The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  He kissed her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “We’re down the rabbit hole, love.” He was exasperating at times, but the truth of it was—he was exactly what she needed at this moment. Fearless and comical.

  A great swathe of red swept past them on the street. America jumped back as the double-decker omnibus hurtled down the road at a frightening speed—only there were no horses pulling the transport. Nor were there any carriages or horses about. A number of vehicles sped past, all of them under their own power.

  “Everything is so fast and . . .” America stared at the vehicles going here and about in a blur of motion and color. She swayed slightly and Phaeton held onto her. “It does appear the horseless carriage has caught on here.”

  Suddenly aware of people on the street, she spun around. “Where are the others? Have you seen Valentine or Ruby? Where is Jersey? And Cutter and Tim?”

  “They’re not in the pub; I searched it the moment I arrived.” Phaeton was staring at something. America followed his line of sight. A young woman strode down the sidewalk wearing tall boots and a chemise—nothing more. The flesh of her thighs was exposed, and her hair was down, flowing behind her shoulders—a Greek goddess come alive on the streets of London.

  America’s mouth dropped open. Vaguely aware her eyes were popping out of her head, she checked the other pedestrians on the street. Everywhere she looked women wore trousers, or—nightshirts. Those couldn’t possibly be dresses, could they? Nearly breathless, she made the silliest observance. “Not a single person is wearing a hat.”

  Phaeton turned to her a little dazed. “. . . Hat?”

  Across the street, between blurs of noisy engines, another young lady wore an unbuttoned coat, which flew back revealing what she could only assume was a skirt underneath—and bare legs and spindly high-heeled shoes. “Phaeton, this couldn’t be the fashion—could it?”

  He tore his eyes off the second young woman and smiled. “I do hope so.”

  “Look, there’s St. Paul’s.” America exhaled a sigh at the sight of the cathedral at the end of Fleet Street. The familiar dome was comforting, somehow. And yet, the image niggled her memory—a task set by Tim Noggy.

  “Our first checkpoint is in St. Paul’s Churchyard.” He stepped out to the curb to peer down the block. “Shall we explore?” Phaeton took her arm and they started down the street.

  Suddenly her mind flooded with directives. In the carriage, just before they had turned into the bustle of Fleet Street, Tim had given them all a number of directives. They were to meet up at St. Paul’s and travel en mass to an apartment in Whitehall Court—their reentry point. But could she remember her inkling—the key to her return?

  Phaeton stopped abruptly and pulled her over to a chalkboard on the street.

  “Spihc dna hsif . . . fish and chips.” Phaeton appeared to be wonderfully clever at reading backward,until he read the price. “Nine pounds.”

  She frowned. “That can’t be right.” They continued down Fleet Street, stopping here and there to read jaw-dropping menu prices. As instructed, America had worn a long duster coat. Phaeton had on a sporty hunting jacket, instead of his usual frock coat. The idea, she supposed, was to try to dress to blend into any London they might encounter. And it seemed they attracted stares but nothing they weren’t already used to when out together in public.

  Just past the Old Bailey the small hairs at the back of her neck caused a furtive glance back. At the edge of perception, she caught a smattering of particles. Tiny specks of gray all moving in unison, like a swarm of bees. The small bits swept in and out of the niches in storefronts, passageways between buildings. Even though it was clearly evening in this world, it still appeared to be dusk. The entire city was bathed in a perpetual twilight of electric street lights and vehicle lanterns.

  Phaeton sensed them as well, and picked up the pace. “The Churchyard is just ahead. When we make the turn, get ready to pick up your skirts, my dove.”

  Those horrible clicking and hissing noises started as they turned into the yard near St. Paul’s. The quiet lane featured a tea room and a number of solicitors’ offices. “Run, America.” At the end of the court, they turned down a narrow row and ran toward a busy connecting street. Phaeton came to an abrupt stop waiting for a break in traffic. Out of breath, they both turned back to see a wraith-like creature with a head full of tentacles leap off the side of a building and gallop toward them.

  A black vehicle pulled alongside the curb. A man in a suit climbed out of the back. Immediately another bloke carrying a leather case and wearing a tan coat climbed into the vehicle. He spoke to a man in front. “Eighty-eight Curzon Street.”

  America turned to Phaeton. “A horseless hansom?”

  Phaeton grabbed her hand and they ran down the street. “There’s another up ahead.” As they ran for the cab, the door opened and two hooded beings emerged.

  A moonfaced young man stuck his head out the door. “What are you doing out there? Get in, we haven’t got all day.” Phaeton helped America inside and leapt in behind. As the cab moved out into traffic, America landed on his lap between Valentine and Ruby.

  Almost in unison, they all turned to look out the rear window. She could just make out Jersey and Cutter running down an adjoining alley. They had successfully distracted the Reaper now breathing down their tail.

  From his pull down bench seat, Tim yelled instructions to the driver. “Take us around St. Paul’s and back down Fleet Street.”

  Alarmed, America turned back to Tim. “We aren’t going to leave them here—are we?”

  “They’ve been in tighter spots before. They can get back on their own if they have to. That Reaper will alert others—Jersey and Cutter will likely double back—” The cab rounded the corner at high speed then screeched to a halt. America nearly flew off Phaeton’s lap.

  “I’ve got you, love.” The door swung open and Jersey and Cutter flung themselves onto the floor in a flurry of capes and boots. They were all tossed back into their seats as the cab sped off.

  America dipped her head to look out the front of the vehicle, and then wished she hadn’t. They were traveling at breakneck speed weaving in and out of slower moving traffic. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore her lurching stomach.

  Phaeton consulted his watch. “I’m still on pre–rabbit hole time, but I believe we have an appointment at Whitehall Apartments.”

  “Good recall, mate.” Tim angled his hulking frame so he could yell instructions to the driver. “Did you hear that, Singh?”

  Their driver wore a red turban and presumably carried a curved, jewel-handled blade on his person. It seemed to America that everyone in this vehicle was rather lethal.

  She pressed her nose to the window. Strange. London appeared to be a great deal less muddy, and the sky was—clear. The familiar dark curls of smoke from thousands of chimneys all over town was missing. “What year is here? Are we seeing our own future?”

  Tim Noggy’s eyes darted around the cabin of the cab and finally returned to her. “Two distinctly different—but mirrored—worlds, affected by a survival scenario that involves both realms.” Changing the subject, he nodded out the window. “Trafalgar Square.” He yelled instructions over his shoulder. “Take us round to the embankment and drop us off.”

  The moment the last person stepped out of the vehicle, the cab sped off down Horse Guards Avenue. “Psst!” Tim Noggy motioned them up the block. “We’re heading out this way. Stay under the cloaks while we’re in the park.”

  Jersey Blood led the way down a meandering path through private gardens to the imposing multi-spired residence. The structure was edged by the river on one side and the government offices of Whitehall on the other.

  They all crouched behind a tall clipped hedgerow on the grounds of the Whitehall Apartments. Lights ablaze on the ground floor, muted strains of music and the tinkle of laughter could be heard behind a bank of French doors overlooking the park. Just inside the paned frames, a cluster of champagne guzzlers clin
ked glasses.

  “Rather lively for a stuffy government official’s apartment, wouldn’t you say?” Phaeton commented without taking his eyes off the festivities. “Look, mate. It’s a hotel now.” They all followed Tim’s eyes to the large brass plaque alongside the entrance: Horse Guards Hotel.

  Cutter’s wheels whirred. “You’re sure we’ve got the right place?

  Tim turned to Cutter. “Crank up your clockworks, you see another giant residential complex attached to Whitehall?”

  “Right. All we need is a room key.” Phaeton gave the Nightshades a once-over. “Anyone dressed for a soiree under those cloaks?”

  Jersey snorted. “I say we pick a floor and jump the first person entering or exiting a room.”

  Phaeton nodded. “Good plan.”

  Stealth-like they moved up a grand set of stairs and then spread out. “Tenth floor,” Jersey called out, as he and Valentine disappeared up the servants’ entrance. She and Phaeton started up the main stair with Tim lagging behind.

  “Hold on.” Tim was puffing. He waived them down the hall and pressed a button by a set of gleaming double doors.

  “Lifts?”

  Tim nodded. “A good deal better than the steam elevators back home.” A bell dinged and doors opened. He motioned them inside. “Trust me—you don’t want to miss this.”

  She and Phaeton stepped inside, and Tim pressed the number ten, in a row of buttons next to the sliding doors. He turned to them wearing a grin.

  “How is it that numbers aren’t backward, but letters are?” America asked.

  “The letters aren’t backward anymore—you read Horse Guards Hotel didn’t you?” As the elevator ascended there was a sensation of climbing rapidly. She looked from Tim to Phaeton, who winked.

  “I suppose I did read the hotel plaque.” As the lift slowed, the bell dinged again and there was the oddest, momentary floating sensation. The doors opened onto the tenth floor corridor. Tim swept his hand forward. “Ladies first. The longer you’re over, the easier it gets to read stuff.”

  They met up with the Nightshades in the west wing of the hotel. Cutter slipped the pass key into the lock. “Liberated from an unsuspecting maid, currently confined to a linen closet.” The Nightshades fanned out into the rooms, checking bedchambers, then the armoires in the dressing areas. The suite chosen appeared unoccupied. Quickly, they all collected around a writing desk at one end of the parlor

  Tim pulled out a chair and settled his gaze on America. “Ladies first.”

  She took a seat, and the Nightshades drew closer. “Do you remember your inkling?” Tim asked.

  America nodded.

  “Good. You’ll need a sheet of writing paper from the drawer, and you can use the pen from the desk.”

  Scanning the desktop, her heart beat erratically. “But . . . there’s no inkwell.”

  Tim straightened. “Is that a problem?”

  She frowned. “I suppose I chose inkwell because of inkling.”

  Phaeton raised a brow. “Inkling—inkwell? Not very original, but as I recall we were rather . . . spent, last evening.”

  Tim stared at Phaeton. “What did you choose?”

  “Ink pen.”

  “That’s certainly original.” Tim’s eye roll landed on Valentine.

  She swallowed. “Ink spot.”

  “Uh-huh.” His gaze shifted to Ruby. “Don’t tell me, ink . . . blotter?”

  “Afraid not.” Ruby shook her head. “Ink bottle.”

  Tim hunched over and nodded slowly. “Great.”

  “Actually, I pictured a quill in an ink bottle,” the tall blonde clarified.

  A grin broke out on the chubby-cheeked face. He dug a fountain pen from his pocket and placed it on the notepaper. “I guess you’ll just have to draw one, then.”

  America uncapped the stylus and leaned over the secretary. “Should I draw an ink bottle or an inkwell?”

  Tim shrugged. “Your choice. Just make sure you picture a desk in this same room . . . back home.” He waved the troops in closer. “Ladies and gentlemen—important point. If you can’t find your object, you can always draw it.”

  America tilted her head. “Quite a good likeness.” She took a moment to admire her drawing of a crystal ink bottle sitting in an inkwell. Looking up, she realized she was alone, and the room was dim. So dark in fact, she could hardly see her drawing on the desk. Pushing away, she opened her mouth to call for help—for Phaeton.

  “Don’t.” A quiet voice came from the corner of the room. America was so startled she lurched away from the secretary with enough force to send her chair flying—only someone caught it before it clattered onto the floor.

  “I’m here, America.”

  She whirled around. “Ruby. Did you—?”

  “I came across with you.”

  Gradually, as her pounding heart slowed, the snoring from the bedchamber grew louder. “Where are we?”

  “You are in the Whitehall Apartments—same room. Different time and place.” Gaspar stepped out of the shadows. He laid a finger across his lips. “Slight inconvenience, the room you chose over there is occupied over here.” The Shades’ leader did not approach them but moved to the door. “I’ve rented a room just across the hall where we can debrief.” Gaspar nodded to Ruby. “You stay here—and direct our people across the hall.”

  Gaspar opened the door a crack and waved America over. “Besides, I’d like to have a few words with Miss Jones alone.”

  Ruby frowned. “I think I should stay with America.”

  “The man in the other room is dead drunk, passed out on the counterpane of his bed and still in his tuxedo. Stay quiet and send the others over as they arrive.” Gaspar escorted her across the corridor and closed the door. This room was dark as well, lit only by a single wall sconce. “I am always thirsty when I return from the Outremer.

  America nodded. “I’m parched.”

  Gaspar poured a glass of water and handed it to her.

  She drained the glass. “Thank you.”

  The man had hardly taken his eyes off her since they entered the room. “Would you like another?”

  She used her tongue to moisten her lips. “I’m fine.”

  Gaspar stood close, and suddenly moved closer. “When are you going to tell Phaeton?”

  She tried stepping away, but he caught her by the arm, and placed his other hand on her belly. “When, America?”

  “Take your hands off her.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  PHAETON GRABBED GASPAR BY THE NECK and backed him up against the wall.

  “I was just. Asking. A simple. Question.” With each head bang, the leader of the Shades gasped out another word or two. “That is all.” Gaspar held up his hands in surrender.

  “Phaeton, please don’t choke him,” America said as she ventured closer.

  His grip eased on the man’s throat. “Don’t touch her again.” He released Gaspar and backed away. “Ever.”

  Phaeton took her hand and opened the door. “And no matter what your question, the answer is no.”

  Outside the building, the doorman ushered them toward a waiting hansom. Phaeton helped her up into the cab and jumped in after. He placed both his arms around her and pulled her close. “Now, what was the simple question?”

  America sighed. “I know he is an irritant, especially to you. And I know you believe that Gaspar was being seductive and inappropriate, but I can assure you he was not, exactly.”

  “Exactly?”

  She finally looked at him. “He asked me when I was going to tell you.”

  Phaeton stared at her. “Tell me what?”

  America hesitated. “Perhaps, when you’re acting less belligerent.”

  “I’m not angry, damn it.” His eyes narrowed.

  She met his flinty look. “We might have waited for our bodyguards. The ones who know how to fight off those creatures.”

  Phaeton snorted. “They spend as much time running away from them as fighting them.”

&
nbsp; Her smile cheered him some, even though she continued to evade his question. “You know very well, they were leading those Reapers away from us.”

  Fine. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he could wait. He had come to know all her little quirks and a great deal about her temperament on board the Topaz. She was a very private person in some ways, almost secretive, while he was curious and probing. When they argued, which was rare, he had learned to let her come to him, instead of niggling at her.

  The months they had spent together sailing around the world had been some of the best in his life. Phaeton’s exhale swept gently through the fine hairs at her temple. “The Nightshades are an odd bunch. Jersey Blood with his cigar stubs and Valentine with her ready barbs.”

  “A fallen nun and a half-breed demon.” She snorted softly. “I don’t suppose a pairing can get more opposite. And the other three—Tim, Ruby, and Cutter.”

  “Two Australians and a machine head.” Phaeton yawned. “Cheers, mate.”

  She muffled a laugh against his tweed sporting jacket. “Mmm, I rather like them, though.” The hansom pulled up in front of Mrs. Parker’s, and she lifted her head off his shoulder. “I’m worried about Exeter and Edvar.”

  Phaeton helped her down. “Edvar plainly wants nothing to do with the Outremer, and I can’t say I blame him.” They made their way down into the flat and straight into the bedroom. “Come here, Miss Sleepy Eyes.” Phaeton undressed her and put her to bed. Minutes later he crawled in and spooned up against her. He was half hard just rubbing up against those sweet, plump cheeks. “Would you mind a little midnight love visit from the duke?”

  She turned to him with her eyes closed and raised a brow. “Only if you promise to do naughty things with your fingers between my legs.”

  Snippets of muffled conversation and a great thirst awoke Phaeton in the middle of the night. He opened the door and distinctly heard low-pitched voices. He looked about the room for his trousers. Orange eyes blinked from the top of a tall chest of drawers.