“Then”—the girl stammered—“have you any idea what is going on between them?”
“I believe I do.” The repressed amusement in Exeter’s voice was evident. “Come along, Mia.” Soft footsteps padded over the carpet and door hinges creaked open.
“Oom Asa, please do not nanny me.”
“I shall not and never will attempt to nanny you, my dear.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Phaeton smiled at the chit’s tenacity.
“In a year or two you’ll understand perfectly, Mia.” Exeter closed the door.
Chapter Eighteen
A CHAMBERMAID PULLED BACK THE WINDOW DRAPERIES and opened the shutters. A beam of sunlight traveled over her cheek, coaxing America to wake. She yawned and rolled over to enjoy the view, a rather splendid aspect of the deer park. The subtly striped tonal walls meant she was in Phaeton’s room.
Phaeton’s room? She sat straight up.
“Good morning, my somnolent dove.” Handsomely attired, Phaeton stood at the foot of the bed looking refreshed, if a bit pale. He tipped his watch just far enough out of his waistcoat pocket to check the hour. “You have barely enough time to wash up and change if we are to catch the early train to Portsmouth.”
She rubbed her eyes. “You must not travel yet, Mr. Black. You need more rest. Doctor says—”
“Plenty of time to sleep on the train. Run along now, the carriage is waiting.”
She swept back the bedcovers. Dear Lord, she had slept in her clothes all night. Uncomfortably stiff and feeling a bit grotty, she made her way to the door before questioning his orders. “Do you always get your way Mr. Black?”
“Used to.” The man had the temerity to grin. “Before a certain young lady took up residence in my life. I barely remember what it was like to live the joyful unencumbered life of a bachelor.”
She slammed the door and opened another farther down the hall. Her trunks were packed and the boldly striped traveling dress and coat were laid out and ready for her to change into. It seemed Mr. Black could be exceedingly well organized when he set his mind to a task. Not that he was a frivolous man by any means. In fact, he had proven himself to be resilient and resourceful. She exhaled and yanked the bell pull. A large bowl of warm water and a quick wash up refreshed her. The kindly little chambermaid even thought to bring up tea and buttered toast slathered with wild strawberry conserve.
Growing up aboard ship, America had learned many useful things. How to ready herself in a wink, for instance. She was dressed and waiting at the carriage well ahead of Mr. Black, who exited the great house a few minutes later accompanied by Dr. Exeter. The doctor handed a lunch basket to a footman who packed the food stuffs inside the carriage.
“Some rare roast beef for Phaeton to build up his blood. And a jar of bouillon. I believe there are sandwiches and an apple tart as well.” She had come to know Dr. Exeter as a thoughtful and kind man, whose severe demeanor did him no justice.
Exeter turned to Phaeton. “The Baron has only hours left. He has asked to make a written confession. I should like to deliver it to Scotland Yard myself.”
Phaeton nodded. “A first meeting with Zander Farrell would be best. I’ll wire him from the station to expect you. My advice would be to hand over the confession, answer any, well ... I’m sure—”
“Yes, I am quite sure there will be questions.” Exeter coughed. “Will he have me arrested for—what do you call it—harboring?”
Phaeton tilted his chin and squinted. “I don’t believe so.”
Beads of perspiration formed above the doctor’s brow. America pressed her lips together to restrain a chuckle.
Phaeton grinned. “I wouldn’t land the airship outside 4 Whitehall. Might get you locked up as a flight risk.”
Once their carriage lurched off, she could no longer suppress a grin. “You weren’t much solace to the doctor.”
“I shall not lose a wink of sleep over Exeter. Scotland Yard will deliberate for weeks over that confession. I suspect, once the Baron is dead, which seems imminent, there will be no one left to arrest—no one they wish to admit to anyway.” Phaeton shook his head. “No, I predict the document will be burned and the case will go on unsolved.”
When she raised a brow, he grinned. “Can you picture Qadesh standing trial in the Old Bailey?”
“I suppose not.” She studied the ready upturn at the ends of his sensuous, masculine mouth. Sometimes, she had to fight off the urge to jump in his lap and kiss him. “You do a great deal of grinning, Mr. Black.”
Instantly, he turned the ends of his mouth downward, into a much exaggerated frown, which made her chuckle. “I confess you do have quite the charming smile, but—” She scraped a bit of lower lip under her teeth. “How is it I have never heard you laugh?”
He straightened up. “Because I never laugh, Miss Jones.”
“Never?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Ever?”
He exhaled. “I remember laughing as a child.”
A bit misty-eyed, she nodded. “Your mother died—when you were just a lad.”
He glanced out the coach window. “Fully recovered from her death years ago.”
Aware she had hit upon a subject that caused him some discomfort, she folded her hands in her lap and waited him out.
Several long minutes passed before his black hooded eyes shifted to met her gaze. “Mother was barely cold in her family crypt before my father remarried. Ghastly woman, but he was deliriously happy—for a time. They used to laugh constantly. I would hear their laughter laying in bed at night, coming from either bedroom, outside in the garden, at the dinner table. Even as my sorrow deepened, the evidence of their happiness was in the air, everywhere.” His glower grew darker still. “I vowed never to laugh again, and was greatly relieved to be packed off to school.”
Her heart broke to think of Phaeton as a young boy, losing his mother, the only one who understood the fey, darker side of his troubling, extraordinary faculties. How alone in the world he must have felt. She well understood that kind of loss. Her own mother often said it was like learning to live with a foot in two worlds. Many born with abilities beyond the everyday sensory were unschooled and therefore unable to interpret the otherworld. Often, they were deemed insane and subjected to ice baths and horrific treatments in the dreadful prisons otherwise known as asylums.
She remembered a cautionary warning from her mother. Standing on the pier, she buttoned her coat. “Mark my words, child. Keep your essence secret and never reveal your gifts to those who know only the temporal life. They fear the power of the unseen and will often attempt to harm a vauda witch.” She grabbed her shoulders. “Do you hear me, Síne?”
“Oui, Maman.”
She glanced across the carriage cabin and found Phaeton also lost in thought. She cleared her throat. “My mother handed me over to my father when I was seven. How old were you when left motherless?”
His downturned eyes met hers. “Eight.”
She sighed, deeply. “Might I ask you how old you are?”
“Five and twenty.”
Years younger than she figured. In fact, she was quite taken aback. It made sense though, with regard to some of the immature behavior. He was also wickedly clever about disguising his youth.
The glint in his eye acknowledged her reaction. “I was pushed ahead in school. Got bullied by my classmates for being clever. Then, when I moved up a grade, I got bullied because I was still clever and a great deal brighter than the older boys.”
No wonder he was such a tough scraper. Brave as well as wicked smart. “I have no doubt of it, Mr. Black.” Her admiring gaze did seem to please him some as he eased back into upholstered squabs and resumed an affable expression.
“Since the sapphire has never left your hand ...” His gaze traveled to her ring finger. “I do recall we got engaged on the way to Roos House.” Phaeton reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a gold band.
“Will you marry me?”
A heated flush ran up her throat and set her cheeks on fire. “You are joking, sir.”
Phaeton’s eyes crinkled. “Yes, of course I am, Miss Jones. Had you there for a moment, didn’t I?”
America smiled, and didn’t stop chuckling until Phaeton got the engagement ring and band on her finger.
She held up her hand. “Quite a lot of jewelry for one small digit.”
Phaeton leaned forward and nodded toward the coach window. “We have arrived at Waterloo station, Mrs. Black. Shall we get ourselves to Portsmouth Harbor?”
It poured rain and sleet in Portsmouth. “No cabs at the moment, but I have paid a baggage handler to procure us a lift at first opportunity.” Miss Jones sat on one of her trunks looking prettily rumpled and wonderfully content.
Their compartment had been empty for the last leg of the trip, and he had unmercifully teased, one hand under her dress, until she had nearly swooned from her semi-public climax. It had been hugely indecent of him, and unbelievably arousing.
“Any moment now, a stranger could walk through that door and discover us.” He whispered the words as his fingers coaxed her to the brink, her moans of release muffled by his kiss. Afterward when the dear girl could speak coherently again, he got up to stretch his legs and unlock the door.
He waited for her to clap her mouth shut.
She had appeared unable to decide on laughter or a flogging. He held onto the baggage rack above her, swaying to the movement of the train. Her gaze had traveled down to the evidence of his enormous physical discomfort. Her eyes narrowed. “You shall atone for this, Phaeton.”
“Slow and torturous, I hope,” he had replied.
Phaeton smiled at her across the station platform. She now regarded him with the kind of sultry-eyed air women gave men who knew how to attend to their pleasure. He loved that look. Especially hers. He had every intention of tossing Mrs. Black onto a bed at the Dorchester Arms and having his way with her, as soon as possible. He pictured her fully naked flesh and that wild mop of curls spread over counterpane and pillows.
“Phaeton!” Inwardly, he cringed at the recognition of Inspector Moore’s shout. He swiveled. “Thought I would check the afternoon train, just in case you made it.” Dexter nodded to America. “Very good to see you, Miss Jones. I take it the journey was not overly taxing?”
Phaeton used his flat-lipped grin. “Only the arrival.”
“How’s that?”
He shrugged. “No transport, I’m afraid.”
“Come along, I’ve got a hansom waiting.” He bowed to the lady. “Miss Jones, let me escort you.”
Peevish, but still well in control, Phaeton strolled after them, followed by porter and luggage.
“There’s another cab now, Phaeton. We’ll take the smaller bags with us, and you can follow along with the lady’s trunk.”
America feigned a pout and smiled at him. Dex offered his hand, and she climbed into the waiting cab. Phaeton glanced overhead. At least the rain had abated. The porter strapped the trunk to the back of the hansom and Phaeton soon followed along after his wife.
Alighting his cab at the Dorchester, a ready bellhop took care of the trunk, and Phaeton stepped into a small, well-appointed lobby in time to overhear the hotel clerk’s question to the couple at the desk.
“Will you be wanting a suite, then, or a room, Mr. and Mrs. Black?”
Phaeton cleared his throat and spoke up. “I think, perhaps, a suite with an ajoining bedroom for Mrs. Black’s brother.” He approached the desk clerk. “I’m sorry. You appear confused, and no wonder. I’m afraid I was busy outside sorting out the luggage. I am the lady’s husband.” Phaeton swiveled to the right. “This gentleman is my brother-in-law.” Phaeton squinted at the noticeable tension in Dexter’s jaw.
America spoke sweetly but stabbed him with her eyes. “A suite would be the perfect arrangement, dear.” She nodded to the clerk. “What might you have available?”
As the clerk sputtered, Phaeton removed his wallet from an inside coat pocket and laid several large denomination bills on the desk. “I’m sure something near to perfect can be arranged.”
“Very good, sir.” Immediately, the clerk tapped a bell, and they were escorted upstairs to a cozy suite of rooms. A pleasant-sized parlor sat between two bedrooms and featured a large bay widow. They waited for the bellman to stoke coals in the hearth.
“Since it’s nearly teatime, shall we have a little something brought up?” Phaeton nodded to America and Dex, who ordered a sampling of cakes and sandwiches with their tea. “A bottle of whiskey for me. Something distilled in Scotland, if you have it.” He handed the man half a crown. “And a glass.”
At the window, he pulled back a sheer drapery, careful to shade himself from anyone on the street below. A mist of light rain tapped gently at the glass. Past their quiet street, a vast expanse of harbor stretched out to an invisible grey horizon line. The bay was dotted with ships of all makes and sizes, including two huge battleships anchored far offshore. “So Dex, fill us in on what you have uncovered thus far.”
“Ten days ago, we received a wire from the Gibraltar office about the Draakster, bound for this harbor. The ship made port late last week. Extremely suspicious registry, manned by a Dutch crew.”
America settled onto a camelback divan. “Yanky Willem?”
“A syndicated shipping company is the owner of record.” Dex removed a pipe and pouch from his coat pocket. “The Dutch are a cagey lot. We believe Willem is the owner of majority, but we can’t get them to confirm. Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all, Mr. Moore, please do have your pipe.” That beautiful bow of a mouth of hers fell open, slightly, her eyes riveted on Moore. Phaeton suddenly wanted nothing less than all her ships returned to her. By the look on his face, it was clear Dexter felt the same way.
Her straight posture softened as she leaned forward. “Do you have a description of her?”
“Two masts and a single smokestack, near the tonnage you described as the vessel presumed lost in the Bay of Bengal, Miss Jones.”
Phaeton settled down beside her. “How do we plan to get access to the records?”
“We have a man in Rotterdam knocking heads with the registrarship. You called it earlier, Phaeton; we have no time to wait for records or warrants. The ship remains tied up at dock, transferring cargo.” Dex tapped down the tobacco in his pipe. “We go tonight, or risk losing this one.”
“I’d know the layout of this ship in the dark, if that helps. My father’s first steamer, a right beauty she is, I practically grew up on her. If this is the Ruby Star, I can identify every scratch and repair on her.”
A thrill ran down Phaeton’s spine, which quickly turned into a chill as he watched America brighten with anticipation. “Dangerous work, Dex. Besides you and I, do we have any other trained agents here? Who are your contacts?”
Dexter’s description of the local police force and the Harbor patrol was interrupted by a knock at the door. The blessed tea and whiskey had arrived. Phaeton sampled a few sandwiches and washed them down with a good tumbler full of spirit.
“We can’t bring any of these men in unless we are in some kind of serious trouble. We can’t even alert them to our plans.” Phaeton mulled over their circumstances. Drat it all, they were in a tight corner. “Any local blokes on the pay ledger?”
“Just Percy, at the Blue Anchor. I have a room above the pub—”
“Keep it.” Phaeton was beginning to formulate a plan. Albeit a perilous one. “We can’t do much of anything before nightfall.”
Dex leaned forward, eyes alight. “You mean to board her? It will be risky. The crew goes ashore most every night, but there’s a watch. Several men patrol the decks at regular intervals.”
Phaeton looked up from his empty glass. There would be no more whiskey this night. “We’ll need clothing. Whatever vestments merchant sailors wear these days and the loudest, most conspicuous doxy frock we can find.”
America rose to leave.
“You must remain in the hotel, Mrs. Black.” Her brows gathered as her bottom lip protruded. “Whatever for? I would be most helpful picking out a wardrobe for you and Detective Moore.”
“I have no doubt of it.” He sighed. “I think it is safe to assume we arrived unrecognized. I would like to keep it that way, until this evening.” Phaeton took her hand. “Trust me, my dove, you have a very important role to play, but it must wait until tonight.”
He kissed her knuckles. “And do not bother unpacking your trunk. We will likely have to quit town in haste.”
Chapter Nineteen
AMERICA STUDIED HER REFLECTION IN THE VANITY LOOKING GLASS and sucked in a breath. A pivot sideways revealed an alarming profile of bosom. Phaeton had some sort of ruse planned for the evening and her body, poured into this skimpy red dress, played a feature role. Her pulse raced in anticipation of the unknown, adventurous night ahead.
A knock at the door signaled help had finally arrived. She let the top of the dress fall to expose her new strapless corset.
“Come in.” America took up a tin of loose powder and puff. “I need assistance with my corset and gown, please.”
Adept hands loosened strings. She trembled at the light touch of fingers moving under the silk and whalebone undergarment to cup her breasts. She met his gaze in the vanity mirror. “Dear husband, I fear you misunderstand. My garments are to be fastened, not undone.”
He nuzzled the side of her neck and earlobe as his fingertips played over nipples. “Mrs. Black, have I ever told you how enchanting you are as a common pub trollop?”
America shrugged off his kiss with a grin. “Not too tight, you know how I hate being trussed up like a roasting hen.”
Those talented fingers pulled on laces, which magically tucked in her waist and pushed up her breasts. “As appealing as this undergarment presents your wares, I do believe the corset is unwarranted.”
“If you have any hope of closing up this gown, sir, the stays are required.” He helped her pull up the top half of the dress. As he fastened many small cloth-covered buttons, she examined the roughneck sailor standing behind her. Phaeton wore a short wool jacket open over a heavy cloth shirt and corded trousers. Wide, striped braces held up the pants. A woolen scarf wrapped loosely around his neck reminded her of the chill in the air. He needed a shave; the dark shadow along his jawline completed his disguise to perfection. She shivered. “You make a rather handsome seaman, Mr. Black.”
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 17
