The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  His trousers were folded over the chair back next to the highboy. He pulled them on and buttoned them as he made his way down the hall. The voices turned out to be Jersey and Valentine. Their speech was low and intimate, in much the same way lovers talk in bed.

  “The last time I let you arouse me, I nearly killed you.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Jersey. I aroused you for a reason.”

  “Ah, yes, to exorcise the demons within.”

  “Afraid of me Jersey?” she taunted. “Afraid of how I make you feel?”

  There was a long pause. “Do you remember our first and last time?”

  Phaeton couldn’t see much in the dark, but the two Nightshades were fully clothed, each one in his or her respective corners of the chaise. “It isn’t the way you remember it, Jersey.”

  “I have no memory problems. I remember that things got . . . rough.”

  “I guess you forgot that I liked it.”

  Jersey straightened. “What is it with you, Sister? You want a little of the strap for all those bad thoughts you’re having about me? Ask God’s forgiveness for sucking my cock two years ago?”

  Valentine rose up from her end of the chaise. In the dark Phaeton could just make out that she wore men’s trousers. She placed a booted foot between Jersey’s legs and encouraged him to open. She sank down on her knees and ran both her hands up his legs—from his knees to his groin. “Has it been that long?”

  Phaeton deliberately cleared his throat. “Sorry to disturb.” In a few steps he was in the pantry. “But I’m in desperate need of a glass of water.” He poured himself a glass of water, which he guzzled. Then he uncorked a new whiskey bottle. “And a dram of this—care to join?” Phaeton held his glass up. He received cool stares from Jersey and Valentine, who had returned to her end of the divan. “Sure?”

  After a long silence, Jersey finally answered. “How much of that did you hear?”

  Phaeton tossed back the whiskey and enjoyed the slow burn of amber liquid down his throat. “Where are Ruby and Cutter?”

  “Checking to see if Doctor Exeter returned from his trip to Oxford.”

  Phaeton returned the bottle to the cabinet. “Not that it is any of my business, but where is Tim?”

  Valentine answered. “At his workshop.” When Phaeton raised a brow, Valentine elaborated. “He’s got a workshop somewhere in town. He keeps moving it.”

  “That’s one explanation.” Jersey muttered. “The other is that he has workshops in several locations.”

  “Rather an awkward moment for you two.” He sauntered back toward his bedroom. “Have you ever played ‘who’s got the power’? It’s one of America’s favorites.”

  Valentine’s brows crashed together. “Would you not mention any of this—to anyone?”

  Halfway down the hallway, Phaeton paused and turned back to her. “Try telling Jersey you’d like to smoke his cigar. You might also mention you like to swallow the smoke.” He turned and continued down the passage. “Christ, now I’ve got this enormous erection.”

  Phaeton closed the door to his bedchamber and removed his trousers, taking care to hang them over the back of a chair—exactly where Edvar had left them. Slipping under the covers, he made sure he warmed up sufficiently before touching his lovely bedmate. Icy cold fingers would never do. Snuggling against her, he let his mouth wander along her smooth shoulder, licking now and then to taste her salty essence. Dipping under the covers, his index finger flipped back and forth against her nipple. When it peaked, she moaned in her sleep.

  He swept lower, down her torso—past ribs, barely felt, and lower still, to cup her belly. “My darling, girl.”

  Her belly trembled, and Phaeton smiled, encouraging her legs to open as she rolled onto her back. Inching over her, he took a nipple in his hand and the other in his mouth. He would wake her gently—so that her desire would first occur in a dream, before the growing arousal would finally cause her eyes to flutter open.

  His tongue traveled down to her navel and circled. Again, a sleepy moan and her belly fluttered. He was about to grin but something stopped him this time. The tremble had come from deep inside her. As he retracted his tongue, a sudden image of Gaspar with his hand on her flashed. “When are you going to tell him?”

  Phaeton sat up straight and tossed back the covers. Beautiful of course, and curvy in all the right places. His gaze went straight to her midriff. Rounded as always—perhaps a bit more so than usual. His hand shook as he reached out to sense the life within her—a fish in a warm pond . . . swimming. A cabbage in a patch . . . laughing. Phaeton removed his hand and placed his ear to her belly.

  “Hello?”

  Phaeton tossed and turned all night, at least until a bleak gray dawn finally gave him permission to wash, dress, and join the others in the pantry for a cup of Earl Grey. Valentine was heating several large pans of water. Phaeton buttered a piece of toasted bread. “Looking forward to your bath?”

  Valentine looked up from the copper tub and smiled. “Very much.”

  Phaeton angled his chair so he might gain a better view of the tub. “Don’t let Jersey and me stop you.”

  Valentine laughed. “Oh, I’m not. You and Jersey are off to meet with Doctor Exeter this morning, while America and I bathe and primp.” She winked at him. “We might actually cook a nice leg of mutton for dinner with roasted vegetables and a custard tart for dessert.” Valentine’s eyes were smiling; in fact, he had never seen her in such good spirits.

  She wiped her hands off with a dish towel. “If you get home in time for supper—you can join us.”

  Jersey unfolded a wire message. “This must have come last night—one of the doxies brought it down this morning.”

  “Not convinced the Moonstone is in the Outremer. Stop.” Phaeton read aloud. “Meet me at Tower of London Station tomorrow morning at nine.”

  Phaeton checked his watch and slurped the last of his tea. “I take it you’re coming?”

  Jersey struck a lucifer against the matchbox and lit his stub of a cigar. “Wouldn’t miss it”—he puffed—“for the world.”

  Phaeton climbed the stairs, and nodded to one of the girls in the parlor. “Morning, Layla.” Exiting the brothel, he led the way out of the terraced court to Drury Lane, where they hoofed it down to the Embankment Underground station. His ever vigilant bodyguard scanned the station for tentacle-headed predators. “I’d rather you not report this meeting to Gaspar for the time being.”

  The cigar glowed in the dark shadows of the hood. As the platform crowded with travelers, Jersey received a number of wary stares. “I can keep quiet, if you can.”

  Phaeton stepped toward a car already loaded with passengers. “Ah, you’re referring to last night. Did your evening improve any? By the look on her face this morning—”

  “Nothing happened.” Jersey tossed his cigar butt onto the tracks. “Valentine and I took turns on watch.”

  They rode the circle line to Mark Lane in silence, which gave Phaeton plenty of time to recall last night. He had resisted the urge to wake America and stuffed his rage. And who exactly was he angry with—America? Not possible. At himself for not using a rubber johnny? Very possible.

  Around three in the morning, his anger shifted to remorse which lasted but a few minutes. He would never regret his time spent with America. Eventually he settled on the real problem. He didn’t want to be a father. Being a father meant . . . reading bedtime stories.

  Then, after another hour or so of tossing and turning, he had a kind of epiphany. His reluctant feelings about fatherhood were a small part of the problem. He was concerned about something far more important than either himself or America.

  He worried for the child.

  The train doors opened and he followed Jersey upstairs. He remained in a haze of distracted thoughts; they walked over to the Tower of London. They spied Doctor Exeter near the gates to the Tower entrance.

  Exeter’s overall appearance was troubling. He seemed agitated and his eyes
darted about, as if he was concerned with other matters, and yet anxious to get on with the duties at hand. He greeted them both cordially, taking an extra moment to stare at Phaeton. “You look worried.”

  “I was just about to say the same to you.”

  The doctor’s gaze drifted toward the rising mist off the Thames. “I am worried.” He exhaled a vocal sigh.

  Phaeton grimaced. “Well then, that makes two of us.”

  Exeter stuffed his fists in his coat pockets and turned to Jersey. “This can’t be shared with Gaspar—not yet.”

  Jersey nodded. “Agreed.”

  Phaeton spoke up, perhaps a little too loudly. “You were missed yesterday.”

  The doctor returned to him. “I was dealing with something of a crisis. Sorry I couldn’t be there. I trust your first expedition to the Outremer went well?”

  Phaeton’s nod was a bit iffy. “I believe I have seen our future and it is fast, noisy, and alarmingly expensive.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  AMERICA LEANED BACK and let the warm, clean water rinse her hair. Valentine squeezed out the excess water and wrapped her head with a towel. “Jersey and I were having a rather private discussion last night, which Phaeton happened to overhear.” Valentine sat back on the kitchen chair. “Did he happen to mention it last night or this morning?”

  “He didn’t wake me last night—I must have looked tired.” America rose out of the tub and wrapped herself in a bath sheet. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did Phaeton hear?”

  The faintest blush colored Valentine’s cheeks. “Jersey and I rarely cross swords, but when we do, it is always the same argument. We would both like to be closer physically, but he is worried about hurting me.”

  America settled into a chair and studied Valentine. “He is very brave. And devilish handsome, even with that cigar he’s always puffing on. I imagine he is also an accomplished warrior?”

  “Deadly.” Valentine leaned close to the stove and ran her fingers through lengths of her own damp, raven black tresses.

  “Jersey is not completely . . . of this world?” America unwound the towel on her head and fluffed out her curls.

  “When we first met, I tried to kill him.” Valentine’s gaze flicked upward. “Love at first sight.”

  America continued to dry her hair. This kind of intimate conversation was obviously difficult for Valentine, being a former novitiate and all, but there was no way to get round the question. “When you do attempt to get close, what happens?”

  “He turns into a beast.”

  “When I got up this morning, you were just stepping out of your bath.” America bit her bottom lip. “There was a crescent-shaped scar above your left nipple.”

  “Jersey’s mark.” Valentine met her gaze and looked away. “He didn’t mean it—he got carried away, but in those few moments, before he pushed me away, he held my arms above my head and . . . I tried to explain last night.” Valentine shook her head. “Until he lost all control . . . I rather liked it.”

  America draped her towel across the back of a chair to dry. “As long as there is trust between partners, being dominated can be very stimulating.”

  “Exactly.” Valentine’s nod grew enthusiastic. “Phaeton mentioned something about ‘who’s got the power’? He said it was one of your favorites.”

  America laughed. “Did he really?”

  Valentine dipped her head to make eye contact. “Would you mind . . . explaining?”

  “Perhaps I could be talked into it—over another cup of tea.” America stood up and let the bath sheet fall away. She buttoned on her camisole and stepped into pantalettes.

  “You have a lovely body,” Valentine said, then hesitated. “You do realize that you are starting to show?”

  America’s hands immediately went to her belly.

  Valentine’s gaze traveled up from her middle. “Does Phaeton know you are pregnant?”

  “He does not.” Nervously, America moistened her lower lip. “At least, I don’t think he does.”

  “I sensed a great worry on his mind this morning.” Valentine added new leaves to the teapot and poured in the steaming water. “America—you need to tell him.”

  She met Valentine’s gaze. “Gaspar knows.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s an intuitive—a very talented one at that.”

  America removed a jar from her portmanteau. The travel bag still sat on the pantry counter unpacked. “Liquid gold from Morocco. It gives your hair shine.”

  America poured a few drops into Valentine’s hand. “Rub your hands together and then run your fingers through the strands.” Studying the lovely female Nightshade, she had to ask. “Do you believe Gaspar and Phaeton are related?”

  “There’s no brotherly love on Phaeton’s end, but I do sense a protectiveness from Gaspar, as if he can’t help his feelings.” Valentine frowned. “I should tell you that nothing about our leader is in good trim. He cannot be wholly trusted, as he is dealing with his own mortality.”

  America stopped smoothing the golden liquid over her own curls. “Is his health failing?”

  “He is fighting for his life.”

  Valentine must have seen her mouth drop open, because she explained. “Too many expeditions into the Outremer. He is unraveling.”

  Phaeton followed Exeter down into the bowels of the old Tower Underground Station. “It is my understanding that Professor Lovecraft has leased this property from the Duke of Astor for the sum of one pound a year.”

  In disuse for many years, the station below ground was dark and vaporous. At the bottom of the stairs they turned down a corridor lit by a single sputtering gaslight. Phaeton could just make out a heavy iron door guarded by fanged sentries. Drawing closer, both mechanized cats sat up and snarled. Jersey Blood reached inside his coat and drew out a dagger which immediately unfolded into an impressive claymore.

  Not to be outdone, in a series of clatters and clicks, the guardian cats transformed themselves into larger beasts, their snarls deepened into growls and their claws lengthened.

  Phaeton raised his gaze above the door. A circle of brass letters spelled out “Deus Ex Machina” with a large cursive L—for Lovecraft—in the center. Haloed by light, the plaque was otherwise rather industrial in appearance. “God out of the machine.” Phaeton’s growl matched the cat beasts. “Self-aggrandizing blowhard.”

  “Lovecraft is developing a number of different engines, some of which he manufactures below.” The doctor tapped on the door using his umbrella. A small door within a door opened. A man wearing a battered opera hat squinted out of wire framed spectacles. “Who goes there?”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “We wish to speak with Lovecraft.”

  One of the large feline creatures took a swipe at Phaeton. “Could you call off the pussycats?” From the other side of the door he heard the sound of a toggle switch being thrown, and with it the fangs and claws retracted.

  “Who should I say is calling?” The queer man squinted out of spectacles dripping with condensation. Phaeton removed a pocket square from his waistcoat and wiped a clear spot on each lens.

  “Much better.” He stepped away from the door. “Tell the professor Doctor Jason Exeter, Captain Jersey Blood, and Phaeton Black have come calling.”

  They waited. “We could use Jinn right now. Where’s Ping when we need him?” Minutes ticked by like hours, while Phaeton paced and tried not to think about America’s delicate condition. Exeter appeared to have his own set of worries and Jersey leaned on his broadsword like it was an umbrella. Phaeton double-backed. “Is there something you can do with that magical tool of yours?”

  Jersey pointed the weapon at the door and a blast of pale blue energy traveled into every crack and crevice. The cigar-chomping Nightshade stepped forward and pushed the door open with his index finger.

  A man stood in the doorway. Rather nondescript, actually, except for the pale eyes protruding out of his head. One set of eyes never blinked; the other set was mor
e of a mechanical pair of irises attached to heavy spectacles. The mechanical eyes tracked up and down, and side to side with the real eyes below. He wore the goggles perched on top of his head and the effect was rather disturbing, as though he had two sets of eyes, and all of them were . . . spying.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to my world.” The man’s tight-lipped smile felt a great deal less than welcoming. Of course this had to be Lovecraft, though he did not introduce himself and quickly disappeared through a hatchway and down a length of corridor.

  “I am Hudson and I will be your escort.” The butler with the fogged eyeglasses ushered them inside. “Professor Lovecraft will see you in his laboratory.”

  Their tour of the factory was rushed, but dazzling. Sitting in the middle of the barrel-shaped tunnel was an immense armored engine, at least three stories tall. The machine rested majestically on train tracks, as wisps of gray smoke curled out of two massive smokestacks. Phaeton was sure the long spear-like objects that protruded from the front of the vehicle were some kind of weapon, as well as the large blade that angled into a v-shape at the base of the engine.

  A combination of live workers and automatons on scaffolding worked at riveting the craft’s armor plating. Whatever this was, it was formidable. It also seemed obvious by the number of workers standing about that tests had been postponed while the Lovecraft’s Machine Works entertained visitors. Phaeton glanced back at Exeter who answered with a raised brow.

  “We expect a certain amount of stopping and gawking—but you must try not to fall behind.” Hudson led them upstairs and across a metal catwalk to a narrow room of long tables. Each table displayed an assortment of tools, gauges, and a plethora of odd gadgetry in various stages of development.

  Lovecraft rotated a helmet-like object on a turnstile in front of him. It looked something like the mechanized headgear that Cutter wore, except this was more streamlined and aesthetic in appearance. When they were all duly assembled around the object, Lovecraft looked up. “How is Cutter Coppersmith?”