The buttons on his trousers loosed. “Dangerous play, love.”
Phaeton lifted his head as his cock sprung to life. It couldn’t hurt to ask. “Might the naughty succubus swallow the dragon?”
Her answer came in the form of a pink tongue covered in shimmering scales and a long hiss. Soon, she would genuflect on his chest. With nostrils flared, bearing down hard, the she-devil would squeeze with all her considerable might and crush the air from his lungs, the living soul from his body.
Her scaled tongue lengthened and tickled his earlobe. Clawed fingers wrapped around his brick-hard prick and stroked. Good God, he ached for release.
The vixen’s luscious mouth uttered a deep, throaty sigh and moved lower. “Cocks up, Mr. Black.”
“Mmm, the pleasure is mine.” He reached into thin air.
“Got nothing to do with your pleasure, sir. They’re comin’ fer ye. Shake a leg now and be quick about it. We made Port o’London last night.”
Phaeton’s eyelids flew open. The blurry visage of an old seadog squinted down at him. He jerked awake at the sight of the gray-bearded geezer. “Crew sez they lost their share at cards last evening.”
Phaeton rubbed his eyes.
His tête à tête with a night terror had been a stimulating hallucination—while it had lasted. He blinked again, and brought a wild bristle of chin hairs into focus. “Good God. That you, Mr. Grubb?” He barely recognized the croak in his own voice.
Rummy old Joe Grubb flattened weathered lips into a thin line. “Crew claims ye cheated ’em.”
Despite the blistering hangover, he vaguely remembered a card game as well as a good deal of grog guzzling. “Preposterous.” Lifting his pounding head, he reached down to scratch his crotch. A rat chewed on a trouser button.
Phaeton hurled himself out of his hammock. “Bloody hell.” He caught a swinging length of knotted rope and managed to remain upright. The rodent skittered away into the deeper shadows of the crew’s quarters. Listing to one side, he called after the creature. “Georgiana?”
He ventured a squint about his surroundings. “Where am I?” This was no luxury ocean liner but a rat hole in the bowels of a seagoing vessel. A listen to the chorus of snores indicated a number of men slept in the hammocks strung about the hold. He was in a cargo ship. But not the Topaz. And what had happened to America Jones?
He recalled making port in Shanghai. There had been a screeching argument, as well as a long, pointed weapon tossed at him. On further consideration—he shook his head—he was quite certain that the altercation between him and America had not been the cause of their separation. Again, Phaeton tried to shake the whiskey fog from his brain.
The gruff old seabird poked him in the rib. “Crew sez ye could see through their cards,”—his one good eye circled about—“as if by magic.”
A blast of rotten breath sent Phaeton backward. “Possibly, but—”
Something surly and imposing stepped through the hatch tossing a cutlass back and forth between clenched hands. Good God. The ogre-sized sailor did seem familiar. Phaeton struggled to recall last evening through a cloud of smoke and spirits.
“Now see here—” He straightened up and backed away from the angry seaman. “Let me assure you, I have no peculiar ability at cards—luck of the draw.” A broad swipe of sword took out several hammocks, which fell onto a cold damp floor. Phaeton grimaced. More rudely awakened sailors with pockets lightened by grog and card play.
His heart rate and blood flow elevated to the correct level of alarm. He feigned a left and tilted sideways, barely avoiding the next slash of blade. Phaeton retreated as a number of rousted seadogs fell in behind the hovering thug with the menacing sword. Air buffeted past the end of his nose from yet another swing.
No time to lose.
Using a bit of potent lift, learned from a man full of such unearthly tricks, Phaeton flung himself into the air, banked off the ceiling, and landed atop a sleeping sailor. Arms out to his sides for balance, he grabbed hold of an overhead line and pushed off the grunting chest beneath his boots. He aimed straight for the seamen in pursuit, swinging across the barracks, head down, balls out, he struck the lead man. The rest of the crew toppled over like ninepins.
Phaeton released the rope and landed near the main hatch. He grabbed his hat from a nearby hook and scooped up the loose cutlass sliding across the floorboards.
Joe Grubb broadened a toothless grin. “Cut and run, Mr. Black.”
Phaeton flicked the brim of his bowler. “Pricks to the wind, Chief.”
He bolted down into the cargo hold, removing belaying pins as he ran. A flurry of cargo net enveloped, then whisked him up into the air above the cargo hatch. Several good swings of the blade loosed the web of rope and he dropped onto the wooden deck. Halfway across the gangplank, Phaeton glanced back. Christ.
He teetered precariously at the sight. The whole bloody lot of them were following on behind. He turned and made a dash along a pier stacked with cargo and crowded with dockworkers. Vaulting over large bales of cotton, he squeezed through stacks of tea chests and skirted cartloads of whiskey. A sprint over a footbridge led him away from the chaos of the docks and into the refuge of a covered alley.
He ducked into a dank niche off the lane and waited for his pursuers to pass by. Once the seamen were well ahead, he darted back into the lane and made his way toward the cab stand on Westferry Road. Trotting along behind a loaded drayage cart, he was steps away from the bustling thoroughfare when one of the seamen gave a shout from behind.
Phaeton pivoted toward the surly bloke who came at him hoisting a belaying pin. He drew a pistol from his coat knowing full well the chamber held no bullets. The sailor lunged just as a fast moving carriage passed between them. The brief respite afforded him the opportunity to abandon all sense of propriety. He wrenched open the door of the passing vehicle and tossed himself inside.
From the floor of the carriage, amid a flutter of pretty lace ruffles and petticoats, Phaeton perused shapely legs covered in pale stockings. “My word, things are looking up.”
Chapter Two
TOSSING UP SKIRTS, Phaeton grabbed the cabin door and slammed it shut. He settled into the empty seat opposite two young women. “Good morning, ladies.”
Eyes wide in horror, the distressed damsels’ cries merged into a shriek. Phaeton tilted the pistol up and waved it in front of his lips. “Shhh.” He unbuttoned his jacket. “Perhaps you might like to suck on this.”
When both females recoiled in unison, he studied the attractive pair. “Do you lovely ladies do everything together? I hope so.” He removed two peppermint sticks from a pink and white striped wrapper inside his pocket. “Been saving these.” He leaned forward. “Open.”
Pretty lips slammed shut.
“Open your mouths.” He waved the gun. “Or your legs.” Eyes wide in horror, the women complied. “That’s right, darlings. No sense in disturbing the driver.” He inserted a candy stick in each little bird’s mouth.
Phaeton sat back. “Now, if you would allow me to share the ride, I will gladly pay the full fare into town.”
Whether from shock or the ghastly cold weather, it seemed both women could not quite register exactly what was happening to them. Without much argument, their whimpering appeared to ease as each young lady swirled a candy stick between puckered lips. Phaeton watched the in and out motion with considerable interest. “You can’t imagine what sort of favors a peppermint stick earns for a man in Bora Bora.”
The boney-shouldered female withdrew the confectionary with a sucking slurp. “Most indelicate.” Her lips remained stuck in the pursed position.
Phaeton resisted an eye roll. “You’re quite right. Out of the country for a miserable few months and look what happens?” He placed his revolver on the seat beside him. “I’ve forgotten my manners.”
From a waistcoat pocket he withdrew a calling card and smoothed out a dog-eared corner. “Phaeton Black.” He passed over his credentials. “I was shanghaied i
n Shanghai—of all places. Lost everything, I’m afraid, including my fiancée.”
It occurred to Phaeton he had escaped his captors, quite spontaneously, without a scheme of any kind. Although Captain Bellamy had never directly discussed the reason for his abduction and removal from China, it was a good guess they hadn’t brought him aboard ship for his skills at sitting a yardarm and taking up sail. Someone wanted him back in London. Badly.
Phaeton glanced out the carriage window dockside. London was as gray as ever. Wisps of fog crawled through a cobweb of masts and rigging. He pulled his coat closed and hunkered down in his seat. “What is it they say about the Isle of Dogs?”
In the most provocative fashion possible, the young lady of pleasant expression removed the peppermint from her pouted lips. “Fit for wolves.”
His heavy-lidded gaze moved slowly over watered silks and traces of lace to admire ample curves. He determined this one to be the prettier of the two. And without a doubt, the more promising.
“Violet du Bois.” Her eyes darted sideways. “And, this is my cousin Clara.”
He shifted his attention to the paler relative. “So pleased to make your acquaintance.” His most ingratiating smile had little effect on the stiff woman, who sat upright with her shoulders back and her lips in a sphincter. “Where might we drop you, Mr. Black?”
Phaeton shook off a shiver. “21 Shaftesbury Court.”
He waited for the dainty arch of brows. Mrs. Parker’s house of ill repute was one of the most recognized addresses in all of London; he’d place it somewhere between 10 Downing and 4 Whitehall Place.
“Been at sea for some months now.” He lounged against the upholstered bench seat and stretched his legs. Violet’s gaze turned sultry and shifted up and down his frame. Phaeton wasted no time returning the interest. He tilted his head. “So tell me Violet, are you fun?”
“Fun by whose standard, Mr. Black, mine or yours?”
Phaeton squinted his eyes. “Mine, I think. And I believe I asked the question. Which puts me in the position to judge what is fun and what is not.”
Violet flashed a pretty smirk. “I take your meaning to be risqué, or am I wrong?”
“Very indecent, but also scientific. I picture you and me on a swing, Miss du Bois. Wearing little or nothing, you ride my loins up and down gently assisted by the gravitational forces of nature.” Phaeton grinned. “Science at play, if you take my meaning. ”
“Get out.” This time, the shriek stopped the carriage. The thin, shrill woman had turned an alarming shade of purple. “Get out I say, or I shall have the driver throw you out on the street where you belong.”
He caught a glimpse of Lloyd’s Bank on Waterloo Place. “Just a few more blocks, Clara.”
The woman raised her umbrella.
“Very well.” With a wink to Violet, Phaeton was out the carriage door. He tossed several pieces of silver up to the driver—generous by any standard. As the carriage sped away, his trousers received a splatter of gutter slop. He tipped his hat. “Ladies.”
Just past Drake’s gaming hell, his tread lightened. He was almost home now, if one could call a basement flat beneath a brothel home. He knocked on the door of London’s most talked about bawdy house. A scullery maid opened the door and bid him enter. “You’re a bit early sir; none of the girls is up yet. ”
Phaeton retrieved a coin from his pocket. “Might I ask you to rouse Mrs. Parker?” He held the tuppence between two fingers. “For your bravery.”
The girl set down a pail of murky water, rubbed her hand on a grimy apron, and accepted the copper. “Who may I say is calling, sir?”
“Phaeton Black.”
She bobbed a curtsy and hurried upstairs.
The house was deadly quiet at this irregular hour. Phaeton removed his hat and paced the foyer, poking his head into a parlor filled with gilt-edged furniture and velvet flock-work wallpaper. An appealing young woman descended the staircase and greeted him with a nod. As she ventured closer, the brown-skinned doxy lowered and raised sultry eyes in a brazen inspection of his person.
At the very moment he recognized the saucy chit, she halted midway down the stairs. “Mr. Black?”
He grinned. “Layla?”
She flew down the steps and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Mr. Black, it is you.” She stood on tiptoes and inspected each side of his jaw.
He drew a hand over close-cropped whiskers. “The beard is new.”
“A Van Dyke suits you—though you could use a trim.” Layla’s coffee-colored eyes were the large, limpid type. She glanced into the parlor. “And where is Miss Jones?”
His smile flattened, slightly. “We appear to be estranged for the moment. Rather a long, unflattering story.”
“We’ve missed you so, Mr. Black.” She reached an arm around his neck and pulled him close.
He kissed her softly and the buxom harlot used a swirl of tongue to ease up a bit of arousal. “We, or you, love?” His answer came from the foot of the stairs.
“I’d have to say we, Phaeton.” Mrs. Parker descended the stairs.
He straightened. “Esmeralda.” Shrugging on a soft green wrapper she pulled the ties into a bow. The lovely madam held out her hands, and he reverently kissed one then the other. “My word, you are as lovely as ever.”
She withdrew both hands gently. “Layla, ask cook to make up a tea tray, perhaps some toast and berry preserve. Anything else, Phaeton?”
“I could do with a rasher or two and a boiled egg.” He grinned. “Scraped my way out of a tight spot this morning—beastly chase through the Isle of Dogs.”
“Eggs and bacon it is.” Layla winked and disappeared down the servant’s stairs. Madam rolled open the pocket doors to the dining room. “I mean to hear all about your adventures abroad, Phaeton.”
Over his first cup of tea, he gave a travelogue of Alexandria and Upper Egypt, including the partial excavation of the Sphinx. He shared a few escapades in various ports of India and Burma while shoveling rashers and eggs. By the time he poured his second cup of Earl Grey, the Topaz had dropped anchor in Hangzhou Bay.
“We delivered our cargo and acquired a consignment of dry goods bound for France. Everything went along swimmingly, until our last night in Shanghai. America was feeling a bit under the weather.” Phaeton cleared his throat. “A few shipmates and I went off for a bit of pipe.” He shrugged when Esmeralda frowned. “It was our last night and opium is cheaper than whiskey.” He left out the spat he and America had, which culminated in an aboriginal spear being ripped off the cabin wall. He recalled jumping through the hatch as the weapon’s tip shattered a hole in the door.
Esmeralda sipped her tea. “And so you were shanghaied?”
Phaeton settled back in his chair. “A little joke of mine, used to obfuscate what really happened. A few puffs on the pipe and I woke up in the hold of a strange ship, bound for home.”
She lifted a corner of her mouth. “I take it they didn’t need an extra shipmate?”
He snorted a laugh. “Hardly.”
Twisting his teacup around in its saucer, the soft grating of china against china helped to break the silence. He met her gaze over the table. Soft auburn tresses fell over ample mounds wrapped in silk. Lovely woman. At one time he had lusted after her mightily. But her interest lay elsewhere. “And . . . how is Exeter?”
Her eyes shifted away briefly. “Troubled.”
Phaeton leaned forward. “About?”
“I cannot say.” She sighed. “He does not wish to burden me with his difficulties. Or so he claims. But I am worried for him.” The lovely madam stirred her tea. Abruptly, her lashes raised. Normally her eyes were a clear blue, filled with light and quick to tease. But much like a sudden storm at sea, they clouded over with worry, or worse—fear.
He exhaled. “I believe I was captured and brought back to London for a reason. Exeter no doubt will have some ideas on the matter.” He missed the enigmatic doctor, whose strange inexplicable powers and scientific machinery
had proven invaluable on his last case. “I shall visit him straight away—this evening, if that would ease your mind.”
She brightened. “I would be greatly relieved if you spoke with him, Phaeton. And he will be delighted to see you.”
“I intend to take up sleuthing again. Private assignments. An occasional contract with Scotland Yard.” He might even hang out a shingle. Phaeton Black, Investigator of the Arcane and Unnatural. He thought perhaps the first case he’d solve would be his own.
He slurped a last swallow of tea. “My old flat below stairs, is it by any chance—”
“Occupied, at the moment.”
“Bollocks. That is disappointing.”
“By a number of odd apparitions.” The light had returned to her face. “We have no idea where they came from. They just . . . appeared recently. Nearly gave the old gentleman who rented the flat an apoplexy. Packed his bag and left yesterday.”
Phaeton sat up straight. “Apparitions or entities? There’s a difference.”
“Not sure. They appear to be a family. A father, mother, and three daughters—all quite charming.” Esmeralda rose and moved to exit the room. “Shall we explore?”
Stunned for a moment, Phaeton slumped back in his chair. Good God. The coincidence was too great. He caught up with the madam near the stairs in the foyer. Esmeralda tightened her wrapper for the descent. “And what of Miss Jones? Should we be expecting her, Phaeton?”
He stared into the dark aether below. “I managed to bribe a cabin boy in Marseilles—sent a wire care of every port in France. At the moment, I can only surmise she believes I am dead or have abandoned her.”
He trailed behind Esmeralda. “A family of apparitions . . .” Phaeton ran a hand through his hair. The word family usually implied flesh and blood. Frankly, he preferred demons from the abyss. “Their name wouldn’t be Ryder, by any chance?”
Esmeralda paused on the landing. “You’ve met them?”
Phaeton gazed around the old flat. “In a manner of speaking.” Everything looked disturbingly the same. “Don’t tell me—the old pimp offered his daughter’s services.” Every square foot of these rooms were suffused with memories of America Jones. “I do hope you didn’t take him up on it.”
The Moonstone and Miss Jones Page 2