Every Whispered Word (9 page)

“Maybe he wasn't just trying to compromise your work. Maybe he actually stole one of your sketches, and then ruined your lab so he would have time to complete a prototype and register a patent for whatever he stole from you.”

“Then I hope he gets the tension right on that mop, or else he's in for a lot of complaints.”

Camelia regarded him in exasperation. “This is not something to joke about.”

“I don't think this was the work of some cake-headed inventor, Camelia. My sense is that this had to do with you.” He regarded her seriously. “What did those men in the alley really want from you yesterday?”

She shrugged dismissively. “I told you, they were probably employed by a rival archaeologist who is trying to scare me away from my site.”

“I know what you told me. Now I'm asking for the truth.”

She met his gaze evenly. He had promised her nothing, she reminded herself. Yet as she stared into the depths of his silvery blue eyes, she sensed a faint shifting from his flat refusal to help her. As he had said, in a matter of hours every one of his projects had been destroyed. His agenda was wiped clean. Perhaps he could be convinced to help her after all.

“I have told you the truth,” she insisted. “There is nothing more.”

She was lying to him, Simon realized. Her brow was set in an earnest line, her sage green eyes shimmering with an enticing mixture of feminine determination, graced with the slightest touch of fragility. It was as if she were struggling to keep him from seeing the fragment of hope she was nurturing within her breast, because her pride and her independence prevented her from letting him see anything that might be perceived as weakness. It was a remarkably genuine performance, which would have easily convinced any other man. But Simon was not just any other man.

Years of fighting to survive as a beggar and a thief had seen to that.

“I have changed my mind, Lady Camelia,” he announced suddenly. “I am going to build a pump for you.”

Camelia regarded him in surprise. She had not expected him to change his mind quite so quickly. “Why?” she asked, wary.

He shrugged. “It will take years for me to rebuild all the inventions I was working on. Now that you have reminded me of the issues I had with that steam engine, I suppose I feel challenged to see if I can solve them. This is as good a time as any to begin.”

“And you'll come with me to Africa, to make sure that it works?”

“Absolutely. I will even see to it that several of your workers are trained sufficiently that they will be able to operate it long after I have left. I am most curious to see this dig of yours, and find out what it is about your excavation that is so important it was worth those men attacking you and threatening you with death.”

His tone was faintly facetious. Camelia had the distinct feeling that he was mocking her.

“I shall arrange for our passage to Cape Town on the next available steamship.”

“That would be a bit premature. I need time to build the machine first.”

“But you can do that in South Africa,” Camelia objected. “Just bring everything you need with you and assemble it there.”

“Unfortunately, it is not quite that simple. I am going to alter my design, which means some things will work and others will not. I need to be in London, where there are numerous reliable manufacturers I can trust to make pieces for me to my specifications. That will take time.”

“How long?”

“I should think I would be able to build a reliable pump within a period of about eight weeks.”

Camelia's expression fell. “That's too long!”

“Those relics you are searching for have presumably been buried in the earth for thousands of years. Surely it won't matter if they stay there another few months.”

“But I have my workers to consider,” Camelia pointed out. “At this time, all they can do is attempt to remove the water with buckets. Regardless of how little they accomplish I have to pay them for their work, and unfortunately, my funds are not limitless. To pay them for two months and have them accomplish virtually nothing will be a significant strain on my finances.”

“Then send a letter instructing them to go home for eight weeks,” Simon suggested. “Tell them to come back once we have arrived with the pump.”

“These men come from tribes that live many miles away—sometimes hundreds of miles,” Camelia told him. “They travel for weeks or even months on foot to find work, and then they agree to stay for an established period of time, after which they are very anxious to go home to their families. They cannot just pack up and go home and then return. Couldn't you manage to build something faster?”

“If I work at it day and night, and my manufacturers are able to keep within my deadlines, perhaps I could build a pump within six weeks.”

She regarded him imploringly. “Do you think if you worked even harder you might be able to do it within four?”

“It's unlikely.”

“But you'll try?”

Simon sighed. “Yes. I'll try.”

“Wonderful! When do we start?”

“I'll be starting tomorrow, by finding another house in which I can set up a new laboratory.”

“Why don't you set it up here?” offered Camelia. “You could have either the dining room or the drawing room—or even both, if you like. We don't use them much—I rarely have visitors, and Zareb and I really prefer to eat downstairs in the kitchen.”

“That's very generous of you, but somehow I don't think you want your neighbors talking about the fact that you have a strange man wandering around your house day and night.”

“I don't trouble myself overmuch about what other people choose to say about me. As it is they all dislike the fact that I'm staying here with my animals, so I can't really see how your presence would make much of a difference.”

Simon didn't know whether he should be insulted by the fact that she equated his presence with that of a monkey, a bird, and a snake, or concerned that she seemed to have so little awareness of how cutting the gossip of London society could be.

“I will be able to make other arrangements for my laboratory,” he assured her. “But thank you. Once I have set myself up in a new space, we will have to meet again. There are a number of things I will need to discuss with you as I work on the pump's design. As you pointed out, the harsh African environment presents some unique challenges.”

“You may call upon me any time, day or night. I am very anxious to assist you in any way I can, so that we can return home as quickly as possible.”

“Excellent. Good day, then, Lady Camelia.” He moved to the drawing room doors, maintaining a safe distance from Rupert, then stopped. “There is just one more thing: We neglected to discuss the issue of my compensation.”

“Of course, forgive me.” Camelia frowned, pretending to think for a moment. “I believe yesterday we discussed five percent of my profits over two years.”

“Actually, I believe by the time you had finished your extremely impressive efforts to recruit me, you had offered me ten percent over five years.”

She regarded him coolly, irritated that he remembered. “Very well.”

“Unfortunately, that was yesterday. Since then my circumstances have changed considerably, and therefore I am compelled to set my price at twenty percent over two years.”

“I can't afford to pay you that much!”

“Actually, you are getting something of a bargain. If you are truly on the cusp of an important discovery, then it will generate a fortune, and twenty percent will be insignificant. But if it turns out the site does not bear the riches you foresee, or if they cannot be successfully removed within two years, then you will have had my services and expertise for nothing, for I do not intend to accept a percentage of a few hundred pounds from you. In the meantime I will be devoting all my time and energy to the creation of the pump, as well as paying for all the necessary labor and materials. I think anyone would agree that the venture is far more of a risk for me than it is for you.”

“He is right, Tisha.” Zareb stood in the doorway, holding a small cloth package. Oscar was perched upon one broad shoulder. “You must agree.”

“Fine, then,” Camelia said tightly. The amount was exorbitant, but she was hardly in a position to bargain. “I accept your terms, Mr. Kent. Shall we commit them to paper?”

“Your word is good enough for me, Lady Camelia. Zareb is our witness.”

“Then it is done.” Zareb smiled.

“I shall call upon you in a few days, Lady Camelia, so we can go over the details of my sketches. Good day.” Simon gave her a small bow.

“Here, Mr. Kent. I wrapped your currant cake so you would be able to take it with you.”

“Thank you, Zareb.” Simon thought the old servant was remarkably thoughtful.

“It is my pleasure. I will see you to the door.”

Camelia watched as Simon followed Zareb and Oscar down the stairs to the front door. Then she scooped up Rupert from the floor and settled back against the sofa with him curled upon her lap.

“Four weeks, Rupert,” she murmured, caressing his little scaly orange head. “That will give me some time to raise some more money to keep paying the workers. Then we can finally go home.”

Rupert stared back at her, silently enjoying her gentle stroking.

“It will go by quickly,” Camelia promised, more to reassure herself than Rupert. “You'll see. In the meantime, why don't we go downstairs and see if we can't find you something to eat?” She draped him around her shoulders and rose from the sofa. Four more weeks of living in London.

It seemed an eternity.

         

“He's leavin',” Bert reported as Simon climbed into his carriage. “Come on, Stanley, we're off.”

Stanley emerged from behind a tree, a fistful of greasy spiced meat and pastry dripping down his hand. “I ain't finished my pie.”

“Godamighty, Stanley, I told ye not to snaffle that pie—do ye want the hen that's made it to cry beef on us?”

“I'm hungry,” Stanley said innocently.

“Ye're always hungry, ye great simkin,” Bert snapped. “Ye just crammed down a plate o' sugar-sops an' mash, an' ye've been lettin' off roarin' cheesers ever since. Can't ye stop stuffin' yer gob for a minute?”

“Sure, Bert.” Stanley regarded him sheepishly. “Do ye want some? It's right prime, it is.”

Bert glowered at the mangled mess of pie in Stanley's enormous hand. He was about to say no, just out of irritation, and make Stanley toss it on the street. After all, how was the poor clod pole ever to learn what's right and what ain't, if Bert didn't show him? Sometimes he was worse than a bloody baby, and that was the sad truth of it. The pie did smell prime enough, though, despite the fact that Stanley had made such a muck of it. Must have been nice and juicy and warm when he first nicked it. Which he never should have done, since Bert had told him plain as a pikestaff to leave it be.

“Give over,” Bert muttered. “One day ye'll get nabbed by the peelers an' where will ye be then?” He shoved the remainder of the crumbling meat and pastry into his mouth.

Stanley regarded him in confusion. “In the coop—right, Bert?”

“Aye, in the coop, for Christ knows how long, an' do ye think they'll serve ye hot sausage pies an' mash when ye're there?”

Stanley frowned, considering. “They might. Lots o' people like them.”

“They ain't servin' what people like in the coop,” Bert told him, rolling his eyes. “'Tis all runny gruel an' sour soup with scarce more than a bone in it, an' bread so dry it breaks yer teeth when ye bite into it. Ye'd starve to death in less than a week, ye would, an' there'd be nothin' I could do to help ye, on account of I'd be starvin' as well—do ye understand?”

Stanley smiled. “Sure, Bert. I understand.”

Bert stared at him in frustration, positive he didn't understand at all. How could he? The poor chub was too weak in the head to mind the ways of the world. Bert didn't know whether he'd been born that way or whether he'd had the sense knocked out of him in a brawl. He supposed it didn't really matter.

Nearly five years they'd been thick, and in that time Bert had done his best to keep Stanley with a roof over his head most nights, and enough food in his belly most days. That wasn't easy, given how much he could eat. Like feeding a bloody horse, it was. The minute Bert had a bit of brass in his pocket, Stanley's belly started groaning. At this rate, they'd be working 'til doomsday and still have nothing to show for it but the rags on their backs and a cold sausage in their hands.

Bitter frustration pulsed through him.

“When I say ye ain't to do somethin', ye must mind me—got it? That means when I tell ye not to nick a pie, ye don't, no matter what yer belly tells ye—right?” He licked his fingers.

“Right, Bert,” Stanley said, anxious to please him. “Ye ain't mad at me, are ye?”

Bert sighed. “No, I ain't mad at ye. I just want ye to mind what I say.”

Stanley nodded. “What are we goin' to do now, Bert? Are we goin' to follow his carriage?”

“Too late for that now, ain't it? All this time I had to waste tellin' ye to mind me, an' now his carriage is bloody gone. We've no way of knowin' what he's about now.”

“Maybe he's gone home,” Stanley suggested.

“Oh, sure, Stanley, that's a rare fine idea, that is. The only problem is, his home's burned to a cinder, so he can't go there now, can he?”

“Not that home,” Stanley clarified. “His da's home. That carriage had a fancy crest on it, which means 'tis his da's carriage, most like. That's where we should go. Unless ye think we should stay here an' watch her ladyship. Whatever ye think is right, Bert. Ye're the one with the brains.”