The Moonstone and Miss Jones (30 page)
Undaunted, Phaeton poured a last splash over nearly dissolved sugar. “As I was saying: ‘the poet’s pain is soothed by a liquid jewel held in the sacred chalice, sanity surrendered, the soul spirals toward the murky depths, wherein lies the beautiful madness—absinthe.’ ”
He settled down and lifted his glass. “I know what they say about me at the Yard. Eccentric, when they’re feeling charitable, a menace or madman otherwise.”
“That’s not true. Gabe Sterling thinks the world of you.”
“Then you and he are the only ones.”
“Not me, just Gabe.” Zander sipped a taste before taking a swallow. “Frankly, I can’t say enough about a man who can step into a crisis situation and disarm a Fenian bomb without a care. I don’t know where that kind of courage comes from, Phaeton, and neither do a lot of other agents who would rather call you mad than try to understand a man who invites death and fears nothing.”
Phaeton shrugged. More pale green potion slipped down his throat. “I miss those small hours of the morning. You know as well as I do, from all our evenings on surveillance, the coldest chill of night happens at the edge of dawn.” His hazy gaze landed on Zander. “The time when shadows are not deep enough for spirits and abominations to hide in.”
Zander leaned forward. “I need you back on the job. Murdering hobgoblin, vampire—whatever or whoever the killer turns out to be. Take the assignment, Phaeton. But don’t do it to prove the other agents wrong.”
Taken aback, Phaeton blinked. “Why not?”
“Because they’re right.”
“Bloody, thieving pirate.”
America Jones’s gaze fixed on Yanky Willem’s every movement as he moved across the polished wood floor of the shipping office. The vile ship snatcher paused between secretary desks and curled back an upper lip.
Up until this night, she had merely been an annoyance to him. A pestering fly he could easily wave aside. But his nonchalance had served only to embolden her purpose. She had picked the door lock, and he had caught her, dead to rights, searching for proof of treachery. Now, quite suddenly, her circumstances had grown perilous. Eyes darting, she calculated the position of Willem’s other lackeys stationed around the workplace. His men had not bound her as of yet. No doubt they thought her a helpless, frightened twat. Thickheaded cock-ups.
“Miss Jones.” The Dutchman exhaled smoke as thick as his accent. His breath reeked of the black cigar clenched between his teeth. “Words cannot express how pleased I am to have you in my company this evening.”
The captain’s gaze traveled over every inch of her. “And my great, great grandfather was a pirate, Miss Jones, but not I.”
One day she’d wipe that smug grin off his face. Forever.
“I was obliged to take over your father’s shipping business because he failed to make good on our loan arrangement.”
She bit out a single word. “Liar.” Quick as a strike from a snake, his hand lashed across her face. The blow jerked her head back, flooding her cheeks with heat. She licked dry lips and tasted blood at the corner of her mouth. Heart pounding, she blinked aside tears and retreated.
By the look in his eyes and the bulge in his pants, he would have her flat on her back soon enough. Then he would hand her off to his crew.
“I wager you’d all like a taste.” She lifted her skirt and lace petticoats above the knee and made eyes at every surly mate. Her sashay about the room revealed more and more leg. When she reached the tops of her stockings, their mouths dropped open.
Seductively, she slipped her hands between her thighs. Eyes wide with feigned surprise, she looked down, then up again with a wink. “Silly me.”
In one swift motion, she loosed a derringer from one garter and a bowie knife from the other. Falling back toward the door, she brandished both weapons.
“If you value y’er jewels, I wouldn’t make a move.”
Chapter Two
“H
OLD ON,
M
R.
B
LACK.
” The pretty harlot quickened her steps to match his longer strides. Phaeton grabbed her by the hand and wove a path between the fancy carriages and cabs queued along the Strand. Traffic would shortly become a mangle, as theatres began to let out. A frosty wind blew across the broad avenue forcing them both to squint and hold onto their hats.
OLD ON,
M
R.
B
LACK.
” The pretty harlot quickened her steps to match his longer strides. Phaeton grabbed her by the hand and wove a path between the fancy carriages and cabs queued along the Strand. Traffic would shortly become a mangle, as theatres began to let out. A frosty wind blew across the broad avenue forcing them both to squint and hold onto their hats.
“Come along, Lizzie.”
He quite enjoyed Miss Randall, whether she was on the job for Mrs. Parker or retained as a night crawler. He often used her for reconnaissance, a spotter who ably worked the streets or public houses.
At the corner of Savoy Row, he parked the tempting doxy by a lamppost. “Right here, love.” A fine dusting of snow covered the cobblestone. Not enough to turn the ground white, but just enough to reveal a curious impression of footprints leading off down the row.
He directed his gaze after a diaphanous, almost imperceptible, flurry of snow. “I mean to follow a trace of vapor down the alley. I shan’t be far off.”
“A trace of vapor?”
He paused to think about his answer. “Do you believe in ghosts, Lizzie?
The girl scoffed. “No, sir.”
“Phantasms with fangs who can pierce a vein and drain your body of vital fluids in mere moments?”
Eyes wider. “No, sir.”
Phaeton leaned close and brushed her neck with his lips. “You will.”
She shivered. “No need to frighten a girl, Mr. Black.”
“I need you to keep a look out. Act like a street whore—not terribly difficult. If any gents or goblins get too frisky, you scream bloody murder.”
He swept a stray curl off her robust, pink cheek. “Lizzie dear, have I ever ventured into your lovely slit?”
She snorted. “A girl doesn’t forget a poke like that, sir.”
“Did I pleasure you?”
She batted dark lashes. “Yes, sir.”
“I am so pleased to hear it.” He tipped his hat and walked into the deeper shadows of the narrow lane.
The trail of impressions appeared cleanly made. Small feet, with steps placed far apart, as if whomever or whatever barely needed to touch ground. He followed the tracks down a curve in the row until the imprints grew so faint, they became all but invisible. He inhaled deeply. Snow and soot and something else, faintly . . . metallic. Again, Phaeton sniffed the air as he scanned the rooftops and lane ahead.
Aware of the faintest shift in atmosphere, he focused his search once more on the bricks below his feet. A tear-shaped drop fell onto the pavers.
Red. Warm. Ice crystals surrounding the drop melted.
There, another drop.
He looked up, but could make nothing out. A sudden spray of crimson drops scattered across the snow as a gust of wind blew off the Thames. A hiss of fine ice swirled into the air and traveled up past shop windows. A ghastly misshapen figure settled onto a window ledge close to the roof.
Phaeton froze. A large, birdlike entity formed out of ice crystals and grey speckled flakes, or were those feathers? Long, spindly legs, tucked against each side of a thin torso. As the creature struggled to gain its balance, a bloody appendage slipped off the window ledge. Pearlescent feathers ruffled as the rare bird retracted the crooked, gangly limb. A protective wing folded over the injury.
So, the owlish harpy appeared to suffer.
He stared hard at the apparition. Would the wraithlike specter ever fully materialize? The pale visage continued to reshape itself until it resolved into something more human than avifauna.
“Ah, there you are.” He inched forward, mesmerized. “My high-strung, feathered”—the facial features were feminine, fragile; an enchanting, chimerical bird—“beauty.”
The humanlike face swiveled and blinked.
Why do you not fear me?
The voice whispered in his head.
Why do you not fear me?
The voice whispered in his head.
“You might try being more bloodcurdling. Bone-chilling. Hair-raising, perhaps?”
Another ruffle of ashen feathers.
Male, what is your name?
Male, what is your name?
“Phaeton Black.” A wicked smile encouraged him to press forward for a closer look.
I do not like.
The white bird hissed and drew away. Phaeton tilted his head to align his sights with her yellow-eyed stare. There, on the rooftop, the dark silhouette of a man gazed down on them.
The white bird hissed and drew away. Phaeton tilted his head to align his sights with her yellow-eyed stare. There, on the rooftop, the dark silhouette of a man gazed down on them.
He had to ask. “Friend of yours?”
A blast of air and cyclone of snow enveloped the harpy. A billow of white particles whirled off the ledge and vanished down the alleyway.
A chill shivered through his body. And a deep sorrow. Squinting through a tempest of frost, he swept the skyline for the stranger. Nothing.
Intrigued, he started after the small twister passing by several basement railings. He paused to stare at an odd finial post. The cast-iron head of a dog. Edging closer, he imagined the canine’s upper lip curled back. How long had it been since his last glass of absinthe? Several hours ago with Zander. Any unearthly effects should have passed by now. He reached out his hand and the canine creature snapped.
“Ouch!” He put his finger to his mouth and sucked a very real scratch.
A faint tinkle of laughter. Crimson drops fell at his feet. Were they his? He guessed not. Wavering on the edge of hallucination, he traced bleeding drops of red over street pavers. Light snowfall dampened each footstep to a soft crunch. An icy stillness crept over the lane. Nothing but the sound of his inhale and exhale.
“Over here, lovey.”
“Hav’a taste, handsome?”
A pair of street prostitutes stepped out of the shadows and beckoned to him.
“Evening, ladies.” He noted a large dustbin just past the huddled women. Inexplicably drawn to the container, he reached for the lid and hesitated. A steady pulse of rapid heartbeats throbbed in his ears.
Lifting the cover, he examined ordinary contents. “Rags.”
With a glance around the alley and a wink at one of the working girls, he edged closer. A rat leaped out of the pile of refuse. He dropped the lid, and it clattered to the ground. “Bloody hell.”
Wait. Phaeton pivoted.
A presence lurked in the velvet black darkness of a niche between buildings. He leaned into the unknown. The cold steel of a large blade pressed against his neck.
“Do as I say,
mon ami
, and I won’t cut your throat.”
mon ami
, and I won’t cut your throat.”
A feminine voice, with an accent. He swallowed. “I make it a point never to argue with a female wielding a knife.” In the blackness, he could just make out luscious plump lips and almond-shaped eyes. Human. What a relief. And a good deal prettier than his recent encounters.
“Back me up—against the wall.” She pressed the blade edge deeper into his flesh. A trickle of blood ran under his collar.
“Careful.” Adhering faithfully to her instructions, he pressed her to the bricks.
“Any moment now, a number of pirates are going to round this corner. They wish to do me harm. I want you to convince them you are near to completing your satisfaction with a street doxy.”
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “Allow me to do my best.”
A clamor of hurried footsteps echoed off the row buildings. Racking up her skirt, he inserted a hand between her legs. “Hook a leg around me.”
When she complied, he placed both hands under her buttocks and angled her against the wall.
“Oh my!” She cried. “What is that?”
Phaeton paused. “My cock, miss. What were you expecting?”
“But—” She gasped.
A few harried shouts came from several yards away. Quickly, he brought himself under her and worked her down onto his prick. He began his thrusts slowly. Not too deep, as yet, until he knew her body would receive him. “Make much ado, as if you are a pretty whore well paid for a quick tumble.”
Buttons loosed, he nuzzled a firm, round breast and tasted salty sweat. He suckled a taut morsel of nipple through thin fabric and bit down. “Ahhh.” She gasped. A flood of moisture drew him deeper.
“That’s a girl. Louder. Tell me you want more.” He drove in. “Do it.”
Her words seethed between her teeth. “I will kill you for this.”
“Must I remind you”—he gasped—“your blade remains at my throat.” Gently, he began to withdraw from her. “In or out, love? Make up your mind.”
A low mewl from this luscious alley cat accompanied a bold thrust of hips. Her cries were layered with mockery. “Oh yes, more of that—big man.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” This woman’s sheath girdled him like some kind of heaven. “I have yet to play deep, miss. How much of me do you want?” His arousal was huge and satisfaction precipitous. He pumped into her, closing in on his own finish. “This is going to be fast.”
“Deeper, lovey.” She cried, urging him onward. Phaeton could just make out the shapes of several men. Her pursuers paused to listen to their heated sighs and muffled groans.
“Yes, oh yes—give it to me.” Warm flesh quivered as her words gave way to lusty exhales.
“Happy to oblige.” As he growled his lust like some kind of wild beast, his fingers pressed into the flesh of her buttocks.
Heavier footsteps this time and the harsh, exhausted breath of hunters in pursuit of runaway prey. The men circled closer, near enough to make out her features or wardrobe.
“Bugger off.” Phaeton barked over his shoulder. “Get your own doxy, mate.” Inarticulate grunts accompanied his intensified thrusts as her pursuers changed course and ran off toward the Embankment.
Arousal heightened by their public exhibitionism, the little minx moaned a fiery incantation. “Jesufina, Marianna, Josephina.”
He was close. On the very edge of climax. He opened his eyes to view the beauty who had captured him. Her eyelids fluttered. Momentarily, she was incapacitated.
A fierce wave of pleasure slammed through his body. Phaeton let loose.
His prick throbbed inside her. A long moment passed, before he remembered the blade. In one swift move, he grabbed the knife and twisted it out of her hands.
Those slightly exotic, almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “Get off me.”
One last glimpse up and down the alley. “Very well.” He kept her pressed to the wall and slipped out. “Lovely, unexpected diversion.”
Pants buttoned, he looked up in time to avoid the blow of her fist. The ferocity of her swing caused a temporary loss of balance and the lady tumbled into an iron basement railing.
Phaeton leaned over. “Blimey, she’s knocked out cold.”
He had little choice but to pick her up and throw her over his shoulder. The pirates might double back this way. Pirates? Was she daft, or was he? More likely she was some kind of common street thief. He retraced his steps out of the row and onto the busy thoroughfare of the Strand. Lizzie, dear girl, stood under the streetlamp right where he had left her.
Quickly, he settled both women into a waiting carriage. The coach lurched off, rocking Lizzie back and forth. She tilted her head and studied the young lady. “Who is she?”
“A mystery.” Gaslight briefly lit the interior of the cabin. Enough for him to note his little cohort’s sallow cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “Lizzie, anything unusual to report this evening? Perhaps a flying phantasm or two?”
“Nothing much, sir.” She hesitated.
Phaeton removed her gloves and chafed icy hands between his. “Tell me, Lizzie.”
“Well, sir, a very beautiful woman approached me. Pale she was and stood real close, wanting a bit of warmth.” Lizzie pulled at the collar of her dress and began a raspy struggle for air. “I don’t remember much after—”
He pulled her onto his lap. Gently, he brushed back loose curls to expose a lithesome neck and two perfectly dainty puncture wounds.
A dull ache of drums nagged at the back of her head. She moved to stretch and found her wrists tied to the arms of an oversized upholstered chair. Her pulse throbbed under the bindings. Assessing her circumstances, she closed her eyes and feigned a long awakening.
“Good morning, my dove.”
She sensed the unmistakable power of his essence. He was a channeler. A mortal being haunted by demons, or enchanted by fairies. Hard to say which, perhaps both. Genteel society would likely call him a wretched man afflicted by a mental disorder. Wretched? Possibly. But a rare gent he was, and no doubt gifted in peculiar ways.
Aware of a bubbling tea kettle and the familiar clink of china cups set on saucers, she opened an eye to observe the dark-haired man from last evening. The man who had thrust into her woman parts. Deep inside, she could still feel the effects of his churlish prick.
The shadowed niche of the alley had afforded scant illumination. This morning she revised her assessment of him. A bit swarthy, he hadn’t shaved as yet and wore no cravat. His waistcoat remained unbuttoned, but she could see enough to know he was nicely made. Genuinely handsome, if a bit untamed.
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