The Seduction of Phaeton Black (24 page)

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Authors: Jillian Stone

BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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“Phaeton lent his assistance to Inspector Moore, a last minute substitution. Short of manpower over the weekend.”
Chilcott motioned to Phaeton. “Pull up a chair and tell us what you know of Baron de Roos and the lovely, poisonous—I believe she calls herself—”
Zander referred to the notes on his lap. “Qadesh?”
“Nearly had my soul as well as my privates.” Both Yard men leaned in to hear the story. Whenever possible, he enhanced the more prurient aspects of his encounter with Qadesh until Exeter rolled his eyes.
Phaeton straightened. “Had it not been for the doctor’s ability to transfuse blood, I might have crossed over the River Styx.”
Chilcott dropped back into his well-worn leather chair. “As to the current status of your investigation, Doctor Exeter tells me you have yet another rock to find and turn over.”
Phaeton nodded. “There’s a lead I’d like to follow up on—several actually.”
“And what might those be? Trail seems dead to me. After destroying a sizable chunk of Victoria’s Embankment, what other havoc do you plan to wreak on the city?”
“For one thing, I’d like to pursue the missing sarcophagus.”
When Chilcott raised a brow, Phaeton turned to the doctor. “What exactly do they know?”
“I’m afraid we got to very little of your case. We spent the majority of our time on my father’s confession.”
“And how goes that revelation?” Now it was Phaeton’s turn to scrutinize the top Yard man. “Does Scotland Yard call the Ripper case closed?”
Chilcott didn’t blink an eye but he lowered his voice. “For the time being, the case will remain open, perhaps indefinitely, to the outside world.”
“And internally?
“I am prepared to believe the Baron’s story.” The director rocked back in his chair and the leather squeaked predictably. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Black. You had all the right instincts on the investigation—”
“Hard to believe in a monstrous shade stalking the Chapel, sir.”
Chilcott’s mouth actually twitched upward. “Generous of you, Phaeton, but nevertheless, I mean to have your lost wages restored, and we can arrange for a permanent desk here at the office, if you like.”
The great, imperturbable but always irascible Chilcott had just made an apology. Phaeton was almost unnerved by the director’s humble admonition. He glanced across a corner of the desk and caught Zander’s wink.
“Thank you, sir.” Phaeton swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Now, about the missing sarcophagus ... ?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“Qadesh appears to be searching for an errant husband. What if we were to take the vicious little virago at her word?” Phaeton nodded toward the doctor. “According to Doctor Exeter’s research, a pair of sarcophagi was found nestled in the sand beside the obelisk transported to England.”
Exeter opened a carrying case and retrieved his notes. “One was damaged and broken, presumably used to fill in sinkholes along the Embankment.”
Chilcott steepled his fingers against a drawn mouth. “And you feel confident you have destroyed the Empusa’s primary resting place?”
Phaeton grimaced. “Yes and no. There was a nest of sorts in Whitechapel, burned to the ground by the doctor here. We can only assume she has others.”
Zander looked up from his scribbling. “The Dorset Lane fire? As I recall, the murders did soon cease after the blaze.”
Exeter managed a thin-lipped smile. “Before Phaeton left for Portsmouth, we thought we might take a new tack. Find the object of her desire and lure our dark goddess out of hiding.”
“The missing sarcophagus. More specifically, whatever remains under the stone.” Chilcott grunted. “A clever as well as prudent idea. I very much dislike the alternative, which is cleaning up after your wake of destruction through the city.”
Zander opened a folder and set pencil to paper. “Do tell us your plans, Phaeton. I take it Doctor Exeter has been of considerable assistance to Scotland Yard thus far?”
“Invaluable.” Phaeton gave a nod to the doctor. “There may be records of both public and private collections in the British Museum Library. We plan to make a start there. Perhaps a good poke around the museum’s warehouses and storerooms is also in order. I’ll need your assistance to get their cooperation.”
“Easily done.” The director signaled Zander. “Mr. Farrell, see to it the museum is informed and ready to assist the investigation. You will continue as supervisor, but I want you in a more active role, working directly with Phaeton and his—” He turned to the doctor. “Shall we call you a consultant?”
Exeter nodded and Zander closed his file. “I will clear my schedule.”
For a moment, Chilcott almost appeared jovial. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”
Phaeton hesitated. “There is the matter of Hampstead Heath, sir.”
“Ah yes, the dead body found floating facedown in the pond. An accidental drowning, wasn’t it?” The director leaned forward. “What about it, Phaeton?”
Chapter Twenty-four
A
MERICA TURNED THE PAGE
. Her gaze swept over the words of the novel to the clock on the wall. The timepiece chimed its twelfth and final stroke. Where was he? She was more than ready for a rollicking good argument and would like to get it over with.
Earlier this evening, she had nearly worn the carpet runner bare from vexation. Why on earth was it necessary for her to move out? It seemed perfectly sensible, indeed prudent, to stay right here and wait until her ships were legally restored to her.
With her speech duly rehearsed and prepared, she settled down with Poe’s
Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque
. It was obviously a childhood tomb of Phaeton’s. He had even scribbled enthusiastic notes between lines. It appeared, even as a boy, Phaeton exuded a nonchalant, devil-may-care attitude. She marveled at the spirited youth who idolized fearlessly cocky heroes, encouraging them on to reckless, dangerous behavior. In one revealing margin notation he had written a line from
Macbeth
.
Screw your courage to the sticking place!
An odd, hollow pain gnawed in the pit of her stomach. She slipped her finger out from between the pages and closed the book. She would promise to remain quietly to herself and pay never mind to his comings and goings. He, as well, would allow her to go about her business with no interference. Of course, once the intimacies between them ceased, rooming with Mr. Black would almost certainly present challenges.
She squared her shoulders and sat up straight. He would quickly resume the carefree bachelor life, which included drink, opiates, and a parade of harlots in and out of the flat. But in fact, this sort of depraved, routine behavior of his might be the very tonic needed to cure her of this wretched infatuation. Oh, he was more than charming, all right, and brave beyond measure. She would keep in mind his less admirable side. What had Inspector Moore called him? A profligate defiler of women.
A commotion of footsteps padded noisily from the stairs above. Some kind of chase, it seemed, for there was a great deal of pounding down the treads. And a female’s laughter. America tilted her head toward the racket. Layla proceeded him by a few steps. As the two rounded the landing, Phaeton reached out and caught the harlot by a large bow fashioned above her bustle.
America shot up from the chaise and faced them.
Taken back at the sight of her, he staggered then lurched upright. “I thought I made myself clear, Miss Jones. You were to find yourself a very nice room in a quality boardinghouse.” He swept a hand upward in a furious gesture that nearly tipped him over. “Out of my presence.” Layla grabbed hold to steady the wobbler.
She could barely stand the sight of him. Near to blind inebriated, she could smell the drink from across the room. A glare she couldn’t quite control darted from Phaeton to Layla to Phaeton. “I’m afraid there was no room at the inn.” She lifted her chin. “Not in Knightsbridge, Mayfair, or Kensington. Not even here in the city.”
His head jerked back. “That’s ridiculous. London is full of—”
“Not for me, Mr. Black.” Her gaze traveled to the pretty copperish-colored doxy beside him. “Layla, why don’t you take him to bed, and as you ply your wares, would you kindly explain to your customer the most obvious of reason for such a curious lack of vacancies?”
Quite without warning, a dizziness came over her. As if a rug had somehow slipped out from under her feet.
The doxy towed him in the direction of the bedroom. Phaeton curled an upper lip. “Care to join?”
“Good night, Mr. Black.” America turned away and collapsed onto lumpy cushions. Their voices wafted through thin plaster walls, and she covered her ears. The soft, deep rumble of his voice and Layla’s high-pitched murmurs blended into a mélange of whispers. She tucked her knees under her chin and rocked back and forth. She wouldn’t let herself cry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Surly, wicked libertine.”
When his bedroom door crashed open, she barely noticed.
“You did not introduce yourself as the Princess Serafine al Qatari? An excellent ruse—” Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice.
“Because I do not lie with the same kind of aplomb you devise so effortlessly. Besides, I had no entourage or Scotland Yard escort to enhance such a clever plot.”
Phaeton rounded the chaise. “No, you just want to stay long enough to make sure I am entirely miserable.” His bellow ended in an angry growl.
“Do not raise your voice to me.” She grimaced at her own shriek.
“You little harpy.” Hands on his hips, he shook his head. “I’ll yell if I please.”
“And that would make you a bully, Mr. Black.” She thrust out a bottom lip.
Phaeton turned away, then back again. He strangled the air with his hands and kicked up a corner of the rug. “Out of my flat.” He pointed at the stairs. “Immediately.”
She blinked. “At this hour?” Maddened beyond reason, her eyes darted up a pair of long limbs. Phaeton stood in front of her with his shirt unbuttoned. Besides the fact that he appeared a bit flushed, he looked sleepy and adorable and very ... she swallowed.
“Must I pack you up and move you myself?” His eyes were red-rimmed but surprisingly clear and focused. He glanced at Layla whose smile seemed to only grow brighter as she backed out of the flat and up the stairs.
America sighed. “Would it be such a terrible inconvenience if I stayed until at least one of my ships is returned? You can come and go as you please, Mr. Black, and enjoy whatever female entertainments you might—”
“Do you think me a fool, Miss Jones?”
“Of course not.”
He leaned in. “Let me see if I take your meaning. While I waltz doxies in and out of my room, I am to ignore your insults and pretend you are not here.”
She searched for a spot in the room to land her gaze. Anywhere but his face where those piercing black eyes caused a prickling on the back of her neck and her arms.
“You called me a surly, wicked libertine.”
Her gaze lowered as she faltered a reply. “I’m very sorry you heard that, Mr. Black.”
“Pardon me if I question the sincerity of your regret.”
She took in a deep breath and held it. When he didn’t continue on, she was forced to exhale, loudly. “I meant every word of my apology—”
“Unlike you, Miss Jones, I would feel entirely uncomfortable taking pleasure with another woman while you reside in such close proximity. In fact, I wouldn’t think of it.” Phaeton looked away then quickly returned his gaze. “I’m disappointed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I thought you actually cared for me—a little.”
She bit her lip to stop the tremble. Her throat ached so acutely, she could not speak. “Look at me, America.”
She kept her head lowered. Any sudden movement, even a blink, would send a wash of tears down her cheeks. “I must say I find it rather endearing you don’t seem to notice my color.” She hardly recognized the whispered croak in her voice.
Phaeton exhaled a deep, gentle sigh. He descended to his haunches and lifted her chin. “Of course I notice.” From what she could make out through a veil of liquid, his gaze softened. “You are beautiful, Miss Jones. In fact, I often find it quite impossible to look away.”
She smiled and the flood gates opened.
“Come.” He led her into his room and removed a clean pocket square from a dresser drawer. He patted her cheeks before covering her nose. “Blow.”
She took the handkerchief and sniffed, while he unbuttoned her dress. “I am inebriated and exhausted. And quite regretfully, I am no threat to your body this evening.”
He undressed her completely without much caressing, then removed his shirt and trousers. He climbed into his bed and patted the mattress beside him.
She studied the many discolored marks on his torso and face. The magnificent bruised warrior in repose. And there was the most alluring cut on his upper lip, another humble reminder of his heroism. A wave of tender affection hit her, as well as weariness. She was fatigued in the extreme; they both were. She climbed up into the bed, and he pulled her under the covers, against his hardness.
“The duke seems ever the ready man.”
“Pay him no mind.” Phaeton nuzzled her neck. “Until morning.”
 
Phaeton weaved his way past the main exhibit room and found the doors to the courtyard. The British Museum Library, a large Georgian rotunda, occupied the central focal point of the gardens. Weaving a path through a labyrinth of flowerbeds, he inhaled the spicy scent of roses. A slight ache in his groin reminded him of how lovely she had looked in her sleep, despite the dark circles under her eyes. He had not awakened her, even though his cock would have enjoyed a lovely start to the day.
At the moment, his scheme to recover his life was in shambles. Overnight, the idea of America moving out had become at least as painful as the thought of her staying. He gritted his teeth until his jaw twitched. Well, if she could stand it, he could. A few more days or weeks, what could it hurt? Phaeton prayed for the former—not the latter.
He climbed a set of curved stairs and approached a wooden balustrade. Under a vast glass-domed ceiling, a number of library tables were surrounded by an ever-widening, concentric circle of bookshelves. The great reading room of the British Library. Other than the occasional jerk of a chair or the turning of a page, the chamber was silent. One could almost hear the air circulate in the room.
“Inspector Black?”
Phaeton swiveled. A tall, balding man of gaunt appearance crept forward. “Detective Black, Scotland Yard.” Phaeton flipped open his card case. “I take it you have been briefed on the nature of my investigation?”
The gentleman removed a pair of pince-nez from his waistcoat pocket and examined the calling card. “We have prepared a private room for you and your consultant, a Doctor—”
“Jason Exeter. Has he arrived, as yet?”
“Oh, yes, he arrived quite promptly at nine o’clock, the moment the museum opened.” The man slowly, precisely adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “Allow me to introduce myself. Alfred Stickles, library curator.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Stickles.” Phaeton nodded at the elderly man whose hollow-cheeked appearance and slow, deliberate bearing reminded him of an old headmaster he and his schoolmates had dubbed Sir Bugsley Headmantis. “If you would kindly point me in the right direction?”
“I shall escort you.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“De rigueur, Mr. Black. I can’t have Scotland Yard poking about, asking questions and the like, disturbing serious research.”
Phaeton tightened a smile. “Lead the way, Mr. Stickles.” He took a deep breath and slowed his pace. After a leisurely stroll through the reading room, they passed through a set of neatly concealed doors which led to a comfortable, well-appointed meeting room. The doctor sat, engrossed in a large, handwritten ledger, at one end of a long table.
“Ah, Mr. Black, pull up a chair and have at one of these volumes.” Phaeton looked at the tall stack piled on the table. “Any one in particular?”
“The barge carrying the obelisk was towed into the Thames Estuary in January of 1878. The needle was erected in September of that same year. I asked for all inventory records from 1878 through to the present date.”
Phaeton removed his coat and tossed it over a chairback. “Why all the extra years of records?”
“If the sarcophagus was sold to a private party, it may well have been stored for a time before resurfacing.” Exeter leaned back in his chair and nodded to the librarian. “Mr. Stickles informs me that artifacts believed lost or stolen often make their way to the museum after a number of years.”
The librarian handed Phaeton a ledger from the top of the pile. “For some time, the museum has quietly let it be known to less scrupulous dealers in antiquities, we would pay handsomely for certain missing artifacts.”
Phaeton raised a brow. “No questions asked?”
“As long as the object is genuine and its provenance
bona fide
.”
Phaeton thought about the Hall of Mummies packed with rows of stone coffins. “Would a sarcophagus dug up in Alexandria, connected to the obelisk, be of interest?
Stickles’ eyes rolled upward. “That would depend, Mr. Black.”
“On what is inside?”
The curator’s gaze returned something that vaguely resembled a wink. “When is content not important?”
“Coffins carved with great artistry, death masks of gold, a stunning array of jewels, perhaps? And mummies of course.” Phaeton saw no reason to trouble the elderly man by adding essence of Anubis, jackal-headed god of the afterlife.
A young page poked his head in the room. “Shall the gentlemen be needing anything, sir?”
The curator swung back toward him. “Care for some tea? A simple request to have refreshment brought up from the kitchen.”
He hadn’t stopped for breakfast. “Might there be a few biscuits with that?”

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