The Moonstone and Miss Jones (9 page)

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Authors: Jillian Stone

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BOOK: The Moonstone and Miss Jones
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“Come for me, darling.” Phaeton crooned.
Her expression moved from that of a joyful lover to complete surrender and pure pleasure. At her apex, he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth. The strong tremor of her climax surged through her loins into his body. The shot of arousal nearly sent him over the edge.
He released a beige-rose nipple. “Wrap your legs around me.”
Grabbing her buttocks, he pulled her onto the top of his thighs and pressed her down on him. His excitement mounted one inch at a time as she took all of him into her warm slick sheath. She was tight, and wet, and oh so ready for him. All he could do was groan.“You’re killing me, darling.” He withdrew inch by inch, and then returned to her just as slowly, gradually increasing the speed and depth of his thrusts. Holding onto her hips he rocked her up and down—faster and harder until his own pleasure was dangerously close to its peak, which reminded him—he needed a condom. “I sense that was rather good for you, my goddess of love.” Breathing hard, he slipped out of her.
America’s face, still flush from his pleasuring, was half-buried in a pillow. She peeked out of soft folds to smile at him. “Mmm,” was all she managed, but it was a post coital lullaby to his ears.
The banging on the bedroom door sent Phaeton upright in bed. “Who’s there?” The door swung open and a towering specter stood in the threshold. He squinted at the faint orange glow under the hood. “Captain Blood, your timing is most . . . untimely.”
Another Nightshade stood behind Blood. Aware he was stretched out on top of his bed, stark naked and erect, Phaeton tossed a sheet over America and a pillow over his privates. “And Miss Valentine.”
“We waited for the moans and cries to cease,” Blood snarled. There was something awkward and rather comical about the way Jersey described
la musique de l’amour.
Perhaps more than his hackles were up.
Phaeton narrowed his gaze. “If we’re going to be rooming together, there’s something you should know before barging into my bedchamber. When America and I are engaged in . . . private matters, there will first be a series of moans and cries—perhaps a few naughty demands in French—hers. Those lovely utterances will be followed by a second set of grunts and bellows. Those . . . would be mine.” Phaeton raised a brow. “Did you hear any grunts and bellows?”
“Apologies for the interruption.” Valentine stepped around the captain and strode into the room holding a container of clear liquid. “You must both choose your inklings and drink—from the backside of this glass—before you sleep.” Her hand trembled as she handed him the water.
Curious and amused by her discomposure, Phaeton had to inquire. “Does this bother you, Valentine? All the nudity, body hair—the scent of sex in the air?”
“Stow it, Phaeton.” The captain puffed a bit harder on his cigar.
Holding the sheet around her, America sat up. “We think of an everyday object, then we drink.”
Valentine nodded. “I know this must seem nonsensical, but you’ll understand soon enough.” In a most provocative manner, the female shade rubbed her way past Jersey Blood. “Ready for the grunts and bellows?”
The captain followed her out the door. “If you can stand it, I can.”
Chapter Ten
 
“91 T
OTTENHAM
C
OURT
R
OAD
.” America read the address to the driver and climbed into the carriage. She took a seat beside Ruby across from Valentine and Cutter, who tapped on the roof and they moved off. His gaze dropped to the message in hand. “Anything else in the wire?” Cutter asked. The telegram had been delivered moments before Gaspar’s town coach arrived.
Phaeton had left for Scotland Yard, accompanied by Captain Blood, and now she was suddenly off on a mysterious errand with the three remaining Nightshades.
The carriage made a hard turn onto High Holborn and rocked them side to side. America opened the telegram and passed the missive to Ruby who, in turn, handed it across the aisle.
Cutter reached above his mechanical eye and swiveled a lens into place. “Pitt Brothers London Machine Works,” he read aloud.
America furrowed her brows. “Phaeton and Captain Blood are going directly to Pennyfields from Scotland Yard. If Gaspar is changing the location of our meeting—”
“If the location changes, Ping will let them know where to meet us.” Cutter took a second look at the wire.
America curled up into a corner of the seat and glanced out the window. Phaeton had dutifully rolled on the rubber goods last night. He didn’t know as yet, but it wouldn’t be long before the little pea in the pod quickened, then he was sure to sense the new life in her.
But how to tell him? The last time they had discussed children, he had made it perfectly clear he wished no child of his brought into the world. One who might suffer the same fiendish terrors and aberrations of his youth. Or his life.
“America is a beautiful name—of course you must be American ?” Ruby’s question brought her back from her worries.
She nodded. “American mother, British father.”
“She doesn’t sound American.” Ever vigilant, Cutter dipped his head to see more of the street on his side of the carriage. “She sounds . . . British, with a hint of island in her. Barbados, possibly?”
America smiled. “French Creole. I was raised in New Orleans, until my mother handed me off to my father; he was a sea captain. Eventually, he started a merchant shipping business—we were quite prosperous until he died last year. A nefarious business partner schemed to steal his ships away. Phaeton helped get them back.” How fearless and heroic Phaeton was, when he wanted to be. The thought caused a smile. “It’s rather a long story.”
In daylight the Nightshades’ robes actually had the appearance of long traveling coats. America noticed the split in Ruby’s cloak and had to ask. “Please forgive my rudeness, but I must know what you wear under those robes.”
Ruby blushed at the question but she unbuttoned her cloak. “I suppose you’d call these ladies’ trousers—a bit less fabric than pantaloons.” Underneath she wore a gray waistcoat over a dark, high collared shirt.
America leaned closer. “My word, those trousers look wonderfully comfortable.”
“I miss dressing up in gowns.” Ruby shrugged and closed up the robe. “Sometimes.”
“But not the corsets and bustles,” America teased.
Valentine and Ruby laughed, and Cutter winked. “You won’t hear much complaint from Jersey and me—especially during martial arts practice.”
“You train together?” Just as America asked the question, the carriage pulled up alongside a notorious shooting range establishment called Fairyland. Cutter studied the buildings to each side. “Pitt Brothers Machine Works can’t be far off.” He pulled his hood down and exited the carriage. “Wait for my signal.”
Ruby kept a lookout street side, while she and Valentine watched Cutter disappear inside the building next to the shooting range.
A sudden downpour of spring rain broke the silence inside the coach. The patter of drops on the roof was soothing somehow—something natural and real in her increasingly unreal world.
America squinted at a sign in a third-floor window. “Pitt Brothers—patentees and manufactures of the . . .” She wiped a bit of condensation off the window. “New and improved ‘Princess’ lock stitch sewing machine.”
Ruby snorted. “Not bloody likely.”
The sky had darkened considerably during the cloud burst. There were few passersby on the sidewalk—just one man, standing under a shop awning. America eased back from the window just as a bolt of lightning flashed past the carriage and struck the lone man full force, knocking him back against the building.
Horrified, America stared openmouthed as the poor bloke slumped over. A black cloud of particles, much like a swarm of bees, drifted up out of the body. So, he wasn’t an ordinary man—and that bolt of lightning had been deliberately fired at him. A shadow of movement raced toward them—Cutter was running for the coach.
“Take us round to Star Yard.” She recognized the raspy shout to the driver as the carriage lurched off. A loud thump and dip in the back meant that Cutter had jumped onto the footman’s perch of the town coach.
The carriage quickly picked up speed on Holborn, but slowed on the turn down Chancery Lane. They came to a jerking halt in front of Ede and Ravenscroft. “Legal outfitters . . .” America turned to the women in the carriage. “Are we picking up a barrister or do these gentlemen make your cloaks?”
The door of the carriage opened without sight or sound of anyone. Although, if she listened carefully, she could hear the whir and click of Cutter’s headwork.
America leaned forward. “Stay back!” the invisible Cutter hissed. “Here he comes.”
Ruby craned her neck to see down the row. “Good Lord, if it isn’t Tim Noggy.”
She sat back in her seat and waited. She heard footsteps and panting, just before a large man leaped inside the carriage.
“Make room, ladies.” The portly young man tossed a satchel into the carriage and squeezed through the door. He fell onto the seat beside Valentine and the carriage lurched off, quickly picking up speed—much too fast for this narrow lane. They had not traveled far when something large and heavy struck the roof of the coach.
All America could think about was the horrid creature that had attacked her in the hansom. Only this time she had with her three rather formidable Nightshades and this new chap, who continued to huff and puff.
“Where’s Cutter?” America cried. “Cutter? Where are you?”
Out of nowhere the machine head appeared outside the coach window, upside down. “Be right with you.”
“Not to worry.” Ruby winked. “He’s likely finishing off the Reaper that was after Tim.”
America did her best to ignore the high-pitched shrieks and thumping noises by focusing her attention on the round-faced young man across the aisle.
He also appeared curious about her. “Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Noggy.”
He gave her a strange sort of military salute and dragged his portmanteau onto his lap. Digging inside, he removed a metal pipe about the length of a foot ruler. He pointed the object at the roof and followed the thumps and screeches back and forth.
Valentine stared. “What are you doing?”
Something hit the window next to America and she drew back. Large dark eyes stared into hers—black orbs with no whites. Strange waving tentacles, like long thick locks of hair, undulated around the creature’s head. So this was a Reaper. The jaw dropped down and a cavernous mouth opened, revealing layers of pointed teeth and something else. She caught a fleeting glance of a tongue curled up inside the mouth like a snake ready to strike. As suddenly as the creature had appeared, an arm reached down and yanked it out of sight. Her gaze tracked a bloodcurdling cry and a number of thuds back to the roof.
Tim Noggy pointed the pipe toward the mêlée above. “Hold on, I think I know which one’s which.” The moment Noggy toggled the lever, the screeching stopped—and the pounding. All that could be heard was a sucking and gurgling noise from the pipe-like object and the occasional patter of raindrops. Coincidentally it seemed the cloudburst had passed.
America swallowed. “What did you just do, Mr. Noggy?”
The moonfaced young man lifted his brows and shoulders simultaneously. “I shifted the Reaper back to the Outremer.”
America felt a bit dizzy—much like Alice must have felt plunging down the rabbit hole. “Is the Reaper gone or is it not?”
A shy smile broadened. “It’s gone.”
Cutter poked his head in the window. “Gone but not out for the count. We’ll likely meet up with him again on the other side—right Tim?” He unlatched the door and swung himself into the coach, feet first. He plopped down between America and Ruby.
America marveled at the peculiar new man. Noggy was obviously gifted but appeared to have little confidence in his expertise. He was also an assemblage of unsightly features. Stringy hair—much too long and shaggy, and a massive rough of beard, all in need of trimming. America’s nose told her the generous sized lad was also in very great need of a bath. But he had a sweet smile and that odd metal pipe was . . . impressive.
Cutter stuck the key in his neck and cranked. “Damn fine work. That one was a tough little bugger.”
Noggy’s eyes flashed upward. “Spot o’ luck, mate—all I did was open this tube and it sucked the Reaper in.” He gave America a shy glance. “Seriously, it doesn’t work half the time.”
Cutter grinned. “Tim gets us into the Outremer and back out. In fact, he’s in charge of training you and Mr. Black. Your first time or two can be tricky.”
America managed a tightlipped smile. “Lovely.”
 
Phaeton reached up to knock and the door opened. It was Chilcott himself and standing behind him, Detective Zander Farrell. “Mr. Black, about time you arrived. And you’ve brought a friend.” The Scotland Yard director gave a once-over to Captain Blood, who had dressed in proper street clothes, sans cloak and dagger—or sword.
Phaeton quickly made introductions. “Elliot Chilcott, this is Captain Blood, my . . . bodyguard.”
Chilcott gave his muttonchops a nervous tug. “Good God, Phaeton, has it come to this?”
“Things . . .”—Phaeton shifted his gaze between Zander and Chilcott—“are pretty bad out there.”
“Yes, we’ve noticed,” the director grumbled.
Phaeton might have shared more, but why disturb Chilcott any more than necessary? Scotland Yard was fairly useless against the darker forces of the fey world. But on occasion, they were awfully handy to have around.
Chilcott turned to his bodyguard. “You wouldn’t by any chance happen to be related to General Sir Bindon Blood?”
The captain stared, then nodded, reluctantly. “Quite closely related, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, we’re estranged.”
“Indeed,” Chilcott grunted as he stepped past them. “We were just on our way over to the mortician’s office. Join us.”
Phaeton rolled his eyes. “What’s this all about?”
Zander fell back beside him. “Prominent men have been dying in their beds. Heart failure was at the top of the list for a few weeks. But after several postmortem examinations we’re beginning to believe they were suffocated.”
And here, Phaeton thought he was being called in to be interrogated about Grubbers and Reapers. “The bodies are intact. No missing parts?”
“Just dead.” Zander led the way downstairs. “By some form of asphyxiation. We thought you might know what’s lurking about town these days.”
“Have you consulted
Reynolds’s Weekly
? I’m told there have been reports of strange creatures about.” He caught a raised brow from Jersey Blood and quickly added, “your victims sound like they might have suffered an encounter with a succubus.”
Chilcott grunted. “Succubus—some sort of she-devil?”
“A demon in female form who has carnal intercourse with men in their sleep.” Zander recited as though he was reading out of Underwood’s
Dictionary of the Occult.
“Salacious, ghastly idea.” Chilcott stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “But how is this life-threatening?”
“Succubi drain the life force from men while they’re asleep.” When Chilcott blinked, Phaeton painted him a picture. “The man dreams of a beautiful naked woman making love to him. She slips between his legs—a hand slides under his nightshirt and up the inside of his thigh. Her breasts sway just above his face. Perhaps she dips down and lets him taste. Caught in a reverie of desire, he feels a bit of pressure on his chest, a touch of sleep paralysis. Then when he is fully immobilized and at her mercy, the she-devil takes his life with a kiss.”
Chilcott’s mouth dropped open. “Might you know how we go about . . .”
“Catching the perpetrator?” Phaeton evaluated the two Yard men in front of him. “Rather dangerous work chasing down these wily women—they take on many forms.”
“Any leads you’ve got would be greatly appreciated. I can put a man on them straight away.” Zander offered.
“I may have a few names for you.” Phaeton grinned. “Georgiana, Velvet, and Fleury.”

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