The Seduction of Phaeton Black

by Jillian Stone

  Tears streamed, and Phaeton dabbed a handkerchief over her cheeks. “You now have written testimony, my dove.”

  She blinked and turned to Dex. “Need we go further with these proofs, then?”

  His thin-lipped grin appeared hopeful. “Hardly seems necessary to go on with the investigation.” He refolded the papers and stuffed them inside his coat. “Captain Starke names the ship several times, and I am in receipt of a copy of her English registry. No magistrate in the land would not recognize the ship as yours, Miss Jones.”

  Phaeton nodded upward. “Well then, shall we wake the harbor master?” As if in answer, several loud thumps and a shuffling came from above. Phaeton switched off the torch and stuffed it in his coat. “Is there another exit?”

  America nodded. “Forward, past the boiler room.”

  “Dex, you go with Miss Jones. I’ll wait here. Ready yourselves near the main deck, close to the gangplank. I hope to make quite a din.” Swiftly and quietly, they exited the cabin and closed the door. He caught Moore’s eye. “Wait for a commotion, then make your dash down the plank.”

  America shook her head. “We’ll not leave without you.”

  Phaeton turned her around and shoved her in front of Moore. “Do not wait for me. I’ll join up with you at the harbor patrol office.”

  Dex took her arm and pulled. She resisted.

  “I shall hold dear your adorable and worried glare, Miss Jones.” Phaeton eyeballed Moore. “Muzzle and carry her off if necessary. Now go, the both of you.”

  Phaeton waited in the narrow corridor, until he completely lost sight of her. He sensed activity above in the wheelhouse and climbed the spiral of stairs high enough to get a glimpse of several men entering the control room.

  He poked his head higher and still the dullards paid him no heed. Finally, he climbed near to the top of the stairs and leaned back against the curved rail.

  He cleared his throat. “Might any of you bilge rats tell me where the whiskey is located? Devil take it, I can’t seem to find a drop of grog in the captain’s quarters.”

  All three men spun around and stared, openmouthed.

  “And where’s that bloody bottle of rum you blokes sing about?” Phaeton crossed his arms across his chest. “I’ll take a noggin o’ that matey.”

  “Here now, what have we got—?” One of the stunned seaman finally came to his senses, while another found his voice and yelled out the door. “Found one of ’em.”

  Three crewmen lunged at once, and Phaeton slid down the banister. He headed straight for the captain’s cabin and pressed his shoulder to the door.

  He threw the latch, backed up and waited. How he might extricate himself from these scurvy pirates, he had no idea. If caught and captured, which seemed imminent, his only hope rested on Dex and America. They would have to find a way to marshal the harbor patrol—and be quick about it.

  A battery of shouts and scuffles had every man on deck headed for the wheelhouse. Dex nudged America. “That’s our signal.” He pushed her ahead, and they skittered down the plank and slipped behind a stack of dockside barrels. Between casks, she angled a view to the ship. “What will become of him? If they—”

  “No time for worry, Miss.” Dex checked behind them. A full moon lit up the docks like it was twilight. He grabbed her hand and they ran for the deep shadow cover of the looming warehouse.

  Plastered against the brick wall, he exhaled. “We need to make our way to the harbor patrol office.”

  She nodded, licking dry lips. “Somewhere near the gates, I believe. Do you know which way?”

  “Not sure, exactly,” Moore pointed across the street. “When I give the signal, run for the corner shop front.” He waited for a lone carriage to pass by. “Now.” Gingerly, they made their way in the direction of a wire office, where a single lamp lit the window. He tried the door and found it open.

  America stepped inside. The office appeared deserted.

  Dexter ventured ahead. “Hello?”

  “Finally, got you!”

  She sensed Moore stiffen as they both instinctively backed up. A red-eyed clerk with a great shock of orange hair sprang up from behind the counter. The man held a growling tabby cat by the scruff of its neck. The struggling feline swung a paw at the telegraph worker.

  America exhaled. Dex cleared his throat. “Sorry to intrude, but could you direct us to the Harbor Patrol station, please?”

  “There now, out you go.” The wiry man swung open a Dutch door and exited the counter area. He chuffed the neck of the longhaired cat and sneezed. “That’ll be the last of you for the evening, Mr. Chubbs.” He opened the door and tossed the snarling puss out.

  The clerk pulled a cloth square from his pocket and snuffled. “Two blocks south, past the gunwarf. Patrol office is straight across the way from the Harbor Master’s Lodge, just this side of the Victory Gate.” The man gasped for air.

  Dex tipped his hat. “Be sure to take a powder for that wheeze.”

  They made a run for the Harbor gates and found lamps ablaze inside the police station. Dexter’s calling card got them ushered into the sergeant’s office. A rather young man for his station, he listened intently to their story, with few interruptions. America, for her part, took a moment to catch her breath. When the sergeant eyeballed her chest, she took the opportunity to unbutton her coat, show a bit of cleavage.

  She noted that Inspector Moore left out certain significant parts of the story. Namely the fact that a full accounting of the act of piracy had been found, signed by the deceased captain. “You must tell him about Phaeton.”

  “Indeed. Detective Phaeton Black, also of Scotland Yard, may well be in trouble. If he does not meet us here, within the hour, we must assume he is captured.”

  The young officer leaned back into his chair. “Certainly the crew will believe him to be an intruder and bring him here to the police cells?”

  Dear God, was the man a bit thick? America bit her lip. “No. They are pirates, Sergeant–?” She searched her memory for his name.

  “Nathan James.”

  She inhaled a deep breath to calm her racing heart. “Sergeant James. These men stole half of my father’s merchant fleet in order to force a bankruptcy. Yanky Willem is a desperate man. He will stop at nothing to end this investigation. I fear for Mr. Black’s life.”

  “A rather sophisticated plot for pirates, don’t you think, Miss ... Jones, is it?” The man had the gall to plunk his booted feet onto the corner of his desk. “Searching a foreign registered ship without a warrant is a serious breech of maritime law. Might well have to wait for a ruling by the magistrate.”

  The sergeant’s nonchalant demeanor was beyond bearing. All manner of suspicious thoughts ran through her head. She turned to Moore, out of the policeman’s view, and raised a brow.

  Moore blinked a nod. “I’m afraid this incident could quickly escalate into a life and death matter. Might we chance disturbing the Harbor Master at this hour?”

  The sergeant shifted black eyes to the clock on the wall. “Near to midnight, if ye wake him, he’ll not be kindly disposed to your plight.”

  She noted a phone box mounted on the wall, and posed an innocent question. “Oh my, is that a telephone? I have heard so much about them.”

  Feet whisked off the desk, he leaned forward and widened a grin. “Yes, Miss. Installed just last month, connects us to a substation in the basin and across the street to the lodge.”

  She brightened. “The Harbor Master’s lodge?”

  The captain’s grin faded to something icier. “Yes.”

  “Lovely. Shall we call him straight away before he’s off to bed?” She glanced at Dex, whose mouth twitch pleased her to no end.

  The young sergeant’s eyes darted from her to the telephone box. “Well, I suppose ...”

  She batted her eyes enough to make them water. “I don’t believe the Harbor police of Portsmouth would let down a fellow officer of the law. If Mr. Black is injured or killed in the line of duty ...
” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Well, I would hate for anything to reflect poorly on the Harbor Master.”

  The sergeant cranked up the phone and waited. “Yes. Hello. Might I speak with the Harbor Master? If he’s abed—No? Yes, I’ll wait.”

  The sergeant rolled his eyes and grinned. “We’re in luck, he’s—”

  “Captain MacLeod. Yes sir, quite late to be calling, but there appears to be an incident brewing.” After a heated exchange with his boss, there quickly developed a noticeable shift in the sergeant’s demeanor. “Yes sir, she claims to be the daughter—a shipping merchant, named—?” He quirked a brow.

  “Charles Gardiner Jones.”

  The sergeant dutifully repeated after her. “Her name? Jones, as well, sir. Right away, sir.” Incredulous, he held out the telephone’s earpiece. “He wishes to speak with you, Miss.”

  Tentatively, she took the cone-shaped device and held it to her ear.

  “Say hello.”

  “Hello?”

  The sergeant positioned her closer to the box on the wall. “Keep the listening end to your ear and speak here.”

  “Oh yes, I see.” She leaned close to another black metal cone and spoke. “Hello?”

  “Am I speaking with the daughter of Captain Charles Jones?”

  She nodded to the thin, metallic phantom voice. When she heard no response, she remembered to speak into the black metal cone. “Yes, sir. I am America Jones.”

  Openmouthed, she returned the listening end to the sergeant. “He says he’ll be here straight away.” She glanced at the clock. A great unease surged through her body, not unlike the night she had discovered Phaeton laid out prone beneath Qadesh. Just two nights ago, he lay deathly still, as the Nile queen drained the life from his body. He was in no condition to fight off Yanky Willem’s bruisers.

  America took a deep breath and jumped back as an imposing gent hurled the bulk of his frame into the room. He lifted his hat to reveal a wavy head of hair that merged seamlessly into a fuzzy wealth of grey muttonchop sideburns.

  The gleam in his bright blue eyes sparked a memory. His face, a crisscross of seaman’s wrinkles, was lined from years of salty air and sun. The man was older now, but his essence somehow oddly familiar. She inched forward as recognition burst forth. “Alastair MacLeod?”

  “The very same.” The man’s cheeks grew rosy as he took in the sight of her. “Great guns, it is you, lass.” He lifted her into a great bear hug of an embrace and whirled her about the room. Setting her down, he took a longer look at her. “And what a beauty you’ve grown up to be.”

  While she gasped for air, the Harbor Master sized up her companion. “Used to be a scrawny little mulatto child scampering about the ship. Into plenty of mischief, as I recall.”

  “I imagine she was quite the ... scalawag.” Dex stepped forward. “Inspector Moore, Scotland Yard.”

  “So my sergeant tells me.” The large Scot examined both their faces. The sort of examination one sensed whenever being questioned by a law officer of some experience. He watched their eyes, looking for any tell-tale physical twitch that might indicate a falsehood. “By the looks on both yer faces, you’d like me to arrest a few pirates, dockside.”

  America wrung her hands together. “Captain MacLeod, might we go over the details as we make our way down to the ship? Another Yard man on the case, Detective Black, was to have met us here at the station, and I’m afraid he is long overdue. Inspector Moore and I believe he is in grave danger.”

  The hulking Harbor Master eyeballed his second in command. “Show a leg then, Sergeant.”

  The younger man barked an order down the hallway and bobbies came running from every corner of the station to assemble in formation. “Get yourself and every man on duty to the wharf.” MacLeod turned to Dex. “What pier?”

  “Not sure. Just past HMS Storehouses.”

  “That would be Pier 9 in the old basin, sir.” The sergeant turned to leave.

  “Hold on.” The elder man barely had to raise his voice to halt his men. “Surround the ship, stealthy-like, and wait for my arrival.”

  “Yes, sir.” Someone unlocked the armory cabinet and each man took a weapon as they filed out.

  MacLeod turned back to her and Detective Moore. “Have ye any proofs these claims you make are true?”

  America eyeballed Moore’s inside coat pocket. With a reluctant sort of half smile, he removed the stack of letters and unfolded the journal pages. “We found these.”

  MacLeod braced himself against the heavy oak desk and donned a pair of spectacles. “I’ll not be asking ye any questions about how ye came into possession of these documents so don’t go offering any answers.” Peering over the rim of his glasses, he gave them a stern look that softened into something more akin to a wink.

  Dex grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  He read through the first half of the captain’s recounting of the piracy before he refolded the document and returned the pages to Moore. “Keep these safe; I’ll be wanting to study them further. For now, I’ve seen enough.”

  He smiled at her. “Under the special power of the Local Authority Act granted me by the Naval Office, any ship or cargo suspected of being taken by illegal means may be detained by warrant and searched, until such time as sufficient evidence of guilt or innocence may be established.”

  Relief welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Captain MacLeod.”

  “Your father was a fair trader, Miss. I was greatly saddened to hear of his passing last year. Captain Starke, as well. Both men were well thought of in these waters.”

  America swept an errant tear or two away with her hand. “I don’t mean to be rushing you, Captain, but might we?” She nodded street side.

  The hulking man eased himself off the edge of the desk, and limped toward the door. She hadn’t noticed the hitch in his walk until now.

  “Touch of the gout, lass. Might ease a bit as we take to the road.”

  It was all America could do to keep from breaking away and running down the cobbled lane ahead of Detective Moore and Captain MacLeod.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “DAMN YE, BILGE-SUCKING SCURVY DOGS.” Phaeton tightened his midsection against a battery of punches. The sharp, rapid-fire blows did not relent until he wheezed for air and his knees buckled. The men on each side of him tightened their grip. A teeth-chattering blow to his jaw ended in a brief respite into merciful senselessness.

  “Where is she?”

  A trickle of red spittle dripped to the floor. Hundreds of bloody mallets throbbed a drumbeat inside his skull. He lifted his head. “She?”

  The burly seaman drew back his fist. “Seems like he wants more of this.” Poised to strike, the man waited for the order.

  Phaeton tried moving his jaw. A nice pipe of opium would be just the trick right about now. His partially swollen eye failed to blot out the angry man who spoke from the doorway.

  “What are you? A fellow confederate? No, I think not.” Words uttered in a thick accent. The unattractive, probable leader of this motley crew sauntered closer. “Lover, perhaps? Much more likely, I think.”

  So. This was Yanky Willem.

  “If I were you, I’d give Miss Jones up.”

  Eye-to-eye, Phaeton returned the man’s stare. “If I were you, I’d be rather homely.”

  A hard slap across the face roused Phaeton into alertness. “The ladies do like to climb aboard, if you take my meaning, Cap’n.”

  “Not for much longer.” Willem nodded to his men and Phaeton braced for more. Pummeled by a barrage of jabs, he nevertheless managed to rally. At some point, one simply became inured to the pain. He ran his sore tongue over loosened teeth. A swollen lip stung when he licked away blood. After a few shallow breaths, he lifted his chin to face his captor.

  A billow of smoke curled up one side of Willem’s mouth. Pale eyes twinkled as the Dutchman’s skeptical gaze traveled over him. “You were seen dancing with Miss Jones.”

  Phaeton shut his e
yes for one glorious moment. Flickering candlelight whirled about her pretty face as he waltzed her around the room. “That bonny wench?” He shook his head. “A might too rich for this Jack Tar’s pockets.”

  Willem rolled his eyes slowly over the low-vaulted ceiling before settling his gaze on Phaeton. “Do you know what a keel haul is?”

  He muttered a few curse words and lifted his chin. “Surely you don’t need me to explain ...” At Willem’s nod, a swift fist met the side of his torso. Phaeton gasped the answer. “A sailor is tied to a rope that loops beneath the vessel; he’s given the toss overboard and dragged under the ship’s keel to the other side.” He sputtered out a cough and forced a grin. “That what you have in mind for me, Cap’n. Shark bait?”

  “Scraped along the bottom, quick-like, and ye’ll be cut to shreds by barnacles.” Willem pressed forward, crowding his chest. “Pull ye slow, and yer own weight will drag you down. Dead men tell no tales.” Pleased with the idea, the captain’s eyes glowed.

  Phaeton examined the mole alongside the man’s nose. He counted three hairs before shifting his gaze. “A fine old Dutch Navy custom.”

  A flash of suspicion registered on Willem’s face. “Take him above.”

  His hands were bound before they shoved him up the ladder. Phaeton staggered across what felt like a mile of deck to the ship’s bow. Cool air wafted over his cuts and bruises but offered little relief from his injuries. Nothing but shivers and chills.

  “Catch a line under the bowsprit, Mr. Cheever, and tie him up.” Willem’s pale eyes, bright as moonbeams, gleamed in anticipation.

  Phaeton stole periodic glances toward the pier. Any time now the harbor patrol would arrive. What was keeping them? No doubt there were more of Willem’s men still about town. If Dex and America were captured, he was a dead man, and they’d soon be joining him. Phaeton winced at the thought of the lovely Miss Jones at the hands of these filthy pirates.