Every Whispered Word Read Free Page A

face, challenging the integrity of her awkwardly arranged hairpins.
    Simon didn’t know what to say to that. He supposed a gentleman might reassure her that the hat was quite fetching on her, but he thought the bloody thing was ludicrous. There was no denying she looked much better without it, especially with her sun-kissed hair loose and curling across her shoulders.
    â€œHere.” He picked her hat up and handed it to her.
    â€œThank you.”
    He turned away, suddenly needing some distance from her. “So tell me, Lady Camelia,” he began, trying to focus on his disaster of a laboratory, “do we actually have an appointment today of which I am unaware?”
    â€œYes, absolutely,” Camelia replied emphatically. “We most certainly do.” She coughed lightly. “In a matter of speaking.”
    Simon frowned. “Meaning what, exactly?”
    â€œMeaning that our appointment was not confirmed, exactly. But it was certainly set, there can be no doubt about that.”
    â€œI see.” He had no idea what she was talking about. “Forgive me if I seem obtuse, but just how, precisely, was this meeting arranged?”
    â€œI wrote you a series of letters asking you for an appointment, but unfortunately, you never replied,” Camelia explained. “In the last letter I took the step of informing you that I would call upon you today at this time. I suppose that was rather forward of me.”
    â€œI believe it actually pales in comparison with marching into a man’s house unannounced and unescorted,” Simon reflected, slapping a sheaf of soggy notes onto the table. “Are your parents aware that you are wandering around London without a chaperone?”
    â€œI have no need for a chaperone, Mr. Kent.”
    â€œForgive me. I did not realize you were married.”
    â€œI’m not. But at twenty-eight I’m well past the age of coming out, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to be constantly arranging for some gossipy elderly matron to follow me about. I have a driver, and that is sufficient.”
    â€œAren’t you concerned for your reputation?”
    â€œNot particularly.”
    â€œAnd why is that?”
    â€œBecause if I lived my life according to the dictums of London society, I would never get anything done.”
    â€œI see.” He tossed a wooden pole with a metal attachment onto the table.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked Camelia, regarding it curiously.
    â€œIt’s a new type of mop I’m working on,” he said dismissively, bending to retrieve something else.
    She moved closer to examine the odd device. “How does it work?”
    Simon regarded her uncertainly, not quite believing that she was actually interested in it. Few women had ever ventured into his laboratory. Of those that had, only the women in his family had demonstrated a genuine appreciation of his often outlandish ideas. Yet something about Lady Camelia’s expression as she stood there tempered his initial impulse to simply brush off her question. Her sage green eyes were wide and contemplative, as if the odd tool before her were a mystery that she genuinely wanted to solve.
    â€œI’ve attached a large clamp on the end of a mop-stick, which is operated by this lever,” he began, picking it up to show it to her. “The lever pulls this rod, which tightens this spring, causing the clamp to close tightly. The idea is that you wring out the string end of the mop without ever touching it, or even having to bend over.”
    â€œThat’s very clever.”
    â€œIt needs work,” he said, shrugging. “I’m having trouble getting the tension on the spring right, so that it squeezes out the mop sufficiently without snapping the lever.” He placed it back on the table.
    â€œAnd what is this?” Camelia indicated the metal box she was holding.
    â€œA lemon squeezer.”
    She regarded it curiously.