Every Whispered Word (14 page)

“Actually, I believe she was already cornered.”

“I did tell Mr. Kent he could call upon me at any time,” Camelia swiftly interjected, seeing Elliott's jaw twitch.

Elliott turned and regarded her incredulously. “Calling upon you at your home is one thing, Camelia, but seeking you out at a party to discuss business matters is completely improper.”

“You're probably right,” Simon agreed, carelessly gathering up his wrinkled sketches. “I should go.”

“Why is it improper, Elliott?” demanded Camelia, suddenly annoyed by the way Elliott was interfering.

“First of all, Mr. Kent wasn't invited—”

“Actually, I believe I was—in fact, I'm almost certain of it,” reflected Simon, scratching his head. “I'm afraid I just have trouble keeping track of such things. Not just invitations, you understand, but dates and correspondence in general. Lady Camelia can attest to that.”

“It hardly matters whether he was invited or not, Elliott,” Camelia argued, “since he didn't come here to enjoy the party. He came here to see me about a business matter.”

“But that in itself is inappropriate, Camelia,” returned Elliott. “You should not be discussing business matters at a social function.”

“You know that is the only reason
I
came, Elliott,” Camelia reminded him. “And my understanding is there is nothing wrong with that, given that men delight in discussing business at virtually every social function they attend. Or is the fact that I am a woman the reason you seem to think I don't deserve the same right?”

“That isn't what I said,” Elliott protested, realizing he had roused her anger.

“No, it isn't,” agreed Simon, nodding. “He specifically said
you
should not be discussing business matters,” he told Camelia seriously. “I sure Wickhop here feels other women can do whatever they please—isn't that right, Wickhop?”

“It's Wickham,” Elliott managed, his teeth clenched.

“Since you find it so unseemly for me to be conducting a business discussion here, perhaps the best thing would be for me to leave.” Camelia turned to Simon. “Why don't you come over to my house, Mr. Kent, where we can continue our discussion without the risk of offending anyone?”

“That's an excellent idea,” Simon declared enthusiastically. “I can follow you in my carriage. There, you see, Wickhop? Now we won't be in any danger of offending anyone.”

“You can't be serious, Camelia.” Elliott regarded her as if he thought she had gone mad. “It is practically the middle of the night.”

“That's very kind of you to be concerned, Wickhop, but I'm not tired in the least,” Simon assured him jovially.

“That's not what I meant,” Elliott managed tautly. “Camelia, you should not be entertaining Mr. Kent in your home in the middle of the night.”

“I'm hardly entertaining him, Elliott. We will be discussing business.”

“Even so, it isn't appropriate.”

“I'm sorry, Elliott, but if I spent my life trying to observe these apparently endless British rules of what is appropriate for women and what isn't, I'm quite certain I would never accomplish anything.”

“Then I'll come with you.”

“That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't dream of pulling you away from this ball. You have a marvelous time, and I will speak with you again in a few days to let you know how things are going.”

“Really, Camelia, I insist—”

“And I insist that you stay, Elliott,” Camelia countered emphatically. “Your time would be far better spent here, seeing if you can get anyone interested in investing in your new business venture. Maybe you will even indulge in a dance or two—the music sounds lovely. I'm sure there are lots of young ladies in there who would very much enjoy the opportunity to dance with you.” She gave him her sweetest smile.

Elliott regarded her helplessly. He could hardly force his company upon her.

“Shall we, Lady Camelia?” Simon gallantly offered her his arm.

Feeling as if she had just been granted a reprieve, Camelia laid her hand upon Simon's heavily creased sleeve.

Heat shot through her hand and streaked up her arm, causing her fingers to clench.

“Is everything all right?” asked Simon, frowning.

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps it was not terribly wise for Camelia to be marching out of the ball with him as her escort. After all, he was fairly certain he had not actually been invited. Although he was not in the habit of caring what people thought of either him or his attire, he disliked the idea that Lord Bagley's guests might make disparaging comments about Camelia because of him.

“If you prefer, I can leave on my own,” he suggested, “and meet you out by your carriage.”

“That won't be necessary,” Camelia assured him. She sensed that he was trying to protect her from the curious stares they were certain to attract in the ballroom. The sight of her leaving with the likely uninvited and hopelessly underdressed Simon Kent would undoubtedly set their tongues wagging for days. She smiled brightly at him as she finished, “I came in through the front door, and see no reason why we should not leave by the front door.”

A smile pulled at the corners of Simon's mouth. Camelia certainly wasn't afraid of scandal. In fact, as far as he could tell, she didn't seem to be very much afraid of anything. He found himself idly wondering if she was still carrying that wicked-looking dagger somewhere beneath the copious layers of her stunningly simple evening gown.

“As you wish, Lady Camelia. Good night, Wickhip,” he added, bowing slightly to Elliott. “I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Elliott watched in pained frustration as Camelia made her way back down the ivory path on the arm of her ridiculously disheveled, addlepated inventor.

He was a patient man, he reminded himself forcefully.

When the rewards were so exquisite, patience was essential.

S
omething was wrong.

It was a curse, sometimes, to have the power to sense things when others had no inkling of the forces churning around them. It was a burden he bore with stoic resignation, as his mother had before him, and her mother had before that.

For generations it had been assumed that the power was particular to the women of her line; for as far back as any of them could remember, only women had been given what his mother had quietly assured him was a gift. But on the day she had finally recognized that the power did not dwell within any of his thirteen sisters, but burned only within Zareb, he had sensed her heart was torn. A woman was accustomed to pain and disappointment and joy, she had told him, and therefore women could more easily bear the heavy weight of feeling these things before they actually happened. To endure it, he would have to be stronger than the most powerful lion, and wiser than the most ancient shaman. He had been a young boy at the time, proudly descended from the mighty Waitimu, one of the greatest warriors the tribe had ever known. Youthful arrogance had left him no doubt that he would have ample strength and wisdom to easily carry his gift.

He had been mistaken.

“I will open the house and light the lamps for you, Tisha,” he said to Camelia as he quickly disembarked from the driver's seat of the carriage.

“Don't be absurd, Zareb, we can all go up to the house together,” Camelia protested. “I don't mind if the house is dark.”

“Mr. Kent is our guest, and he should not enter a black house.” Zareb tried to make it sound as if he were only trying to observe some British code of conduct. “It will only take a moment.”

“Which is exactly why it is silly for the two of us to sit waiting in our carriages, when we could be going in together,” argued Camelia. “I'm quite sure Mr. Kent isn't afraid of the dark.”

“I'll be fine as long as your snake keeps his distance,” Simon quipped, appearing beside Zareb. “I don't particularly warm to the idea of him dropping suddenly on my head.” He went to open Camelia's carriage door.

Zareb placed his weathered hand on Simon's arm, stopping him.

Simon frowned. “Is something wrong, Zareb?”

Heat flooded Zareb's hand where it touched the white inventor's sleeve. He held his hand steady a moment, wanting to be sure.

Perhaps his senses were wrong, he mused, confused by the warmth now pulsing through him. The white inventor regarded him quizzically, his blue eyes wide, not angered by the fact that Zareb had taken such a liberty with him, as Lord Wickham would have been. It was good, Zareb decided, trying to temper the unease that had gripped him moments earlier. There was darkness, but there was also light.

He hoped that light was strong enough to counter whatever was coming.

“I will do it,” he said with quiet dignity, reaching for the door handle of the carriage. And then, perhaps because he wanted to make it clear to the white inventor that Camelia was his alone to guard, he solemnly added, “It is my duty.”

He opened the door and held out his hand to Camelia, supporting her as she stepped out of the vehicle. He held fast to her hand a moment longer than necessary, his long, coffee-colored fingers closed protectively around her small, gloved palm.

“Is everything all right, Zareb?” Camelia regarded him curiously.

“It is nothing,” he assured her, hoping that might be true. “Come.”

He wanted to keep holding her hand as they walked to the house, as he had when she was a child, but he understood that this was no longer acceptable. Reluctantly, he let go of her. He thought she might reach for the white inventor's arm, but she did not.

Somehow, that made him feel a little better.

“That's strange,” murmured Camelia as they mounted the steps to the front door. “The door is ajar.”

Zareb moved in front of her, blocking her from stepping closer to the door. “Wait.”

He swiftly scanned the windows at the front of the house, searching for any signs of light or movement behind the drawn curtains. He saw nothing. But the door was open a finger's length.

Zareb knew he had locked it.

“There's no evidence that anyone forced their way in,” mused Simon, examining the edge of the door and its frame. “Is it possible you just didn't close it securely, and the wind blew it open?”

“The door was locked,” Zareb said quietly. “And there is no wind.”

Fear tightened Camelia's chest. Oscar, Rupert, and Harriet had been left in the house alone. She ducked around Zareb and raced inside.

“Wait, Tisha!” called Zareb, rushing after her. “You do not know what lies ahead!”

“Oscar!” Camelia stumbled through the darkness of the entrance hall, trying to see through the shadows. “Oscar, where are you?”

“Wait a moment, Tisha,” urged Zareb, fumbling with a match. “Do not go anywhere until I have made some light.” His voice was uncharacteristically firm. It was the same voice he had sometimes used on her when she was a little girl, when she would do something impulsive and dangerous.

Camelia waited anxiously as Zareb coaxed a flame from the match. A thin veil of orange light spit across the room, then grew stronger as he transferred the flame to a lamp and turned up the wick.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. Slowly, she walked into her father's study.

Her father's desk and chairs had been overturned, and their worn leather upholstery had been viciously slashed, causing reams of dry, dusty gray horsehair stuffing to spill forth onto the faded carpet. The bookcase and a small side table had also been heaved over, then attacked with an axe, until the pieces had been reduced to firewood. Every one of her father's precious oil paintings, rare sketches of ancient buildings, and antique maps had been torn down from the walls and ripped from its frame. Irreplaceable artifacts, masks, and statues gathered from his many journeys lay smashed upon the floor. And his beloved books, which Camelia had kept in stacks around the room just as he had left them on his last visit to London, had been torn to pieces and strewn everywhere.

She stood there a moment, staring at the destruction, overwhelmed with a sudden, suffocating despair.

And then she turned abruptly and went into the darkness of the dining room.

Zareb quickly followed, carrying the lamp. Coppery light splashed across the broken dining room table and chairs, and illuminated the overturned buffet. A white and blue sea of smashed china plates, cups, and crystal glasses littered the carpet. Camelia's eyes fell upon the flurry of gray feathers scattered around the room.

“Harriet!” Her voice was edged with panic. “Rupert! Where are you!”

“I don't think they are down here.” Simon fought to control the rage boiling within him as he surveyed the ravaged rooms. He held out his hand to Camelia. “Come, Camelia,” he said, his voice gentle and markedly calm. “We will probably find them upstairs.”

Numbly, she nodded and took his hand. His strong fingers closed around hers, warm and firm and reassuring.

“Of course we will,” she said, trying to slow the violent pounding of her heart. “They were scared and have probably gone upstairs to hide.”

She turned her back on the demolished dining room and followed Zareb up the staircase, still holding fast to Simon's hand.

“Come out, Oscar,” called Zareb. “All is well, little one.”

“I'm home, Oscar,” Camelia added tautly. “You have nothing to fear now.”

Dread swelled in Simon's chest as they slowly mounted the stairs. There was no sound coming from the floors above, where the drawing room and bedchambers were located, but the light from Zareb's lamp revealed that these levels had not fared any better than the ground floor. Whoever had done this had been thorough. They had known that Camelia was out for the evening and they had taken their time, going room by room, smashing and slashing and destroying. Simon wondered if they had found whatever it was they were looking for.

In that moment, all he really gave a damn about was finding Camelia's precious animals.

“Oscar,” called Camelia, fighting to keep her voice steady as she surveyed the ruins of her drawing room. More of Harriet's gray feathers lay spread across the carpet. “Harriet!” Camelia suddenly let go of Simon's hand and raced up the next staircase.

“Wait, Tisha!” Zareb moved as quickly behind her as his voluminous robes would allow. “You mustn't go up without me!”

Ignoring him, Camelia tore down the hallway, then threw open the door to her bedroom. Silent blackness greeted her.

“Oscar?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

A small, dark form shrieked with relief and hurtled toward her, landing hard against her legs. Camelia cried out as she scooped him up and held him tight against her chest.

“Are you all right, Oscar?” She swiftly ran her fingers over his head and arms and legs to see if he was injured. “Are you hurt?”

Oscar chattered happily and nestled against her, his little arms wrapped tightly around her neck.

“We have found Harriet,” said Zareb, appearing in the doorway with Camelia's bird clutching his shoulder. “She has lost many feathers, but otherwise she is unharmed. I don't believe she will enjoy looking at herself in the mirror quite so much until they grow back again.”

Camelia held out her arm, and Harriet instantly abandoned Zareb to fly to her.

“Oh, Harriet, you're still a lovely girl,” Camelia crooned, stroking the bird's soft gray breast. “We'll put all the mirrors away until your feathers are fully restored.” She shifted Harriet onto her shoulder. “Now we just need to find Rupert.”

Simon frowned. “Is it my imagination, or is that pile of clothes moving?”

Camelia glanced at the slowly shifting garments spilling out from her overturned wardrobe.

“Rupert!” she cried happily, bending to unearth him from the mountain of satins and silks. “How clever of you to hide in my clothes!”

Rupert eyed her with his bulbous, glassy stare, then shot his slender tongue out at her.

Camelia picked him up and tenderly kissed his cold, smooth head.

Simon stared at her, transfixed. The deep lines of fear that had been etched in her face moments earlier had vanished, replaced by unmitigated relief. These strange African creatures were everything to her, he reflected, unaccountably moved by the realization. An ugly orange-and-black snake, a mischievous, undisciplined monkey, and an apparently neurotic exotic bird. These animals, and Zareb, were Camelia's only family.

He swallowed, profoundly relieved that whoever had broken into her home and vandalized it had not managed to harm any of her animals.

“Let us leave this place, Tisha,” Zareb suddenly urged, gesturing toward the door. “Now that we have found the animals we must go.”

It was faint, the thread of urgency that colored Zareb's tone. So faint that anyone else might not have noticed it. But Camelia had known and loved Zareb for far too many years to not recognize it. Confused, she turned, sensing there was something he was trying to protect her from.

Her gaze fell upon her bed.

“Bring the lamp closer, Zareb,” she said quietly.

“We should look in the other rooms, Tisha,” Zareb insisted, trying to draw her away from it. “There is nothing here—”

“Bring the lamp,” she repeated, moving slowly toward her bed. And then, because she knew he was only trying to shield her, she softly added, “Please.”

Reluctantly, Zareb moved closer to her, carrying the lamp.

A warm glow fell over the dagger embedded in her pillow.

It was her father's favorite weapon, she realized, a heavy throwing dagger that had been made by a member of the San people, who were also known as Bushmen by whites in South Africa. It was a fine example of exceptional craftsmanship, with its heavy shaft of hammered iron, welded to a deadly sharp blade of painstakingly polished steel. It was not ancient, but it was elegantly crafted and precisely balanced—an impressive piece of weaponry, for anyone who wanted to use it as such. She told herself that whoever had taken it from its hook above the mantle in her father's study and used it to spear the note beneath it to her pillow could not possibly have known that a shaman had gifted the blade with dark powers.

She stared at it, fighting to leash her fear. She did not believe in supernatural curses, she reminded herself firmly. Even so, she felt cold, as if an icy wind had suddenly whipped around her.

“That's a braw-lookin' dirk,” observed Oliver cheerfully from the doorway. “That poor wee cushion didna have a chance.”

Simon sighed. “Lady Camelia, may I present Oliver, who is supposed to be outside waiting for me in my carriage. Oliver, this is Lady Camelia, and this is Zareb.”

“Pleased to meet ye.” Oliver tipped his snowy head at them. “And ye canna blame me for comin' in to see just what in the name o' Saint Columba is goin' on here,” he continued sternly to Simon, “when I see nae but one light movin' through the house like a ghost, after ye've already been in here long enough to set the whole house afire—with lamps, I mean,” he quickly qualified, casting a reassuring glance at Camelia. “I expect ye've heard that the lad burned his house down the other night, but 'twas the first time he let a fire get quite that out of hand—I'd nae want ye to think he makes a habit o' such things. O' course there was that time he near set Miss Amelia's house afire with a smoke bomb,” he reflected, scratching his head, “but that was on purpose. As a lad he was always blastin' the top off o' somethin', or stuffin' too many wicks in a bottle an' settin' them ablaze. He'd tell us he was just tryin' to see if he could fix us a better way of lightin' a room.” He snorted with laughter as he finished bluntly, “We always thought we'd wake one day an' find the house burnin' around our ears!”