reflected, or if she had, she had been extremely adept at masking her discomfiture. Perhaps her time in the wilds of South Africa had desensitized her to the proprieties of English society. It was doubtful that the native workers she employed labored in the scorching heat in a starched shirt, waistcoat, and jacket.

He lifted his experimental mop from the table and set to cleaning the floor, trying hard not to think about her sage green eyes, and how gloriously soft and warm she had felt in the achingly brief moment he had held her.

         

“Good Lord, madam, whatever do you think you're doing?” demanded the beefy-faced gentleman staring at Camelia from the opposite side of the carriage. “This isn't your carriage!”

“It isn't?” Camelia looked about its wine velvet interior, pretending to be confused. “It certainly looks like my carriage—I recognize the curtains—are you certain you haven't made a mistake and climbed into the wrong one?”

“Quite certain,” the man returned adamantly, “since I've just returned from the country and have been sitting in this very seat for the last three hours. I was just about to disembark when you climbed in.”

She cautiously peered out the carriage window, watching as Simon went back into his house and closed the door.

“Then I must beg your forgiveness, sir,” she apologized, opening the door. “I told my driver to wait for me here, but it appears he must have moved a little further down the avenue. I regret causing you any inconvenience.” She disembarked and fled down the street, tightly clutching her reticule.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she raced along, fearful that at any moment Mr. Kent would discover she had stolen his drawing and chase after her. A heady mixture of triumph and fear kept her breaths shallow and her steps swift. She might not have Mr. Kent's newfangled steam-powered pump, but she had an extremely detailed sketch of it. She would find someone else to build it for her—someone who would share her vision of advancing the field of archaeology. There were other inventors in London—men who were interested in loftier pursuits than trying to use steam power to launder underclothes or wring the last bit of juice out of a lemon.

She came to the end of the street and crossed, then slipped down a narrow alley that ran behind a row of homes, weaving her way back to where she had left Zareb with the carriage. Her African friend had argued vehemently with her when she had insisted that he could not drive her directly to Mr. Kent's home, but ultimately he had relented. They couldn't afford to rouse any attention, and Zareb by his very appearance never failed to draw a fascinated audience wherever he went.

She held her hat with one hand and her reticule safe against her chest with the other, despising the iron grip of her corset and the cumbersome cage of her bustle and petticoats. When she finally got back to Africa, she would take great pleasure in burying them both. Some archaeologist a thousand years hence would no doubt think they were instruments of torture.

“Hello there, duckie.” A heavyset man appeared suddenly in front of her, blocking her path. “Where are we off to in such a hurry?”

Before she could respond, an enormous hand clapped roughly over her mouth, cutting off the enraged protest in her throat.

F
or cryin' out loud, Stanley, will ye hold her steady?” The short, round dumpling of a man in front of Camelia regarded the giant who had grabbed her with exasperation. “I ain't lookin' to get poked in the blinker.”

“She's in a fair pucker, Bert,” Stanley explained apologetically as he tried to restrain Camelia's flailing arms while still muffling her mouth. “I think she's scared.”

“O' course she's scared, ye great lumberin' oaf,” Bert snapped. “An' so she should be,” he quickly added, his dark, woolly eyebrows furrowing into a menacing scowl as he sauntered closer to Camelia. “A fine lady like this ain't accustomed to dealin' with a couple o' dangerous cutthroats like us—are ye, me fancy dove?”

Camelia kicked his shin as hard as she could.

“Gawdamighty!” screeched Bert, hopping about on one leg. “Bloody hell—did ye see that? Kicked me right in the shanks, she did—I'll be lucky if she ain't broken the skin!” He doubled over to gingerly rub his throbbing leg. “Can't ye hold her better than that, Stanley, or do ye need me to do it for ye?”

“Sorry, Bert,” Stanley apologized, valiantly trying to hold Camelia still as her enormous hat fell to the ground. “I can't hold her arms an' gob an' keep her feet steady, too—shall I take my hand off her gob?”

“No, don't take yer hand off her gob, ye bloody clod pate—do ye want her screamin' for half o' London to come runnin'?”

“Maybe she won't scream if we ask her not to.”

“Oh, that's a bang-up idea, that is,” sneered Bert, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Sure, Stanley, let's just free her bone box an' ask her ladyship nice and pretty not to make a cheep.”

Stanley started to take his hand away from Camelia's mouth.

“Stop, ye great big lobcock!” shouted Bert, flapping his arms like an addled chicken. “I didn't mean it!”

“Then why'd ye say it?” asked Stanley, confused.

“I was bein' sarky—ye know, when ye say somethin' ye don't really mean.”

Stanley shook his head, bewildered. “Ye say things ye don't mean? Then how am I supposed to know when ye mean somethin', and when ye don't?”

“Godamercy—I'll tell ye, Stanley, all right?”

“Will ye tell me before, or after ye say somethin' sarky?” persisted Stanley, troubled. “I want to be sure I know when ye're doin' it.”

“For the love o'—I'll tell ye right after, all right? Will that suit ye?”

“It'd be better if ye tell me before,” Stanley reflected. “That way I'd be sure not to do whatever it was ye was tellin' me to do but not really meanin' it.”

“Fine, then, I'll tell ye before—I'll say ‘Stanley, I'm about to say somethin' sarky,' so ye ain't to pay no mind to it—all right?”

Stanley shook his head, thoroughly confused. “If ye don't want me to pay no mind to it, why bother sayin' it at all?”

“Sweet Mary an' Joseph—fine, then!” Bert looked as if his dark little eyes were about to explode from their sockets in frustration. “I won't say nothin' at all, all right? Now if it ain't too much trouble, can we please get on with it?”

“Sure, Bert,” said Stanley amiably. “What do ye want me to do now?”

“Just hold her still so she can't kick me in the gams again,” Bert instructed, glaring at Camelia.

“I can't hold her legs without lettin' go o' somethin' else,” Stanley explained.

“Then put yer leg across hers, so she can't move them.”

“That ain't proper, Bert,” Stanley told him soberly. “Why don't ye just stand a bit aways from her, so she can't reach ye with her foot?”

“Because I want that bag o' hers that she's got on her arm.”

“I'll get it.”

Camelia writhed fiercely against Stanley, fighting to keep her arm pinned tight against her body, but she was no match for her enormous captor. Keeping his calloused hand against her mouth, Stanley used the rest of his massive arm to hold her fast as he pulled her reticule off her wrist and tossed it to Bert.

“Well, well, what 'ave we here?” clucked Bert, opening it. He withdrew the crumpled sketch Camelia had hastily crammed into her bag and examined it. “Aha!” His eyes bulged triumphantly as he looked up from the precious piece of paper. “This wouldn't happen to have somethin' to do with yer precious dig in Africa, now would it, yer ladyship? Did that dicked-in-the-nob inventor friend o' yours give ye this?”

Camelia regarded him serenely, as if she didn't give a whit whether he took that particular piece of paper or not.

“I thought so,” said Bert, shoving the sketch into his pocket. “What else 'ave we got in here?” he muttered, peering down into the reticule. “Ye got any brass?”

“He didn't say nothin' about takin' brass from her, Bert,” Stanley objected.

“He didn't say nothin' about
not
takin' brass from her, neither,” Bert pointed out pragmatically as he fished a small leather purse out of Camelia's reticule and quickly counted the coins inside. “We done a bang-up job, and we're entitled to a share o' the whack—that's just good business.” He shoved the coin purse into his pocket.

“Are we finished then?” Stanley eased his grip upon Camelia slightly, not wanting to hold her any tighter than necessary now that she had stopped struggling.

“Not quite. I've a message for ye, yer ladyship,” Bert drawled, inching his way toward Camelia. “Stay out o' Africa,” he hissed, pulling a pistol out of his coat, “unless ye want to see more o' yer precious workers snuff it. That land ye're on is cursed, as sure as I'm standin' here. Best thing for a fine lady like ye is to stay away from it—or else ye'll find yerself snuffed too—got it?”

“Excuse me,” drawled a heavily slurred voice suddenly from the end of the alley, “can either of you gentlemen tell me the way to the Blind Pig?”

“No!” snapped Bert, glowering at the drunken man staggering down the alley. “Now bugger off, ye bloody soaker!”

“It's a tavern,” the man explained thickly, as if he thought that piece of information might help them give him directions. “With the primest doxies this side of London. One of them's a real rum piece—Magnificent Millie, they call her, and I'm not ashamed to say I've given her my heart—my soul—an' most of my money, too!” He hiccupped loudly.

Bert leveled his pistol at him. “On yer way, jingle brains, or I'll blast a hole in yer arse.”

“Forgive me.” The man lurched unsteadily toward them. “I think I'm goin' to be sick.” He doubled over and braced his hands against his knees.

“For the love o' Christ,” muttered Bert, wincing as the man began to make horrific retching sounds. “Could ye turn yer head, at least?” He lowered his pistol.

“He ain't feelin' well, Bert,” said Stanley, sympathetic. “Maybe he ate some bad bubble an' squeak.”

Seizing upon the distraction, Camelia let out what she hoped was a convincing swooning cry and went limp in Stanley's arms.

“Here now, what's the matter with her?” Bert demanded, alarmed. “What the hell did ye do to her, Stanley?”

“I didn't do nothin',” Stanley said defensively as he awkwardly tried to keep Camelia from collapsing onto the filthy ground. “She must o' got scared an' fainted—I told ye she was scared, Bert! All yer bluster about snuffin' it—ye ain't supposed to talk to ladies like that!”

Doubled over like a rag doll, Camelia jerked the knife sheathed in her boot free while her captors argued over which of them had caused her to swoon. One deep thrust into Stanley's thigh would force the giant to release her. Then she would yank the blade out and hurl it at Bert, causing him to drop his pistol while she raced away.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

An ear-splitting blast pierced the air, then another and another. Balls of fire exploded around them.

“
Help!
” shrieked Bert, tearing down the alley as fast as his stout little legs would carry him. “He's shootin' at us—come on, Stanley—run for yer life!”

“Come on, yer ladyship.” Stanley swung Camelia up and shielded her with his body. “That soaker's gone off his head!”

“Put me down!” All thoughts of stabbing poor Stanley were eclipsed by the realization that the giant was now apparently trying to save her.

“Release her!” Simon commanded, “or we'll blow you into bits so small, the rats will be licking you up for a week!” He hurled several more firecrackers at their fleeing forms, which exploded in a deafening blaze of red, green, and orange light.

“Godamighty, it's a bloody army!” yelped Stanley, cradling Camelia tightly against him as he lumbered along, oblivious of the fact that she was now holding a knife.

“For Christ's sake, Stanley, toss her down!” shouted Bert, who was wheezing and gasping for breath. “It's her they want, not us!”

“They are trying to save me, Stanley,” Camelia explained, struggling against his massive chest. “Just put me down.”

Stanley frowned, worried. “Ye sure ye'll be all right, yer ladyship? Ye ain't feelin' faint no more?”

“I'll be fine,” she assured him.

“All right, then.” He planted her roughly on her feet, holding her steady until he was certain she was able to stand on her own.

Another series of explosions blasted through the alley.

“Come on, Stanley, for the love o' Christ,
run
!” yelled Bert.

Stanley obligingly loped down the alley to join his terrified cohort.

“After them, men!” bellowed Simon dramatically as he reached Camelia. “Don't let them get away!” He continued to hurl lit firecrackers in Stanley and Bert's direction until their terrified forms reached the end of the alley and disappeared. Finally he turned to Camelia.

“Mr. Kent,” she gasped, astonished. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Simon stared down at her, swiftly taking in the dark smudges on her face, the wild tangle of her hatless hair, the tear in the shoulder of her gown, fighting to control the fury coursing through him. When he had first ventured down the alley and seen that enormous ox holding Camelia captive while that puffed up piece of filth threatened her, he had been consumed by a rage unlike any he had ever known. Fortunately, his customary logic had kept him from racing in like an idiot. He was alone, he had no weapon, and he did not flatter himself by imagining that he would be able to single-handedly take on a giant like Stanley—especially with little Bert waving a pistol in his direction.

Then he remembered the firecrackers stored in the coat he had put on before leaving his home.

“It suddenly occurred to me, Lady Camelia, that the carriage you had climbed into bore the crest of Lord Hibbert, who happens to be one of my neighbors. I was somewhat perplexed by this, especially when I looked outside again and found the carriage was still there, apparently waiting to drive Lady Hibbert to visit one of her friends. Lord Hibbert told me that you had mistakenly climbed into his carriage and then bolted down the street. My curiosity was sufficiently aroused that I decided to go looking for you—just to find out if you ever did manage to find your own carriage.” He arched a sardonic brow.

“Thank you for your concern—although I can assure you I would have been able to deal with those two thieves.” Camelia raised the hem of her skirts and slipped her dagger back into her boot.

“Do you customarily go about with a blade in your boot?”

“London can be dangerous,” she remarked. “That is one of the reasons why my father came to dislike it so—there are thieves everywhere.”

“Those men didn't strike me as common thieves.”

“Of course they were,” Camelia insisted. Not knowing how much Simon had overheard, she decided it was best to downplay the incident. “All they wanted was my reticule and—sweet saints—they took my reticule!”

“Is that where you put the drawing you stole from me?” His expression was impassive.

“I was only borrowing it. I didn't think you would mind, since you weren't using it anyway. I had every intention of bringing it back to you.”

“After you had given it to someone else to copy and use as the basis for your steam pump? I believe the law would rule that removing my drawings from my home without my consent is stealing, Lady Camelia, however you may wish to paint it otherwise.”

“But you said you weren't interested in protecting your inventions and ideas—you told me science and technology would never advance if scientists hoarded their discoveries,” Camelia argued. “And since you didn't have the time to invest in that steam pump, I saw no harm in borrowing the sketch from you—just for a little while. But now it's gone—this is terrible!”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don't really need the sketch—that particular steam engine design is engraved in my mind.”