Every Whispered Word by Karyn Monk Read Free Book Online Page B

alley.”
    â€œReally? Have you ever done anything like that before?”
    â€œI have hunted and helped to butcher large game countless times. I’m quite sure I could slash the muscles of a man’s thigh without any trouble.”
    â€œThank you for the warning.” He extended his arm to her.
    â€œForgive me, Mr. Kent, but are you not concerned about being seen in your relative state of undress? You seem to have forgotten your hat and tie, and your shirt is unfastened.”
    â€œI left my house rather quickly.” Simon was amused by her sudden sense of propriety. “I’m afraid I often leave my house inappropriately dressed—it is one of the consequences of being almost constantly preoccupied. Does my lack of a hat bother you?”
    Camelia watched as he slowly closed his rumpled shirt over the chiseled curves of his chest. “Not at all,” she returned, meeting his gaze evenly. “I’m well accustomed to seeing men without their hats.”
    â€œGood. Then you won’t object if I take you back to your carriage?” His shirt now properly fastened up to his neck, he offered his arm once more.
    She sighed. “If it makes you feel better, I will indulge you, Mr. Kent.” She laid her hand lightly upon the thin fabric of his coat sleeve. His arm was surprisingly hard, and heat permeated the cotton of her glove, making her palm tingle.
    They walked along in companionable silence, trading the charcoal dankness of the alley for the smoky gray light of the streets. Men and women in elegant evening attire were strolling and passing by in carriages, making their way to parties and suppers and the theatre. Camelia knew she and Simon made an odd pair as they walked along, she in her pitifully crushed day gown with her tangled hair and drooping hat, and Simon in his damp trousers and rumpled coat. People cast them disapproving glances, evidently thinking they had no right to be walking amidst their betters, or worse, assuming they meant some mischief like picking pockets. Their censorious stares irritated her. She glanced at Simon, wondering if he was also bothered by the attention they were drawing.
    To her surprise, his expression was almost cheerful as he walked along. Either he didn’t notice the way people were frowning at him, or he was wholly unbothered by it.
    â€œI had forgotten how extremely pleasant an evening stroll can be,” he remarked. “I really must try to get out of my laboratory more.”
    â€œHow did you make those explosions in the alley?” asked Camelia, curious.
    â€œI used some firecrackers that I had made for the amusement of my younger brother and sisters, which I had left in my coat pockets. I was planning to set them off for them the next time I visited.”
    â€œThose huge balls of fire were just firecrackers? They sounded like gunfire.”
    â€œI like to make my firecrackers big and noisy,” Simon told her. “I add metallic salts and a chlorinated powder to intensify the colors and make the explosions burn even brighter. My mother is always complaining that one day I’m going to blow something up, but my brother and sisters think they’re grand.”
    â€œHow many brothers and sisters do you have?”
    â€œThere are nine of us all together, but only three of them are still young enough to be impressed by a big brother who can make explosions. The rest of them remember all the fires I nearly started when I was a lad, when I was trying to discover how much gunpowder it would take to blow the lid off the roasting pan, or see how much light could be generated from an oil lamp stuffed with five wicks instead of just one.”
    â€œAnd did you ever start any fires?”
    â€œA few,” Simon admitted, shrugging. They turned down the street where a half dozen carriages were waiting in front of the British Museum. A small crowd of children and adults was clustered in front of one of them,