“The duke was very deep inside.”
“My penis has been called many things, Miss Jones, but never by his rightful title.”
“I shall call him le duc du plaisir.”
He angled his chin and lowered a kiss to her temple. “Always glad to pleasure you.”
“And what do you call him?”
With the back of a knuckle, he scratched an itchy eye. “Which body part of mine might you be referring to, Miss?”
“Perched on the side chair,” she whispered. “He’s been watching us, since—well I suppose we put on quite a show.”
He lifted his head, brows drawn together in a squint. The familiar grim-faced elfish gargoyle crouched in the deep shadows of his usual corner. “Edvar The Sneaky.”
She dissolved into snorts of soft laughter.
“I was only four or five when I named him.” Phaeton balled up a pillow and fired it across the room. The creature faded with the exception of pale yellow eyes that blinked in the darkness.
“Annoying little fiend follows me around. Pay him no mind, or he’ll pester you into Bedlam.”
“I don’t believe he wishes you any harm.” She swept a thick bunch of curls behind her shoulder. “In fact”—she peered into the black corner—“I sense protectiveness. Perhaps he is your guardian.”
He propped himself up on an elbow and blinked, wide-eyed. “No one has ever seen Edvar, until now. Mother may have glimpsed his tail slither under my bed once.”
“So your abilities come from your maman, as well.”
Phaeton tugged her down beside him and kissed her several times. Soft, sensuous nibbles along her throat and over her chin. He pushed his leg between her thighs.
“Síne?”
“Yes, Mr. Black.”
America’s nose awoke to the savory aroma of bangers in the skillet. Another whiff confirmed sausage and a bit of scrambled egg. Mr. Black was making breakfast. Her stomach rumbled.
Something moved under the sheets and nearly caused her to jump off the mattress. A deeply satisfied groan came from beneath a pillow. A hand reached around her waist and pulled her against a hard shaft and warm body.
The man was ready again? She took a moment to admire his stamina. They’d had a go with nearly a half dozen positions last night. She sighed.
But if her employer snoozed beside her, who was cooking breakfast? “Mr. Black?”
“Mmm, what is it my dove?”
She quite liked the croak in his morning voice. “It’s about breakfast.”
He raised the pillow and sniffed. “Miss Jones, you are a marvel. Shall we eat in bed and have seconds? Or would that be thirds or fourths for us? I’ve lost count.” He traveled a hand up her belly to cradle a breast.
“I awoke to the scent of sausage and egg, same as you. The point is—who is in your pantry?”
He shot upright and cocked his head.
“Perhaps one of the ladies from above stairs?” A disturbing thought. She did not relish the idea of anyone, other than herself, fixing breakfast for him.
He shook his head. “Late workers those girls. I’d wager most of them have yet to kick the last john out of bed.” He slipped out from under the covers and grabbed his trousers.
“Do you suppose Edvar has taken a turn in the kitchen?”
“Wouldn’t that be a score. No, if that was possible, I’d have turned the little monster into my valet years ago.”
She wasn’t about to argue with the man first thing in the morning. But she very distinctly remembered his clothing strewn about the floor last night. This morning, his pants were folded neatly and hung over the foot rails.
Finished buttoning his pants, he opened the door and peered down the hall. He swung back into the room. “I believe our phantom cook is Doctor Exeter.”
America jumped out of bed and grabbed her wrapper. “What is he doing here?”
He took another peek. “Perhaps, he is about to be arrested.”
She slipped into her room across the hall, hoping not to miss the excitement of an arrest or a bite of egg and sausage. She washed up quickly, tied her hair back in a ribbon, and dressed.
An elegantly attired, handsome man noted her entrance with a great deal of interest. “You have a guest, Mr. Black?”
“Doctor Jason Exeter, please meet America Jones.”
She dipped a curtsy and lifted her arm.
“Delighted.” He kissed the back of her hand.
“Doctor Exeter has been so kind as to prepare a breakfast. Please join us.” While her employer returned to his room to finish dressing, America set about helping the doctor ready the table and fill three plates.
“Tea or coffee, Mr. Black?”
“We have coffee?”
The tall man took a seat at the table holding a carafe of aromatic, dark brown liquid. “Seems I can’t start the day without it. Stopped by Mason and Fortnum on my way here.”
Phaeton scratched his head. “How late is it?”
Exeter sipped and swallowed. “After ten in the morning.”
Mr. Black scooped up a forkful of egg and changed the subject. “Have you an alibi or a confession for me, doctor?”
The gentleman glanced at her and raised a brow.
“Feel free to speak in front of Miss Jones. It was she who identified that spying little orb as Egyptian. She is a kind of... assistant to me.” He winked at her.
Narrowly avoiding an ogle, the doctor returned his gaze to Mr. Black. “I have an offer.”
“You don’t believe I’ll negotiate.” Her employer sliced through a plump sausage. “Do you?”
“You are invited for a weekend in Twickenham, the family’s estate. It is time you were introduced to my father, Mr. Black. If you are to understand what has happened here in London these past few months, it is imperative you hear the truth from him.”
“So, the elusive Baron de Roos is alive.”
Exeter’s unflappable demeanor chilled. “No doubt Scotland Yard would like to know one way or the other.”
Mr. Black chewed on a last bit of sausage. “Scotland Yard is curious.”
Exeter sighed. “My father is perhaps days away from his grave. If you would make your way to Roos House on the Thames you will learn the truth of the matter. Then, in due course, you can decide whether you want to have me arrested or not.”
“Truth is a very good start.” Over the edge of a coffee cup, his eyes narrowed on the doctor. “Answers, better.”
“You will have both, Mr. Black.” The dark, reserved man rose to leave. “I shall accompany Mia and Mr. Tandi. We leave this afternoon by ferry.” He nodded to her. “Miss Jones is welcome to join.”
POST OFFICE INLAND TELEGRAM
28 FEBRUARY 1889 9:00 AM
TO: AMERICA JONES
IN RECEIPT OF SHIPS REGISTRIES STOP
PREPARE TO LEAVE FOR PORTSMOUTH
AGENT MOORE
She read the telegram and nearly fainted. Perhaps all was not lost. If her heart could sing, it would be trilling an aria. Light-headed and breathless, she could barely contain the surge of hope and joy quaking through her.
Mr. Black read the missive over her shoulder. “I see Agent Moore wants to get cracking.”
“Oh yes, I believe this is very good news, don’t you?”
“You shall have a very relaxing, pampered weekend with me at Roos House.” He kissed her neck which always caused a shiver. “Then, first of the week, we shall travel on to Portsmouth and reconnoiter with Mr. Moore.”
Her eyes glistened. “You will go with me? Help me find my father’s ships and arrest Yanky Willem?”
“I told you I would help you whenever possible.” He moved around the table. “And you will not travel to Portsmouth accompanied by Dexter Moore. The man’s a—”
“A roué and a seducer?” She lowered her eyelids and shot him a smoldering gaze. “Nothing like you, Mr. Black.”
“He does his best to hide it.” When he raised a haughty brow, she found it impossible not to
scoff.
“Which would you rather have, my dear? A man who is honest and forthright about his proclivities or a profligate underhanded cheat?”
A sudden revelation caused her brows to furrow. “Oh, but I cannot accompany you to Roos House, Mr. Black.”
“Why ever not? You received an invitation. I heard it myself.”
She hesitated, bit her lip, and then blurted it out. “I have nothing to wear.”
Chapter Thirteen
HIS WIDE-EYED STARE CAUSED AMERICA TO TURN AWAY. She carried their breakfast dishes to the pantry counter and filled a dishpan with water. Rare, to catch Mr. Black unawares.
“We’ll go shopping.”
She spun around. “I’ve not a farthing to spare on clothes.”
“But you have a generous employer who can easily purchase a few dresses.”
The man was positively wicked to obligate her in such a way. A terrible ache in her chest led to a rush of yearning. A new wardrobe was an agonizing temptation. “I cannot accept such an extravagant gift, Mr. Black.”
His gaze narrowed to a squint. “Ah yes, you refuse to be my concubine.”
“I will not play your simpering doxy.”
He brightened. “You are on the brink of recovering your shipping business, Miss Jones. Once you get your sea legs back, so to speak, you can repay me.”
She swirled soap flakes into a teacup of hot water and stirred with her finger. “An acceptable offer. But only if I include a reasonable amount of interest.” She dried her hands on her apron. “I’ll need the use of your fountain pen and a sheet of paper.”
At the kitchen table, she wrote out a promissory note.
A small snort from over her shoulder meant he was annoyed by either the amount of interest or her atrocious penmanship. “Drop that to four and a half percent, Miss Jones. No sense in paying me any more than the short-term bank rate.”
“I believe I wrote down exactly the going rate, but if you insist.” She crossed out the number. “What about Agent Moore?”
“Keep him abreast by telegraph.” He leaned forward to initial the note. “If we are to reconnoiter at Portsmouth Harbor, he can reach us at Roos House, Twickenham.”
Not entirely returned to her employee role, America turned her head and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Black.”
He drew her back for a kiss on the lips. “Now, we can spend what is left of the day shopping along Oxford Street. Or there is Harrod’s. ‘Omnia Omnibus Ubiqat ue—All Things for All People, Everywhere’ is their motto. I’m told the store offers some very fine apparel, ready-made. Since time is a factor—”
“Harrod’s will be fine.”
After another stolen kiss, he let her go. “I shall arrange for transportation and wire Detective Moore.”
A charge of elation tempered her every thought as she packed his suitcase and a leather satchel. She saw the bags as well as herself into the waiting carriage. She was actually traveling with the man.
He smiled at her from the opposite side of the coach, and she knew exactly what he was thinking. The memory of all those positions she and Mr. Black had accomplished last night made her fidget against the comfortable upholstered seat.
She tried setting aside a number of awkward and troublesome thoughts, until she gave up and blurted out her most pressing concern. “You may accompany me, and help select my new attire, but you must allow me to pay for these purchases on my own. That will require the specified loan amount in banknotes.”
“Your purchases will be simple enough, I have an account—”
She crossed her arms under her chest.
“Very well, Miss Jones.” Mr. Black tapped on the roof of the coach and used the speaking tube. “Slight alteration in plans. We’ll be making a stop at Lloyd’s Bank on Waterloo Place.”
He replaced the cone on its hook. “Do not vex me any further.” The carriage rocked and their knees bumped just to emphasize his point. An exasperated glare, meant to intimidate her, did not.
“One more thing. A question, really. Do you plan to refer to me as—what? Who am I to be, Mr. Black? Certainly not your housekeeper.” She scraped upper teeth over lower lip. “Perhaps a long lost sister. Your father might have had an indiscretion with a woman of color?”
“The Princess Serafine al Qatari is here to replenish her western wardrobe.” Phaeton nodded a respectful bow to the assembled salesladies and attendants. “Alas, a number of her traveling trunks have gone missing and are presumed lost or stolen.” He handed his card to a mature saleswoman of accommodating expression. “Mrs. Boswell.
“Phaeton Black, Scotland Yard, assigned to the service of Her Highness for security purposes and fashion advice.” He lowered his voice, drawing the shop girls closer. “The princess intends to make an ungodly amount of purchases and wishes to proceed immediately. Discretion is paramount. Call as little attention to her highness as possible. Now, if you please?” The ladies whisked the princess into a spacious, elegant dressing room.
Phaeton was shown to a seat in an adjacent parlor, which featured a full-length looking glass framed in gilt. Immediately, he was surrounded by a bevy of young women, who brought him an assortment of newspapers, and at his request, replaced the sherry on the table with a good Scotch whiskey.
He gestured to a lovely girl hovering nearby. “Her Highness has asked me to inquire about undergarments. Dressing gowns, pantalettes, lacy camisoles, and the like? Preferably French. And do make sure they are silk.”
The otherwise pale complexioned sales assistant turned a lurid shade of pink and ran off in pursuit of said unmentionables.
Phaeton sipped his whiskey, opened up the Times, and waited for the parade of fashion to begin.
The first dress. “Too pink.”
And the pale peach? “Lovely, but for all those ruffles.”
A boldly striped carriage dress with a crisp white collar and cuffs and a cornflower blue fitted pelisse made him sit up. “Yes.” And when the attendant added a jaunty, high crowned hat in cobalt blue, he added, “Very striking.”
Next came a crimson concoction with a dazzling array of scarlet plumes. “Awful. Where exactly would you wear that? To a hog slaughter?” His remark drew a withering glare from Her Highness, and a harrumph from the matronly sales woman.
For her part, Miss Jones had adopted the most alluring accent. What was the inflection exactly? Some appealing patois of French Creole. She raised a noble brow. “Monsieur Black, comment vous savez—you know fashion?”
“I often accompany the Princess Louise and Princess Beatrice on their shopping trips.” A boldfaced lie, but since the two royal women were well known for their fashion sense, Phaeton narrowly redeemed himself.
He quickly gave the nod to a confection of emerald green satin. The gown featured a narrow bodice held up by the daintiest small sleeves, which fell off her shoulders and threatened to bare all if she so much as exhaled.
How he hoped she might take a deep breath.
A navy skirt, with a high-collar blouse and a brass-buttoned jacket complete with epaulettes also received his nod. But it was the deep plum-colored evening gown with plunging décolleté that left him speechless.
The pretty shop girl entered the dressing room carrying an armful of lingerie. From the top of the pile he held up a pair of sheer pantalettes with dainty lace edging.
Mrs. Boswell drained of color.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a few girls free to model, would you? Like they do in Paris?” The elder saleswoman snatched the expensive French drawers out of his hands and shooed her twittering staffers into the back room.
“How disappointing.”
The selection of shoes, gloves, and various sundry items went on interminably, and Phaeton left the dressing room to supervise the loading of a half dozen hat boxes and a trunk filled with dresses and delicate underthings into the carriage.
He waited at the curb and checked his pocket watch.
Finally, Princess Serafine exited the celebrated de
partment store in all her splendor. Phaeton took a moment to appreciate his vivacious traveling companion.
“Your Highness, I’m afraid we have missed our rendezvous at the river ferry. However, Mr. Milner, owner and driver of this fine transport, has offered to take us on to Roos House.”
“I will trust your decision in the matter, Mr. Black, if you promise to never, ever make another comment about my wardrobe choices.”
He followed her inside the carriage. A large stack of hat boxes and packages filled up the opposite seat of the cabin. “I happen to be very good at knowing what looks dreadful or appealing on a woman.”
“Yes, but do you have to be so ...”
“Honest about it?” He sat down beside her.
They bickered from Knightsbridge until the terrain outside the coach turned to countryside. Having escaped London’s congested boroughs, they now made their way through the quaint hamlets and expansive parklands, whose estates lined the river.
“At least the air is healthy to breathe.” She stifled a yawn.
Phaeton quirked a side of his mouth. “You must be exhausted, trying on all those pretty things.”
“Some of them not so pretty.” She removed a wad of banknotes from her reticule and began folding back corners. “What did you call that last dress? Perfect for a funeral dirge.”
“The garment was drab. No, make that dreary.”
“It was understated.” She corrected him and resumed counting. “There is still quite a large sum here. I shan’t require. . .” After tallying nearly three hundred pounds she looked up. “Are you secretly a wealthy man who deliberately chooses to live below stairs in a brothel? Please do tell, Mr. Black.”
Dressed in a new striped traveling dress, coat, and hat, she was the very picture of pretty. He could hardly take his eyes off her. “Upon my majority, I came into a comfortable living bequeathed by my mother’s estate. I have little use for the income. Parked most of the inheritance with bankers. I have also made a few investments.”
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 12
