Every Whispered Word by Karyn Monk Page A

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.”
    â€œHe is right, Tisha.” Zareb stood in the doorway, holding a small cloth package. Oscar was perched upon one broad shoulder. “You must agree.”
    â€œFine, 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?”
    â€œYour word is good enough for me, Lady Camelia. Zareb is our witness.”
    â€œThen it is done.” Zareb smiled.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHere, Mr. Kent. I wrapped your currant cake so you would be able to take it with you.”
    â€œThank you, Zareb.” Simon thought the old servant was remarkably thoughtful.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œFour 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.
    â€œIt 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.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    â€œHe’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.”
    â€œGodamighty, Stanley, I told ye not to snaffle that pie—do ye want the hen that’s made it to cry beef on us?”
    â€œI’m hungry,” Stanley said innocently.
    â€œYe’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?”
    â€œSure, 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.
    â€œGive 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?”
    â€œAye, in the coop, for Christ knows how long, an’ do ye think they’ll serve ye