The Seduction of Phaeton Black

by Jillian Stone

  Her gaze slid over him more than once. “You are handsome, as well, in formal attire.” She held up a simple gold necklace with an amethyst stone cut into a heart-shaped pendant. “I need your assistance.”

  She stepped into his room and handed him the choker. Standing behind her, he inhaled the scent of freshly washed hair, tamed into a simple chignon. Still, he missed those riotous curls of hers. He purposely fumbled with the catch. “I don’t believe I will take dessert at table this evening. I will wait until we are alone in that great bed of yours.”

  He locked the clasp and kissed her shoulder. He slipped his tongue up the side of her neck to her earlobe. “I mean to taste you tonight, Miss Jones. I wish to savor all of your spice, your tang, your sugar.”

  His mouth traveled over the vein in her neck. Her heartbeat throbbed under his lips and she uttered the sweetest sigh. With his arms at her waist, he turned her around to face him. In this moment, he wanted her, perhaps more than he had ever wanted a woman. His gaze wandered down to her breasts, pressed into perfect globes of flesh. He slipped a dainty sleeve down her arm.

  A loud knock caused her to jump. He returned the cap sleeve to her shoulder and glared at the door. Reluctantly, Phaeton backed away. “Yes?”

  The door opened and Mia poked her head in the door. “Oom Asa has asked—” Her eyes grew wide. “Oh my word, Miss Jones, you do look ravishing, doesn’t she, Mr. Black?”

  The pretty girl looked down at her own frock and frowned. “I do hope I grow larger breasts—and very big ones at that.”

  “Why would you wish for such a thing, Mia?” He drew his brows together and studied her chest. Not large by any means, but no doubt firm and perky. “What is it the French say about breast size? More than a champagne glass is too much.”

  “Honestly, Mr. Black, ’tis all men look at.” She turned to America. “Isn’t it true, Miss Jones?”

  “Please call me America.” His lovely Cajun dove rolled her eyes in his direction, as if he didn’t see or hear the coded exchange between the two women. “And yes, I have noticed the effect on occasion.”

  Mia stuck her nose up in the air. “I do appreciate your words of encouragement, Mr. Black, but it does a girl no favor to be mollified.” She exhaled a small gasp. “Oh my, I am forgetting the very reason I was sent here. Oom Asa has requested your presence in the library before dinner. Please, come with me.”

  “Mollified?” Phaeton followed the two ladies out of his bedchamber.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I SHALL TAKE UP THE REAR GUARD, LADIES.” A most diverting view of bouncing bustles made his task a pleasant duty. Phaeton listened absently to snippets of female chitchat as he reordered and put to memory the layout of the great house. He could not be entirely sure, but he sensed Mia led them on a most circuitous route, avoiding an entire wing of the manse.

  If he understood the layout of the residence correctly, a traverse through the older annex would have made the shorter route to their gathering place. Neck hairs prickled under his high-pointed starched collar. And a second wave of whispered sighs and moans wafted through his body. As usual, he shook them off.

  America glanced back. She sensed the undercurrent as well.

  Recently, he had experienced the most disconcerting thoughts about Miss Jones. The most disturbing of all was the impossible idea that he rather enjoyed having her around.

  At the grand staircase, Phaeton threw his shoulders back and any thoughts of America Jones right out of his head. He returned to his analysis of the house. Ceilings painted with murals and austere arches, notwithstanding, he could not summon up a word like resplendent for the manse. He had just about settled on stately as the better description when a footman stationed in the hall opened a set of doors to the most impressive private library he had ever seen.

  “Oom Asa says this room holds all the secrets of the world.”

  Hands behind his back, Phaeton craned his neck to take in all the ancient volumes that lined two stories of wall space. “Might there be an index somewhere?” When both young women raised a brow, he leaned forward. “To locate the secrets, ladies.”

  Mia giggled. “I shall ask Oom Asa if he has catalogued the secrets.”

  A door between the impressive stacks led to a cozier room, more of a study. He recognized Exeter’s tall silhouette at the fireplace. A few pleasantries were exchanged as he and America settled to one side of the warm hearth.

  “If you will, sir?” Grimsley nodded to the glasses of champagne on a silver tray. They were being prepared for a toast of some kind.

  Phaeton removed two glasses of pale bubbly liquid, handing one to Mia, the other to America. The old butler passed the last glass to him and added a bow.

  “Thank you, Grimsley.” Dr. Exeter studied them each rather severely, before a twitch of mouth and a spark in his eye gave him away. “When early balloonists landed in a patch of farmland, they were likely to be attacked by frightened peasants heaving stones and wielding pitchforks. French pilots discovered the farmers were easily appeased when offered a glass of champagne.”

  “In commemoration of your first flight, Mr. Black and Miss Jones.” Dr. Exeter lifted his glass. “Mother Nature has taken you into the skies and returned you gently to Earth. Welcome to the ranks of the Aeronauts!”

  Phaeton swallowed a healthy gulp and admired the shapely cup of his glass. He could not help but wink at Mia, who blushed the prettiest pastel rose as she sidled over. “Please do not mention anything to Oom Asa about our little discussion earlier.”

  “I am easily bribed, especially by two lovely females.” Phaeton turned to America. “Does something come to mind, Miss Jones?”

  “I would be most interested to know what kind of inappropriate discussion my ward is having with you, Mr. Black.”

  “Nothing too terribly risqué.” Phaeton squinted at the bubbles running up the hollow stem of crystal. “Legend has it the shape of the champagne coupe was modeled on the breast of Marie Antoinette or was it Madame de Pompadour?” He shrugged. “Both enchanting French ladies, but I can never remember which one honors the distinction.”

  “A romanticized tale that is almost certainly false, Mr. Black. The glass was designed in England in 1663, preceding those aristocrats by nearly a century.” Exeter turned to America. “May I escort you into the dining room, Miss Jones?”

  She grinned at Phaeton as the doctor led her away.

  He leaned closer to Mia. “Your guardian keeps the most insignificant facts and figures in his head.”

  She took his arm. “There was a time when I believed he invented the dates just to win an argument.”

  Phaeton grinned at the precocious girl. “I’m certain you checked and found he is never wrong.”

  “It’s infuriating.” Her lower lip protruded in a charming pout.

  The dining room proved to be another immense hall. The formal table, reduced to a length that might seat eighteen guests comfortably, was most likely down from twice the number. The four of them were seated among five place settings. Phaeton could not help but stare, on occasion, at the very obvious empty setting of plate and silverware at the end of the table.

  The dark, elegant room was lit by a few wall sconces and one chandelier. A set of windows at the end of the room was covered by heavy drapery to hold back the chill. The table itself was lit by two immense candelabras, each blazing a dozen candles. After two starters, consisting of a clear soup and a white fish, Phaeton finally had to ask about the extra place setting.

  “The Baron has asked me to ask your indulgence. He will be joining us as we near the end of our supper.” Exeter explained. “My father suffers from a rare disease of the blood, Porphyria, also known as the Vampire’s Disease, which should have killed him months ago.”

  The doctor set a fork across the edge of his plate as the first entrée was served. “All of his body parts have begun to decay. He can no longer eat a meal as we know it.”

  Phaeton swallowed the last of his fish as a fo
otman whisked the plate away.

  Exeter shrugged. “No sense putting everyone off their supper.”

  Phaeton stared at a large slab of rare beef lying in a pool of blood-red juice. “Indeed.”

  America looked up from her plate, and they exchanged what he considered a private moment of mutual revulsion. Her eyes darted oh so subtly to the base of the silver candlestick.

  The sculpted motif was that of a seashore, whose denizens all appeared to be in motion. A starfish crawled over the remains of a nautilus shell. Emerging from the twisted chamber was a strange canine-looking head attached to a length of rubbery neck. The starfish reached out and strangled the unfortunate creature. Phaeton shook out his linen serviette and snapped it over the base of the candelabra. Candles flickered.

  Phaeton glanced at Exeter. “She’s about.”

  Exeter calmly carved off a bit of rare meat. “It would seem so.”

  Mia glanced about the room. “Who is about?”

  Exeter mouthed a forkful. “The Baron’s lady friend.”

  “Please tell me she’s not back again.” Mia dropped her utensils upon the plate. “And I’ll wager it was she behind that mischief on the airship this afternoon.” She stuck out her chin. “Well, am I right?”

  Exeter rolled his eyes and chewed. “Mia claims her abilities pale in comparison to mine.”

  “Both your ward and your guests are quite correct. We may yet have another join us for dinner this evening.” A frail voice, made up largely of wheezing breath, managed to carry across the hall. The unseen entity barked an order. “Grimsley, have a sixth place set at the far end of the table, if you will.”

  The butler dragged a wheelchair backward across an expanse of Persian carpet. Both Exeter and Phaeton rose to stand.

  “Please, do not trouble yourself Asa—Mr. Black.” The elder manservant swiveled the chair around. A hunched over figure dressed in a tuxedo, head and hands swathed in bandages, arrived at the table. The head was completely wrapped, with the exception of two eyeholes and a slit for a mouth. Tied onto the face was a partial mask, the snout of a dog, presumably, where a nose formerly resided.

  Phaeton experienced a collective shudder from nearly everyone in the room. And then a lessening of revulsion to something more akin to pity.

  Shaded by gauze wrappings, the movement of dark, beady eyes could be tracked as two pinpoints of light shifted from one guest to another. “Good evening.” The mummified entity listed to one side of the chair. “I am Oris Exeter, Baron de Roos.”

  Phaeton nodded his respects. “Premier Baron, of all England.”

  “We are an ancient family.” The man’s breath labored along with his pitch. “Asa will bear the title when I am gone. There are only days left to me.”

  “Do not speak of such sorrowful partings, Uncle. You have bravely resisted the Porphyria for many years.” He read genuine affection in Mia’s concerned gaze.

  The Baron managed a stiff shrug. A glow in the small eyes roamed over the two young ladies. “Good evening, my gentle Mia.”

  “Great Uncle.”

  “And, Miss Jones. How lovely you are.” With some effort, the Baron rotated stiffly toward Phaeton. “Excellent taste in assistants, Mr. Black.”

  “Invaluable.” Phaeton shot an obvious wink across the table. “Bright as well as beautiful.”

  “You are too kind, sir.”

  He waited for the dimple to appear beside those pouty lips. Ah, there it was.

  “Please excuse my appearance.” The Baron raised carefully bandaged hands, missing a finger here and there. “I assure you without these wrappings I am an abomination.”

  Perhaps to ease their discomfort and to satisfy his own desire for stimulating discourse, the Baron expounded on a variety of metaphysical subjects.

  “In his Critique of Pure Reason, Kant used the phrase ‘ens imaginarium’ to describe pure space and pure time, preconditions of clairvoyance.” A footman stood beside the Baron’s chair. Occasionally, when the decrepit nobleman nodded, the manservant would raise a crystal goblet and angle two hollow straw blades through an incision in the linen.

  A hissing gurgle preceded a slurping sound, as the Baron siphoned up his claret.

  Phaeton raised his fork and knife, ready to attack his entrée. The slab of cow flesh inched along the plate. Did the odd sucking, slithering noise come from his meat or the Baron? He experienced a flash of vertigo.

  “From a purely practical sense, would you say your second sight originates in the imagination or some other faculty, Mr. Black?”

  He stabbed his fork into the undulating cow flesh and left it standing upright. “Educators and scientists may refer to my reality as pure space and time. I see it as a kind of open portal. A door of perception that is always open. I cannot chose to see or not see.” Phaeton met the old man’s gaze across the table. “I endure, if you follow, Baron.”

  “I know very well.”

  Their plates were retrieved and replaced by a second entrée. A portion of succulent, well roasted pheasant. Phaeton dug in before the bird decided to take flight.

  Forking down a quick mouthful of succulent meat, he experienced a gentle rubbing against his leg. A flirtation under the table? His gaze flew to Miss Jones who appeared to be otherwise occupied with her new dish. Wasn’t she the clever tease.

  Something gnawed on his shoe leather. Phaeton shot up out of his seat and pulled away his chair.

  Everyone at the table stopped in mid-chew. He lifted the tablecloth and got a glimpse of a slithering, shadowed creature. The legless fiend clawed its way to the end of the table, where it rapidly merged into one of the carved wooden table legs.

  He pulled up his chair and inspected the toe of his shoe, which bore the evidence of teeth marks.

  Exeter leaned sideways to take a look. “As I told Mr. Black evening last, I suspect she has transferred her interest to him.”

  The Baron slumped into a reverie of weak moans and sighs. “Try not to fall in love with her, Mr. Black.”

  “I have no interest in love.” Finally, a subject he could toy with. “Acts of love, however, are a different matter, isn’t that right, Miss Jones?” Phaeton speared a string bean. “She calls them proofs of love, I believe.”

  America chewed and swallowed. “Acts and proofs are not equivalents, much as you care to think so.”

  Mia giggled.

  Exeter glared.

  Phaeton grinned.

  The Baron wheezed. “Before I tire, I promised my son I would make my confession.”

  Exeter dismissed all the servants, with the exception of Grimsley.

  The elderly man lifted a hand to scratch an eye. A spot of blood spread over the fresh linen bandages covering his brow. “Some months ago, when I could still amble about on my own, I attended a play at the Lyceum. Afterward, I took a solitary stroll. It had been a perfect evening, perhaps the last of its kind. The Porphyria would soon see to the end of me. That night, I found my way to the river and decided to end my life.”

  “A great bird rescued me. Swooped down into the water and fished me out of the Thames.” There was a weak smile in his voice. “My goddess not only saved me, but restored my body. At least, while the affair lasted.”

  His wrapped head drooped slightly. “I made a Faustian pact with a she-devil. As many ancient gods do, she required blood sacrifice and human worship. She would replenish her ichors by choosing victims from the streets of the poorest boroughs. All the veneration she needed, she received from me.” The frail voice faltered in a sigh. “I adored her.”

  The Baron’s gaze drifted far way. “After she drained her victims, I covered up her crimes—sliced throats and removed organs as she directed.”

  Phaeton sat up in his chair.

  “You surmised correctly, Mr. Black.” The barest pinprick of light remained in the Baron’s eyes. “I am Jack Ripper.”

  Mouths fell open as both young women gasped. America’s gaze shifted to Phaeton. “You knew of this?”

&
nbsp; “I suspected the good doctor protected someone or some thing.” Phaeton noted a pale green mist crawling under the closed door of the dining hall as the shocking revelation continued to reverberate around the table.

  Exeter also tracked the rolling bit of fog along the carpet. “And now that you know the truth, Mr. Black, what do you plan on doing about it?”

  “Nothing, for the moment.” Phaeton matched the doctor’s concern with a flinty gaze of his own. “What exactly might I report to Scotland Yard that I haven’t already? Months ago, I advanced the idea the Whitechapel murders were committed by a savage fiend not of this world. The allegation got my employment contract cancelled. A second assertion could land me in Bedlam.”

  He continued to study Exeter. “I take it your involvement stopped the murders. But the gods do need their ichors, and it seems you succeeded only in delaying her return to the streets. Which is where I came in, both of us chasing haplessly after the evasive little succubus.”

  A faint tinkle of laughter echoed through the room and grew into the robust laughter of a mature female. A goddess materialized at the far end of the table. An immortal nymph the likes of which Phaeton had seen only glimpses of in illustrated books on ancient archaeology.

  She sat motionless on the chair, arms placed formally to each side, like the giant seated statues of Luxor. Exotic eyes outlined in kohl shifted slowly. The stunning beauty studied her subjects at the table.

  “Where is my husband?” Her gaze landed on him. “You are not my husband.”

  “No, I am not. I am Phaeton Black. We have met before, Mrs.—?”

  “Fay-ton, where is Anupu?”

  “Anupu?” Phaeton repeated.

  The Baron managed a strained whisper. “The designation early Egyptians gave to Anubis, god of the Underworld. To speak the name of the dead is to make him live again.”

  Dr. Exeter leaned closer and whispered in his ear. Phaeton repeated the word aloud. “Qadesh?”

  An appraising gaze slid over Phaeton. “I am Qadesh, one who rules over nature, beauty, and sexual pleasure.”