The Moonstone and Miss Jones (11 page)

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Authors: Jillian Stone

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BOOK: The Moonstone and Miss Jones
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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
 
P
HAETON GRABBED
G
ASPAR 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.”
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.
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.”

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