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Authors: Jillian Stone

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BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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He wondered, frankly, if Scotland Yard ever got its priorities straight. Still, he tried for an affable smile. “Certainly, Max.”
“Good man, Phaeton. Have yet another investigation in Wapping Basin. A large warehouse burned down. The Fire Brigade’s report suspects arson. Dexter asked me to have a poke around.”
After his mouth fell open, Phaeton clapped it shut. “What is Agent Moore’s interest in a warehouse fire?”
The director shrugged. “Working on a fraud case—some sort of double dealing. Several shipping merchants have complained about piracy, of all things.”
 
For once, America was experiencing a pleasant dream. She sailed a small boat along a pretty waterway. “Wake up, Miss Jones.” She awoke to realize the serene rocking of the boat was her mattress moving, and not so gently at that. She grabbed the sides of the bed frame as it jostled her about.
“We have excellent news. Your cousin Mr. Black is here to offer you a home and the comfort of family.”
She propped herself up on her elbows and blinked. The rapscallion was standing at the foot of her bed, hat in hand.
“Thank the Good Lord I have found you. Esmeralda and I were afraid you perished in the fire. Imagine our relief to locate you here, with the Sisters of Mercy.”
A consummate actor as well. His head remained tilted in a pious manner, but there was no mistaking the spark in his eyes. She looked him up and down. “I suspect you are pressed for time, and wish me to hurry along and collect my things?”
He cleared his throat. “If you would,
dear cousin
.”
The sister on night duty rung her hands. “Oh, Mr. Black, perhaps you should come back in the morning?”
“No time like the present, Sister Germaine.” He even sighed. “Just look at those wool welts on America’s neck.”
She felt the heat on her throat where the scratchy woolen blanket had rubbed.
Mr. Black reached inside his coat and removed his card.
“I work for Scotland Yard, Sister. Our benevolent fund will gladly provide you with enough means to purchase new bedcovers. Something warm that will not ravage the ladies’ fair skin. Young women of fine, moral character they are.”
He trained a smile on the sister, while his eyes signaled America to get moving. “The very thought of these poor innocents shivering under thin, felted blankets makes my heart—well, all this will be remedied with a sizable donation.”
Sister Germaine blushed.
America rolled her eyes.
Mr. Black glared.
The cab ride to his flat was equally uncomfortable and seemingly endless. He stared straight ahead and hardly spoke. Finally, he turned his head, eyes narrowed. “Surely the warehouse had fire insurance. You can file a claim.”
“Not when arson is suspected, Mr. Black.”
“How is it you have no friends or relations here in London, miss?”
She shrugged. “Few worthy of my trust.”
“You understand that your employment is temporary. As soon as you find work elsewhere, you will be gone. Is that clear?”
“As long as you grant me leisure time to look for suitable employment, I’m sure—”
He cut her off. “I’m too angry to chitchat. In fact, I cannot bare to listen to the sound of your voice.”
America pressed her lips together, hoping to hide her amusement.
He growled, or was it a grunt? “I have never roomed with a woman. I am sure I will dislike it immensely.”
“It seems to me you live with a houseful.” She pressed folded hands into her lap.
“Clever, Miss Jones, but incorrect. I do not room with the ladies. I fuck them.”
He jumped down from the hansom and did not release the retractable step. Instead, he grabbed her by the waist and held her against his body as he lowered her to the street. He stood too close, held on too long, and seemed reluctant to let go. A strange thrill ran through all her female parts, the ones he had already touched, intimately.
With his hand at her back, he swept her through Mrs. Parker’s lobby and downstairs to his rooms. He disappeared for a moment, then returned with blankets and a sheet. “You’ll have to sleep here on the chaise tonight. That large closet you have hopes of making into sleeping quarters can wait until morning.”
He opened a cabinet door and removed a bottle of green spirit. “I believe I’ll mix myself a bracer.”
America went straight to work, spreading a sheet over the lumpy cushions of a low slung divan and laying the blankets on top. She sat down on the edge of the sofa and demurely tucked her hands under her skirt. “The stove keeps the room nicely comfortable.”
“It does.” He did not look up, but sampled the cloudy mixture in his glass.
“For the last two nights, I have slept fully clothed and shivering under a thin blanket. It would be heaven to—”
He savored another drop of absinthe. “Yes?”
She swallowed. “I will need to undress now.”
He settled into his chair. “Indeed, you will.”
“I will not be your concubine as well as your house maid, Mr. Black.”
“No need to impose myself, Miss Jones. As you have already indicated, I live below a house full of women ready to service me.”
“Very well.” Off came her skirt, petticoat, and bustle, leaving on her chemise and pantalettes. A quick glance told her everything she needed to know about the state of Mr. Black’s attention. Transfixed. And not by the muddling drink.
Neatly folding both the dress and undergarments, she sat down and unrolled her hose. Without an upward glance, she could sense his gaze travel down the length of her leg.
Slowly, deliberately, she slipped a stocking down one leg, then the other.
“You do that like a practiced courtesan, Miss Jones.”
She wiggled her toes. “Good night, Mr. Black.” A quick tuck of legs, and she slipped between sheet and blanket.
Phaeton poured another drink. Chilled water slipped over a crumbling lump of sugar, as clear emerald spirits dissolved into a swirling, milky green elixir. Holding the glass in hand, he studied the curvy shape under the blanket. Fleeting recollections of a mad, raving climax ran through his head. Their intercourse on the chair, the other day. If he was not mistaken, he had felt her pleasure, enhancing, stimulating his own. He reached down between his legs and adjusted his cock.
His life had suddenly taken a turn into Dante’s trial in the Inferno. Complete with an assortment of ephemeral beasts, including this flesh and blood she-cat. He exhaled a low sigh and eased back into his chair. At least he could take pleasure in a bit of peace and quiet.
“I can’t sleep.”
The hired help was up on an elbow, rubbing her eyes.
“I would so enjoy fetching you a hot milk, but there is no cream in the larder. Anything else, miss? Perhaps a fairy story?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Conversation will have to do.”
He poured the last of the chilled water through a slatted spoon.
“Have you ever been in love, Mr. Black?”
“A very long time ago. I try not to think of it.” He picked up his glass. “One needs to be careful about digging up the past. It can be a dirty business.”
“I thought not.” She huffed.
“Ah, you’ve had a thought. My congratulations. Do you wish to share it, Miss Jones?”
Those plump lips formed a pouty, lopsided smirk. “You’ve never been in love.”
He tilted his head, considering her statement. “Well, that makes the two of us. I believe you informed me after we had intercourse for the second time in so many hours that you do not believe in love. Do I remember correctly?”
“There is no such thing as love. There are only proofs of love.”
“Proofs?”
“You heard right, Mr. Black. Proofs of love. It is what my father taught me. Pay little attention to a man’s words of love, he would say. But, watch closely his behavior. There, you will find the truth in his heart.”
“Proof of pirates. Proof of love.” He stretched his legs out in front of him and caught her ogling.
She swallowed. “You have very nice limbs, long and muscular from what I can see under the fabric of your trousers.”
“Do you make a habit of studying masculine physiques?”
“It is important to know if a man is better suited to climb rigging or stoke a furnace.”
He studied her quietly for a moment. “What sort of proofs suggest a man’s affection?”
She smiled so sweetly he was taken aback.
A terrifying thought crossed his mind. “Oh no. Please tell me you don’t believe—removing you from the parish home was a proof of—” He scoffed. “Proof of nothing but my own madness.”
She pushed up on both elbows. The coverlet fell off her chest, revealing dark points under a thin silk camisole. The sight encouraged him to gape. “Mr. Black, you didn’t have to come after me, now, did you?”
He wanted to rip the dainty lace off and suckle each dark tip until it stood at attention. Another erection pressed painfully against his trouser leg.
Phaeton leaned forward. “One chore unfinished, one task forgotten, Miss Jones, and you’ll find out just how hard my heart can be. I’ll toss you back on the street without a care.”
The little hoyden flung herself onto the chaise and pulled the covers over her head. She mumbled something distinctly impertinent for hired help.
“Go to the devil.”
He lifted his glass to the bump under the blanket. “Easily done.”
Chapter Seven
A
GREY DAWN FILTERED THROUGH HIGH-PLACED WINDOWS
. America blinked. The room was unfamiliar and sparsely furnished. Where was she? Oh yes, Mr. Black’s flat.
Groggy from sleep, she pulled the covers close and nestled deeper into the sofa. The terror and sadness of the past few days had eased somewhat, especially since last night. In a rather dramatic, middle-of-the-night maneuver, Mr. Black had rescued her from the shelter and given her work. The ends of her mouth tilted upward as she recalled his grousing in the hansom cab. Tolerable enough, even somewhat comforting.
The ill-humored male temperament didn’t phase her in the least. Papa had been a cantankerous sort, but underneath his prickly, bearish demeanor she had always found affection. Good men, the kind who take their responsibilities seriously, were often cranky. America wondered if this was true of her new employer.
She closed her eyes and Mr. Black’s calling card came to mind.
If what she had seen and heard last night was true, if Mr. Black actually worked for Scotland Yard, might he be able to assist her? She sat upright. The prospects of bringing Yankee Willem to justice, as well as having her stolen ships returned, suddenly seemed greatly improved. Tossing back blankets, she dressed in a frenzy.
She hesitated. Or was she just playing the fool? Without a doubt, Mr. Black had proved himself to be debauched as well as disagreeable. She found an apron in the closet and tied it on. But if he was a Yard man, well, that made him a godsend.
By the time the morning mist burned off, she had the small kitchen and pantry scrubbed to sparkling. There were also freshly made buns on the stove and a hot kettle ready for tea.
She tapped at his door quietly and the door swung open. “Mr. Black?”
He was pulling drawers up over chiseled buttocks. She did not cough or gasp. She stared.
Having grown up on a ship, America had caught glimpses of near naked men often enough, but this was, well, quite delicious. He grabbed his trousers and turned in her direction. She nearly choked. Naturally, he would have a broad, hard chest, dusted with brown hair.
“Looking for a bit of morning in and out, Miss Jones?” He yanked on pants. “Shall I leave these unbuttoned?”
Stop gaping.
“Excuse me, I came to inquire—how do you take your tea, Mr. Black?”
He tugged a grin into a frown. “How disappointing.” He tipped his head and buttoned his pants. “Spot of milk and sugar.”
“Exactly how I take mine.” She smiled and dashed down the narrow hall to ready his breakfast.
“I do not sleep in a night shirt.” He stood in the pantry, lifting braces up over a newly pressed shirt. “If it bothers, I suggest you refrain from opening my door, leastwise before knocking.”
“But I did knock. And the door opened on its own.”
“An unlikely occurrence, but nevertheless, do take care in the future.” He unfolded a sheet of paper and let it dangle between two fingers. “I take it you read, Miss Jones?”
She wiped her hands on her apron and took the note. It was a list of chores, a very long list at that, and several tasks quite dreadful, filthy work. Then and there, she determined never to let him see so much as a grimace.
“Very good, sir.” She set the note aside. “I borrowed a jar of milk from Mrs. Parker and she told me there is a bed frame in the attic along with several mattresses. I’m to have a look.”
He retrieved a few coins from his pocket and pressed them into her palm. “You’ll need to purchase a sheet, and a few personal items. The blankets from last night are serviceable enough.”
“There is blackberry jam in the pantry, and I made more buns, the kind you like, Mr. Black. May I pour you some tea?” He studied her for a moment, before sliding a chair out from the table.
She set down his teacup, a plate of butter and buns, and a jar of preserve. She waited until he bit into a mouthful of hot bread dripping with melted butter and sweet berries.
“Do you really work for Scotland Yard?”
“At the moment.” He chewed with enthusiasm. “Periodically, they discontinue my contract. Has something to do with the odd nature of cases I work on.”
“Is it possible, Mr. Black—that is, might you assist me with my problem?”
He buttered the second half of the bun and ignored her presence. She tiptoed closer. He set the knife down and looked up, raising a brow.
She bit her lower lip before mustering a brighter look. “You remember, sir, the stolen ships.”
He slurped a bit of tea. “Ah, the rude, unpleasant pirates.”
America sighed. “You could help me if you wanted to.”
“I could.” He popped a last piece of bun in his mouth. “If I wanted to.”
He disappeared down the hall and returned a moment later, cravat in place, vest and jacket donned. “I’m out for the day, won’t be back until late afternoon.” He nodded to the list on the table. “If and when you succeed in completing those—”
“Yes, Mr. Black?” She brightened.
“I’ll think of more.” He whisked by and gave her posterior a pat. “Those buns of yours are heavenly, Miss Jones.”
 
Phaeton clenched his stomach to take the blows. After being pushed across the ring, Zander had him against the ropes. Dripping sweat, he held up a gloved hand to signal a break. Several months off the job, and he’d gone soft.
To relieve a kink, he lifted one shoulder, then the other, rolling his head side to side. A pale, trifling bit of illumination filtered through the skylight, which left the sparring arenas poorly lit. Above the glass panes, a thick black fog blanketed London. Shadows hovered in every corner and niche of the gymnasium. An attendant turned up a nearby gas lamp. The hiss mingled with the slaps and thuds of padded leather gloves smacking human flesh.
“Had enough?”
He shook his head. “One more round.”
Barely winded, his sparring partner grinned. “Sure of that, Phaeton?”
What was Zander Farrell? Ten years older and in better condition. It rankled. He punched his gloves together. “Just give me two minutes and we’ll go again.”
Zander leaned against the corner post. “It was your idea to meet at my athletic club. Any news to report?”
Still breathing hard, Phaeton exhaled. “I may have a chance at the enigmatic Doctor Exeter this afternoon.”
“So, the fisticuffs. A little late to prepare for that mysterious fellow, don’t you think?”
Phaeton ducked his head and wiped away sweat with the back of his forearm. “Received a tip from one of the whores, a fairly reliable source. It seems a tall, austere gentleman arrives most every Thursday around teatime. He greets no one in the salon, but goes directly upstairs to Esmeralda’s apartment and often stays well into the evening.”
“You plan on interrupting the man’s weekly coitus?” Zander’s frown was formidable.
“Reports of my fearlessness are greatly exaggerated. I am not daft.”
“Why all the mounting interest in Exeter?”
“Mounting? You’ll have to ask Esmeralda about that. Besides the fact that he irritates, I get the feeling Exeter and I are both after the same culprit.” He pounded gloved fists together. “Whether Chilcott cares to admit it or not, we’re in over our heads. I believe we can use this man—I need to know what he knows.”
Zanderx drilled into him with those deep indigo, all-seeing eyes. “I may have a bit more on the doctor for you, background mostly. It seems he is the only surviving son of Orius Exeter, Baron de Roos, Premier Baron of England. Ancient title, one of the oldest in the kingdom. And here’s the rub, no one is completely sure the reclusive Baron is dead. There were reports last spring the old man succumbed to a wretched disease of some kind, but I could find no record of it. No death certificate or funeral notice.”
“Nicely Gothic and ghoulish. Soon, I shall have enough material to write a novel.” Phaeton absently studied an apparition sitting in a darkened corner, an ephemeral, greyish gargoyle. The creature perched on a stool, chin cupped in clawed hand. Whenever portals from the netherworld opened, he never knew quite what to expect. Would it be a hellish beast or a pestering fairy? Occasionally they lingered and were bothersome, like the fiendish trickster in the shadows. In due course, most demons dissolved into the mist, a gallery of faded ghosts from his past.
Zander bit back a grin. “If you insist on writing up your exploits, be sure to change up names and make yourself a hired detective, otherwise you’ll give Chilcott an apoplexy.”
“I’ll use a
nom de plume
, Lavender Lavishe, no one shall be the wiser.” Phaeton sashayed out into the ring and affected a flamboyant bow. “Youth before beauty, Mr. Farrell.”
Zander pushed off the ropes. “As long as you concede I am the prettier one.”
 
Phaeton slipped out of Lizzie’s room and quietly shut the door. He leaned against flock-work wallpaper and massaged both temples. The girl was still not herself. Would the poor thing ever be right again? She had been a brave and sassy coworker, and he did not wish to think of her as half alive or half dead.
Every muscle in his body ached. Except for an impressive last minute show of courage in the ring, Zander had soundly thrashed him. He often marveled at what, if anything, the Yard man saw in him. At least this time he had a trustworthy man at his back, both in the field and at the office. Not so with the Ripper case. He had instantly clashed with CID inspectors, fools with brains in their bollocks. They had gone to Chilcott and accused him of acting raving mad.
The brothel was pleasantly tranquil in the early afternoon. He stole down the hall and stopped short of Esmeralda’s door. A silent turn of the knob, and he entered more of a library than a parlor for socializing. Astounded by the number and quality of books, he nosed about the dimly lit room. Many of the tomes dealt with middle eastern mythology, history, religion. An avid interest in anthropology, perhaps? He recalled Layla’s name, the aroma of curried dishes being prepared in the kitchen. There was much more to Esmeralda Parker than met the eye.
From behind a wall of bookcases, soft moans of pleasure lofted through the air. He imagined Esmeralda naked and writhing beneath—well, he would rather not think about who, at the moment. He took a seat beside a pedestal table piled high with pictorial books and entertained a brief fantasy.
Rummaging through the stack of oversized reference volumes, he found the perfect accompaniment to his rapidly burgeoning lower anatomy.
The Perfumed Garden of Sensual Delight.
Translated from the French by Sir Richard Francis Burton.
He opened the book to a random illustration of a female. Sitting cross-legged, she reclined onto locked arms. Even though she wore exotic pantaloons, her breasts were bare. A man, her lover, knelt in front of her; one hand cupped a breast, the other held a nipple between thumb and forefinger.
He read the caption. “If you desire coition, cling first to her bosom; bite her, kiss her breasts, then suckle until you make her faint with pleasure; when you see her so far gone, then push your—”
“Mr. Black.”
He clapped the book shut. “Doctor Exeter.”
Phaeton perused the nude body of the man standing directly in front of him. Golden skin, lean muscle, impressive phallus even at half-mast. Magnificent. If he wasn’t inclined toward the female sex, he would surely be aroused. Actually, he was aroused.
“Please be assured, it was my intention to wait until you both achieved satis—”
“That could take hours, Mr. Black.” The man crossed his arms over a well-defined chest.
“Hours? Well, that is masterly of you, doctor.”
Green eyes peered out from under a slash of dark brows. “Esmeralda deserves such adorations.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Both gazes narrowed, assessing, reassessing.
Phaeton sighed. It would be best to sidestep a cock fight. “I came to ask politely, one last time, if you would cooperate with Scotland Yard. You are elusive, Doctor Exeter, but not impossible to find. I could make your life quite miserable.”
“You have already proven to be annoying.”
“Well then, how about more of me? I can have the entire force brought down upon you. No matter how many interesting abilities you possess, you also have physical needs that require maintenance—eating, sleeping.” He nodded toward the bedchamber. “Adorations.”
Phaeton rose from the chair. “If what I surmise is true, this ghastly business has been going on for some time, and you’ve been going it alone. I recommend you consider reinforcements. Would it not be better to coordinate surveillance? Work together, rather than continually get in each other’s way?”
Phaeton held his breath while the doctor deliberated.
“Tonight, Mr. Black. Above 91 Savoy Row. Anytime after moonrise.”
 
“Draw me a bath.”
He said nothing about how the apartment looked. America had scrubbed and washed until the flat smelled like spring and sparkled like a finely cut diamond. A serviceable bed frame and reasonably clean mattress had been carried down from the attic and set up in her room.
BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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