Every Whispered Word (8 page)

“I doubt that.” Simon's blue eyes were hard and penetrating, making Camelia feel exposed and uneasy. “However, if you insist—”

“Actually, Lord Wickham was just leaving,” Camelia interrupted.

She couldn't imagine why Simon was apparently so angry with her. After all, he already knew she had stolen his sketch. Perhaps she had accidentally destroyed something of great import when she had knocked over all those tables in his laboratory the previous afternoon.

“I'll see you later this week, Elliott,” she said, laying her hand on Elliott's arm and guiding him to the door. “And I'll be sure to let you know of any developments—all right?” She gave him a reassuring smile.

“Very well.” It was clear to her Elliott was reluctant to leave Camelia with Simon, but he knew he couldn't very well force his company upon her. “Mr. Kent.” He politely nodded his head.

“Wicksted.”

“It's Wickham.”

“Of course.” Simon was bemused by his ridiculous desire to needle him. “Forgive me.”

“Good day to you, your lordship.” Zareb ushered Elliott out and closed the door behind him.

“Oscar, come down from there at once,” ordered Camelia, holding her arms out to the monkey.

Oscar smiled and shook his head defiantly at her.

“Is he always quite this friendly?” wondered Simon, reaching up to detach the stubborn monkey from his hair.

“Oscar likes you.” Zareb nodded with approval. “It is good.”

“I'm flattered,” said Simon dryly. He finally managed to free the obstinate little wretch from his stinging scalp and set him firmly on the floor.

“Why don't we go upstairs to the drawing room and have some tea, Mr. Kent?” Camelia suggested.

“It is already prepared,” Zareb added, trying to entice him. “With fresh ginger biscuits. They are quite good, I believe. I made them only this morning.”

Camelia looked at Zareb in surprise, wondering what on earth had suddenly come over him. He had not been nearly so hospitable to poor Elliott, and Zareb had known him for years. Couldn't he sense the hostility radiating from Simon toward her?

Simon hesitated. All night anger had burned within him as he struggled to come to terms with the fact that years of his work had been completely destroyed. But he was also hungry, despite having eaten a substantial breakfast of oatmeal, kippers, sausages, and toast at his parents' London town house.

“Come, Mr. Kent,” urged Zareb, gesturing up to the open doors of the drawing room.

“Very well.” Simon followed Camelia, trying hard not to focus on the softly swaying movement of her hips.

“Please sit down.” Camelia gestured to a threadbare chair as she seated herself upon an equally worn sofa.

“Yes, sit. Have some tea.” Without bothering to ask how he took it, Zareb dumped three heaping spoonfuls of sugar into a cup and added a generous splash of milk, then filled it with tea. “And a biscuit.” He held a plate before Simon.

Simon accepted the tea and glanced at the blackened lumps Zareb was offering to him. “Thank you.” He took one just to be polite.

“Would you like some currant cake?” asked Zareb.

Camelia could not imagine why her old friend was making such an effort to be nice to Simon. He had not extended such a display of hospitality to anyone since they had arrived in London. Perhaps he thought Simon had changed his mind about helping her.

From the angry expression on Mr. Kent's face, she knew he was not there to offer her any assistance.

“Currant cake would be good with tea,” Zareb informed Simon. “I'll get some.” He hurried from the room, his robes rustling in a riot of brilliant color behind him.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“I had not expected to see you again quite so soon,” Camelia began cautiously.

“I had a rather eventful evening after you left. My home burned down.”

Camelia gasped. “Oh, no—was everything destroyed?”

Her surprise seemed genuine, Simon noted. But he couldn't be sure. Some people were capable of extraordinarily skillful performances when they needed to be. Something told him Lady Camelia fell into that category. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“How did the fire start?”

“I was hoping that you might be able to shed some light on that.”

Her brow puckered in confusion. “Surely you don't believe I had anything to do with it.”

He said nothing.

“I can assure you, at no time when I was in your laboratory did I do anything that might have started a fire. I can hardly see how I could have, since you were watching me the entire time.”

“Given the fact that you managed to steal one of my sketches from me, it seems I was not watching you closely enough.”

Anger flared within her. “I did not set your home on fire, Mr. Kent,” Camelia informed him flatly. “What possible reason could I have for doing such a thing?”

“I made it infinitely clear that I could not make a steam pump for you because I had too many other projects demanding my attention. Today, every one of those projects has been burned to rubble, instantly wiping my agenda clean. Does that not strike you as an extraordinary coincidence?”

It was rather strange, she reflected. In South Africa such an occurrence would have been blamed on bad spirits, or the curse that she and her father had supposedly released during their excavation. Or maybe this was part of the dark wind that Zareb had warned her about.

Unease pricked her spine.

She did not believe in curses, she reminded herself firmly. Everything that happened had a logical, scientific explanation. Her father had taught her that from the time she was a little girl, and it was a lesson she had clung to fiercely over the years.

Even when she had desperately wished for a bit of good luck, or the comfort of some loving spirit watching over her.

“What I find extraordinary, Mr. Kent, is that a man of your apparent intelligence would come to such an irrational conclusion,” Camelia began coolly. “When I went to you yesterday, I hoped you would be willing to provide me with a pump. But I also made it clear that I respected your work, even though I was disappointed that you would not temporarily set it aside to help me. As an archaeologist of some standing in the academic community, and as an employer who currently has a number of men dependent upon me for their livelihood, I can assure you that I would never risk my name, or the welfare of those who have come to depend upon me, by engaging in illegal activities. There is much I am willing to do to expedite my excavation. Arson and the destruction of property are not among them.”

She swept regally to her feet, her back ramrod straight, her chin set high. “Now that I have been able to clarify that for you, I'm afraid I must excuse myself, as I have a number of urgent matters to attend to. I trust you can find your way to the door.”

“Whatever you do, don't move,” Simon managed in a low, strained voice.

Confused by the sudden pallor of his face and the alarm in his eyes, Camelia turned.

“Oh, Rupert.” She sighed, plucking the fierce-looking snake off the sofa and setting him down on the carpet. “Why can't you behave yourself and stay in the dining room? I promise I'll feed you shortly.”

Rupert eyed her mournfully with his bulging, lidless eyes and curled into a brilliant orange-and-black coil at her feet.

Simon regarded her in disbelief. He inhaled a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. “Is he yours, too?”

“I don't own him, if that's what you mean. He was injured when I found him last year, and once he got better he seemed to decide he liked living with me.”

“I see.”

Immensely relieved that he was not going to be required to wrestle a three-foot-long snake into submission, Simon set down his cup and biscuit and studied him from a respectful distance.

“I've always been fascinated by snakes.” He tried to make it sound as if the sudden appearance of the terrifying creature had not been anything out of the ordinary. “They have the most amazing strength and fluidity of movement. Is he a coral snake?”

“No—a tiger.”

Simon nodded. “I should have known by the bands. Not so poisonous, then.”

That was a bloody relief. Even so, if his memory served him well, tiger snakes could strike out and land a vicious bite when agitated.

“I spent some time studying snakes as a lad,” he continued. “What made you decide to bring him with you?”

“He decided for me. He made his way into one of my trunks when I was packing. By the time I discovered him, Zareb and I were already at sea.”

“A stowaway, then.” If Simon had found a snake in his trunk, he would have slammed down the lid and bolted from his cabin, satisfied to wear only the clothes on his back for the rest of the voyage. “And Oscar?”

“Oscar could not have endured being left behind without me and Zareb. Since he could not be made to understand when I would be returning, I had little choice but to bring him with me. I also brought my Grey Lourie, Harriet. I expect you think that's rather ridiculous of me.” Her tone was slightly defensive. “Apparently most of London does.”

“Families come in all shapes and sizes, Lady Camelia. Even my own.” He continued to study Rupert, not moving any closer to the serpent, but not retreating from him either.

Camelia said nothing. In her research on Simon she may not have adequately noted his age, but she had managed to glean a few details about his childhood. Apparently he was a Scottish orphan who had been taken in by Haydon and Genevieve Kent, the Marquess and Marchioness of Redmond. While he had obviously fared well for himself, attaining a first-class education and becoming a respected lecturer on a number of subjects, Camelia sensed he had not been unscathed by the life he had led before. For some part of his childhood he had been alone and afraid.

As she knew only too well, those wounds might heal, but the scars remained forever.

“Why did you come here to see me?” she asked quietly. “Did you really think that I was feigning my admiration for all that you have achieved? That I was the kind of person who would selfishly destroy everything you have fought so hard to create to achieve my own ends?”

It sounded appalling when put like that, Simon realized. But while he might have entertained that thought the previous night, deep down he had known it wasn't possible. Whatever Lady Camelia's failings might have been, it was clear to him that she was someone who loved to discover and preserve, not destroy.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

He continued to study Rupert, avoiding her gaze. In truth he didn't really know why he was there. All night long he had been overwhelmed by the grip of fury and despair. He could start again. He understood that. Genevieve and Haydon were, as always, unwavering in their support of him. They had already offered to find him a new house to lease, and Haydon was transferring funds to his bank account that day so he would be able to purchase whatever equipment and supplies he needed to go forward. This was a dreadful setback, but not necessarily an insurmountable one. His sketches and drawings were lost, but the information was still etched relatively clearly in his mind. With a great deal of time and exceptionally hard work, he could regain what had been taken from him.

Why, then, was he wasting time in Camelia's house, letting monkeys riffle through his hair and contemplating the locomotion of a bloody snake?

“I suppose I'm trying to make some sense of why a lifetime of work has just been reduced to twisted metal and ashes,” he reflected. “This was no simple accident, Camelia. Whoever set my laboratory afire intended to destroy it—and my entire house with it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“When I returned I was able to get close enough to look in the kitchen windows. The tables I had righted were overturned once more, and everything was scattered all over the floor. The washing machine I had built had been destroyed, and the engine itself was knocked onto its side. That steam engine must have weighed over five hundred pounds. It could not have been turned over by a few flames.”

“But you must have had explosives in your laboratory, which you used to make your fireworks,” Camelia pointed out. “Perhaps they ignited and caused an explosion, and the force of that turned the engine over.”

“I never keep more than enough to make a few firecrackers, for that very reason. A few accidents in my youth taught me that potassium nitrate is not to be treated carelessly. Even if my entire inventory of gunpowder had been ignited, it would not have been enough to do more than cause a very loud bang and a fantastic amount of smoke. There is also the question of how the house itself burned.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I got home, the bedrooms of the upper story were burning, and so was my laboratory, which as you know was on the lower level. Yet the main floor and the staircase had no flames—only smoke, which must have been coming up from the kitchen stairs.”

“But that makes no sense,” Camelia objected. “How could the bedrooms be in flames if the fire started in the kitchen and had not yet taken the staircase?”

“My thoughts exactly. The only logical answer is that someone ransacked my laboratory and set fire to it, and then decided to ignite the upper level—or perhaps there were two of them, and each one set fire to one floor. They probably realized that between the two floors, the rest of the house would take care of itself.”

“Even if someone did cause the fire in your home, what makes you think it had anything to do with me? It could just as easily have been a jealous inventor who wanted to destroy everything you have achieved.”

“I'm flattered you think my work might have attracted such a dedicated admirer. But as I told you, I have always been fairly free with my ideas, and not terribly organized about my patents. The idea of some demented rival destroying my laboratory so he could gain time for his own work strikes me as rather implausible.”