“There were apparitions the first night Lizzie and I worked the row. I have come to believe these were phantom visions—persistent hallucinations meant to lead me off, so the killer could go about her business.”
A sudden brilliant glare off the water caused Phaeton to tilt his bowler forward. “I believe we are after a female. Cunning and powerful, but also injured in some way. I have seen the harpy weaken quickly and turn to frost.” He waved a hand in the air. “A flurry of ice crystals, swirling into the air, much like the magic smoke from your pipe.”
A trail of pale blue vapor wafted from the ends of a broad mouth, which tugged upward at the moment. “Tell me about the gentleman you spotted on the rooftop and later, at the opera.”
Phaeton studied the talented clairvoyant. He had not mentioned the stranger, as yet. Which means Ping had captured the scene through the eyes of the harpy. What had Gaspar, the leader of the Gentlemen Shades, called Ping? A very muscular mesmerist.
“I have a moniker for you. Doctor Asa Alexander Exeter.”
Ping got out a notebook and scribbled. “Believe I’ve heard the name about Pennyfields.”
“Are the Shades courting him? No surprise there, I suppose.” Phaeton grunted. “The man stuck needles in my arm and Lizzie’s—ran a tube between us—transfused my blood into the girl. Then he disappeared. Haven’t been able to get much out of Mrs. Parker.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Ping leaned closer. “What is it like living in a brothel?”
“Convenient.” Phaeton winked.
Ping threw back his head as if to laugh. But he didn’t laugh—he purred. The gentle sensuous rumble made Phaeton stop short. A long shank of black hair clasped neatly at the back of Ping’s head came loose and flowed around his face and shoulders. His pale lips blushed the color of roses.
“Ping?”
“Jin.” His voice was still resonant, but higher and softer in pitch. His face transformed into something decidedly more feminine in appearance. Phaeton froze, spellbound by the transformation.
He received the most alluring smile from this ... female creature.
“Are you attracted to me?”
He clapped his mouth shut. So this was Jin. Phaeton had only heard rumors. It was said Ping could transmogrify himself into other sentient beings. That he was, in effect, a hermaphrodite. This sudden shift in gender was apparently no illusion.
A strong tug on his body pulled him closer to Jin.
“Will you kiss me, Phaeton?”
Echoes of the green fairy. How she haunted him. A swipe of pink tongue moistened Jin’s lips. Phaeton managed a quick glance at his surroundings. Their walk down the embankment had brought them in close proximity to the landmark obelisk, Cleopatra’s Needle.
“Detective Black.”
Phaeton swung around.
Maxwell Fyfe, the chief forensics man for Scotland Yard, hustled down the broad thoroughfare toward them.
Phaeton cocked his head and feigned disappointment. “Perhaps another time, Jin.”
“Best make myself scarce.” Ping turned and walked away, his long black hair and coattails billowed with the wind off the Thames.
He called upriver after Ping. “When can I expect to hear from you?”
“Check your evening paper.”
“Having a beastly day, I’m afraid,” the lab director groused.
Phaeton pivoted. “Aren’t we all?”
“Can’t stay long, but I can spare a lab assistant. Collect samples, comb the crime scene again.” Maxwell glanced upward at the obelisk. “I understand they dug several pits before settling on this location. The excavations kept seeping river water. This whole section of embankment is pocked with holes covered over.”
Phaeton craned his neck to see the top of the obelisk. “Odd bit of Egyptian plunder to erect here at the river.”
The lab director checked his watch. “I’m afraid I have to move on. The technician should be along any minute. Show him the locations you want sampled. Try to keep me apprised of any progress.”
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 pan
ts. “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.”
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 6
