“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.
Esmeralda had encouraged her to borrow a few more furnishings, and she pulled together quite a nice little sitting room. She had also managed to get to the market, stocking the larder with sorely needed staples. Crossing off chores as she went, even the disgusting ones, the list shortened considerably by late afternoon.
He stood in the center of the room, scrutinizing every last detail of her work, but made only a single comment. “It appears you have been busy today, Miss Jones.” He settled into a chair and opened the newspaper.
She jabbed her fists into her sides and bit her lip. Fine. If that was all she got, it would have to be enough. “Do you take a relaxer? Perhaps some sherry or—”
He barely looked up from his article. “Whiskey, neat. A good tumbler full.”
“There’s a wire message for you. Came tucked in the Times.” She nodded at the pale yellow envelope that had dropped onto his lap, unnoticed.
America tilted her head and pursed her lips. “I doubt many Scotland Yard detectives receive messages inside their evening paper.”
Phaeton read the wire and returned to the news. “A colleague of mine requests a meeting. Nothing clandestine about it, Miss Jones.”
She exhaled a sigh and pivoted on her heel. Setting several pots of water on to heat, she soon had the copper tub by the stove filled with steaming water. She placed a cake of hard soap and several towels on the kitchen table.
“Your bath is ready, Mr. Black.” She turned to leave the room.
“Stay where you are, miss.” Gingerly, he rose from the deeply cushioned chair. “Went a few too many rounds with Detective Farrell, I’m afraid.” Her drawn brows no doubt signaled confusion. “Pugilism, Miss Jones, at the athletic club.”
“I see, sir.”
With some effort, he stretched himself up to his full height. “A bit stiff, as you can see. You will need to undress me. And give me a bath.”
A slight eye roll accompanied an open mouth. “Are those new duties, sir? They do not appear on the list.”
He stood entirely too close. “You use the word sir as though you are prepared to obey me. Are you, Miss Jones?”
She uttered a sigh and removed his jacket and waistcoat. He made only small efforts to help with his disrobing. She pushed braces over broad shoulders and unbuttoned his trousers. Slipping his pants off, she could not help but notice there was also something rather stiff below deck.
It seemed Mr. Black wished to be stimulated, perhaps brought to pleasure. Well, two could play this game.
Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt, making sure her fingernails scratched at the thin undershirt beneath. She removed both and stepped back to admire his chest and arms. They were larger, harder, more defined than she remembered from that morning.
“Your sport does you good, Mr. Black.”
He sucked in air when she reached for the string on his drawers. Gently, purposefully, she worked her palms around his buttocks and slipped off the undergarment.
“I’ll need you to step out of these and into the tub, then.” She looked up to find his eyes fixed on her.
She pressed her lips together to avoid a grin. How easy men were. Give a man a bit of this and that, and he will begin to drool like a hound.
“Too hot?” She poured cool water into the bath to adjust the temperature. The man’s penis jumped and twitched every time she drew near.
Eyes closed, he settled into the bath. With his bare knees out of the water, and his head laid back against the edge of the cooper tub, he looked like a painting she had once admired in Brussels. Such striking masculine repose.
Determined to treat his bath no different from an everyday chore, she scrubbed his shoulders and chest and kneaded arms knotted with muscle fatigue.
She soaped his hair and massaged his temples. He opened his eyes for a moment. “You are a goddess.” She laughed off his adulation and tilted his head back, rinsing him with warm, clean water.
He lifted one leg at a time out of the bath, and she soaped the inside of each thigh, until he groaned.
“Care for a Mandalay foot massage?”
“Please do.” He smiled with closed eyes. “Burma, jewel of the British Raj. You received quite an education in your travels, Miss Jones. Do you speak many languages?”
Both thumbs pressed into the arch of his foot. “Enough to make my way about any port in the world.” She dropped his leg gently back into the water and tapped his knee for the other. “I miss the open sea. Sails snapping with wind. The Orient in my sights and England far behind me.”
The sole of this foot apparently enjoyed her manipulations, for he groaned and mumbled something about divine pleasure.
Each individual toe received a massage, but her mind was off on a voyage. “The warmth of the sun and the taste of brine on my lips.” This time, when he opened his eyes, his gaze moved to her mouth. And she returned his interest. He was a most sensuous man at rest.
She plunged his foot underwater. “Now for the private bits.”
He grinned. “Use your hands and a cake of soap.”
The nasty end of the job took a great deal of her time and attention. Those manly parts had to be soaped and made slippery several times. “Goodness, I believe that needs doing again.”
A gurgling sort of growl rose from deep inside his chest. And when she left him to soak a few minutes, his eyes had gone black and glittered with lust.
She held up a warm bath sheet and wound it carefully around him. His close study, eyes filled with hot-blooded hunger, made her cheeks sear and knees quake. She half-imagined that large phallus rubbing inside her and nearly moaned. “Was your bath satisfactory?” She managed a shy smile.
“Most stimulating, but I cannot claim satisfaction, as yet.” He surveyed her with hooded eyes. “Care to join me in my bed?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I make you tingle, Miss Jones.”
With his hand at her back, he quite purposely steered her down the narrow passage. At the end of the hallway, she turned into her small room.
An iron frame bed, made up with clean bedding, filled a good deal of the space. Bedside, a simple washbasin and pitcher sat on a plain wooden nightstand. Her shabby grey coat hung on a hook attached to the wall.
“I am your servant, not your whore, Mr. Black.” She closed the door.
The door slammed open.
He pressed her against the wall. The towel fell off his body as he wrapped his hand around her waist and yanked her to him. The hardness of him pulsed against her belly as she gasped for air.
His warm breath fanned the heat on her cheeks. “I have kissed your breasts, but it occurs to me I have never kissed you there.”
Chapter Eight
PHAETON STEPPED OUT OF THE HANSOM and pitched two bob up to the driver. He was edgy, more so than usual. He ran his fingers over his mouth. His body still burned from her kisses. Not figuratively. Literally. He had gone down hard on her lips, slanting back and forth, insisting she open to him. A brush with the tip of his tongue allowed him entrance and he penetrated deep. Even now, the sweet taste of her made him ache in every part of his lower anatomy. Soft lips surrendered the moment he teased them apart. Her tongue swirled up to greet his and encouraged him to delve deeper.
The woman was a torture to him. How—when, exactly, had this happened?
He had placed both hands on the wall, one above each lovely shoulder, and nipped at a luscious bottom lip, caressing raw flesh with his tongue. “I should be flogged, my dear, for I have wounded you.” Her whispered sigh and moan fully engorged the sh
aft of his penis. He answered her with a growl that might have come from a den in a wood.
Rallying to his game of kiss and release, she caught the bottom ledge of his mouth between her teeth and tugged. “Exquisitely arousing, Miss Jones.” She spoke in incoherent, musical utterances. And then his name. “Mr. Black?”
“Hmm.” He brushed his mouth gently over hers.
“Please.” Her sweet breath buffeted his face, delicate hands traveled down the flesh of his back, grabbing the muscle of his buttocks. “Yes, my dove?” Shifting her hands to his waist, she shoved him off. “You kiss expertly, Mr. Black.”
“Not quite skillfully enough it seems.”
Their little tête-à-tête had been explosive. Passionate. Like no kiss he ever remembered giving or receiving. Drat, the little minx was going to strain his libido to impossible new heights of discomfort.
What was it about this light brown belle that affected him so? Skin the color of coffee with cream. And that ravishing mouth, plump and inviting. The upper lip’s peaked curvature formed a pout so alluring it distracted him beyond reason.
That she aroused him was a certainty. But her disposition puzzled. She went about her household duties with admirable vigor. He even found her impertinent directness of speech and manner rather refreshing. And it was not as though she didn’t want him. He could feel the heat in her blood, see the wanton way she looked at him. So why such reluctance in matters of intercourse? Considering the way they had begun their acquaintance, her reticence to spread her legs seemed most disingenuous. Unless, of course, she toyed with him.
It really didn’t matter what she was up to; the more he thought about Miss Jones, the more desirous he became. Phaeton exhaled. Just as well he hadn’t bedded her this evening. It would have been a hard slog to leave home with that warm flesh pressed against his body.
He moved quietly into the crisscross of streets between the Strand and the river. Having set to memory every last intersecting byway of Savoy Row, he adjusted comfortably to the lane’s poorly lit surroundings. The buildings, occupied mostly by tradesmen, were related to publishing, stationers, printers, and the like. He stopped at a corner book bindery. The lingering acrid fetor of leather stamping, gilding, and glue pots made his nose twitch.
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 7
