The Seduction of Phaeton Black

by Jillian Stone

  “Good God.” The voice behind him was Dexter’s.

  “Phaeton.” Her smile turned to something more akin to alarm. “And ...” She grabbed for a bath sheet to cover herself. “Inspector Moore.”

  Phaeton clapped his mouth shut and slammed the door in Moore’s face. “Get dressed, Miss Jones, you have a hearing to attend.”

  Her eyes grew large and round. “Dear God, I quite forgot. How long have I got?”

  “One minute to get fully dressed.” Phaeton gladly helped with stockings and garters. “Inspector Moore.” He raised his voice.

  A muffled answer came from behind the door.

  “Get that hansom turned around and headed for—”

  “No.” America tied up her petticoat. “At this time of day, it’s faster by water. Have McCafferty find us a water taxi.”

  “Bollocks.” Phaeton struggled with the tiny buttons on her shoes. “Did you hear that, Dex?”

  “On my way, Phaeton.”

  He set her foot down. “Ready, my darling?”

  America twisted her curls into a knot and pinned up her hair. Her eyes darted about the cabin. “Where are the papers?”

  Phaeton searched table and desktop. Amber eyes blinked at him from a shelf above the desk. He grabbed a neat stack of documents under the grey gargoyle.

  He turned back. “Well done, Edvar.”

  Topside, in the blink of an eye, he grabbed her by the hand and they raced across the basin bridge. “There they are.” McCafferty and Moore stood beside a low-slung watercraft which featured a tall smokestack and wheelhouse aft. The three of them scrambled aboard and the steam-powered taxi chugged away from the docks.

  Moore opened his watch. “We’ve got a bit less than half the hour.”

  “Cracking good call, my dove.” Phaeton leaned back toward the open steerage compartment. “Full steam ahead, Captain.”

  “How blasted long does it take to get from the Docklands to Whitehall?” Chilcott groused as Zander shut the door.

  Phaeton’s answer was a deep sigh of relief. He and Moore had been on the run for a solid hour or more. Now, finally in the dim light of the director’s office, he eased into a side chair and stretched out his legs.

  Hat in hand, Moore prepared to humble himself. “Sorry for the delay. Phaeton and I had to see Miss Jones safely inside the Old Bailey.” Moore beamed. “Her ships are being released to her.”

  Chilcott returned to his desk chair. “This young lady is both Phaeton’s abductee and your merchant ship owner, am I correct? Would someone please explain how Miss Jones got entangled in two different operations?”

  Phaeton exchanged a quick glance with Moore and cleared his throat. “Rather a complicated story, sir.”

  Wild eyebrow hairs merged as Chilcott nailed him with a flinty stare. “I’ve got the rest of the morning, if needed, to sort this all out.” The director’s well-worn leather chair squeaked a groan as the boss settled in. “Do make this a ripping good tale, Phaeton.”

  He and Moore spent the better part of the next hour recounting the salient events of each case, breaking only to answer or clarify questions, when asked. As Phaeton gave an accounting of his and Exeter’s investigation in the British Museum, and his story became increasingly Gothic and sensational, Chilcott turned to Moore. “Mr. Moore, need I remind you Phaeton is a Secret Branch operative.”

  “Secret Branch, sir?”

  “A name I coined, recently, but you will find no mention of it anywhere outside of this office.” Flat-lipped as it was, Chilcott actually grinned. “Mr. Farrell here keeps a false accounting of Phaeton’s cases. For the record, what was Mr. Black working on these past few weeks?”

  “He’s been assisting Mr. Moore on his piracy case.” Zander looked up from a stack of files. “Try to keep it as plausible as possible.”

  “Secret Branch cases are subject to the highest level of security and are never to be discussed. Not even with other agents.” Chilcott leaned across his desk. “In point of fact, Mr. Moore, they do not exist.”

  Moore swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  The director remained forward, hands steepled together, under his chin. “Were you finished, Mr. Black?”

  “Near enough, sir.”

  “Right, onto new business. The British Museum has a rather lucrative proposition for Miss Jones.”

  An amused exchange between Zander and Chilcott made his hackles rise. “That being?”

  Nose out of folders, Zander explained. “An Egyptian sarcophagus must be returned to sacred ground, to a location near Alexandria, I believe. And it appears Miss Jones will soon be in need of cargo.”

  Phaeton shrugged. “Keeps everything neatly under wraps.”

  “Precisely.” Chitcott nodded to Zander. “That will be all gentlemen.”

  Zander tapped Phaeton on the back. “You might drop by and assist Exeter. Last I heard he’s waiting on Anubis and Qadesh.”

  Phaeton shook his head. “Don’t tell me they’re still at it?”

  Zander yawned a chuckle. “I believe so.”

  Chilcott stood up. “Tell them your news, Mr. Farrell”

  “Oh yes. Last night, a little after four in the morning, Sophie delivered a healthy child. Quite a set of lungs on her. Kept us up the rest of the night.”

  Something oddly familial and oppressively warm affected Phaeton as he pumped the man’s hand. “Good God, Zander, that’s wonderful news. And Sophie is well?”

  “Hale and hearty.”

  Phaeton nodded. “Well, done Mrs. Farrell. Oh, and her name?”

  “Fiona Sophrinia Camille.” A proud smile and shrug. “We’ve shortened it considerably—already calling her Fee.”

  “Let me buy you a pint, Zander. Celebrate.” Phaeton doffed his hat and held open the door. “Join us, sir?”

  Chilcott almost looked pleased at the invite. “Order me a bite of roast beef on toast. I’ll be down shortly.”

  Outside the office, on their way to the Rising Sun, Phaeton couldn’t shake a disconcerting thought. What if America was with child? He had used protection only—dear God. Once. Rather foolhardy of him.

  “Hope you don’t mind a tagalong?”

  Phaeton shut the cab door behind them. “Nonsense, Dex. These immortals rarely appear in public. And in such splendid form.”

  A cordon of Metropolitan police blocked off Egyptian Avenue. Phaeton took the lead and ran them through the gauntlet of officers. Rounding a circular row of crypts, they found Dr. Exeter supervising the unloading of a large stone sarcophagus. Much of the mausoleum had been reduced to a pile of rubble.

  “What the devil?” Phaeton grinned and shuddered simultaneously.

  Exeter signed for the delivery. “Between feats of admirable fornication, they also have episodes of ferocious disagreement. Arguments of the most disturbing, homicidal nature.”

  Phaeton surveyed the damage. Not much was left standing but the inner chamber. “Lightning bolts and such?”

  Exeter nodded. “If they were human, they’d both be toes up by now.”

  Moore picked his way among the steaming rock. “I say, something nasty caused this jumble.”

  “Yes, nasty would describe it.” Phaeton turned back to Exeter. “Is it safe for us to have a look?”

  Exeter led the way. “As best as we can make out, three thousand years ago. Anubis was off having a dalliance when our young goddess was accosted by an angry mob of priests. He arrived home too late. Found her entombed—watch that rubble.” Exeter jogged around a pile of smoking debris. “Racked with grief and guilt, one supposes, he submitted himself to the same ceremony and was returned to the earth. Made the religious zealots promise to bury him beside her. Apparently left a curse on every last man before they turned him to dust.”

  Phaeton mused over Exeter’s story. “No doubt the priests didn’t account for the restorative powers of the Thames.”

  Exeter chuckled. “Not likely. Both gods are resting rather peacefully at the moment. In fact, I’m glad you’r
e here. Now that the sarcophagus has arrived, I might need your assistance in reminding Anubis of his obligation.”

  Exeter’s face seemed drawn, lines deeper around the eyes and mouth. “Have you had any rest?”

  “Not much. Nipped a few hours in a paddy wagon last night.”

  “I’ll take it from here if you wish.”

  Exeter shook his head. “I’ve actually managed to become a kind of liaison of sorts, with the help of our translator.”

  “Stickles is still here?”

  “Wouldn’t miss this for the world, Mr. Black.” The doddering old curator dipped his head to exit what still remained standing of the marble crypt.

  “Right.” Phaeton looked around and noted a curious but somewhat anxious look on Moore’s face. “I’ve quite forgotten introductions. Inspector Moore, I’m pleased to introduce Mr. Stickles, British Library Curator, and Doctor Exeter, a civilian conscripted for duty to the Crown.”

  Exeter nodded to Moore and waved him forward. “Shall we have a look in at the gods?”

  Pale green lights swirled through the murky mist of the inner chamber. On the stone slab in the center of the room, two indistinct shapes lay entwined as one. Exactly the spot where he had last seen Anubis wielding his flail upon a robust derriere. Inspiration, no doubt, for his own abduction and manhandling of Miss Jones.

  “Watch your step,” Stickles warned in a hush voice. A fog-like bank of storm clouds hugged the floor. “Our every movement disturbs the atmosphere.” The heavy mist crackled with light and rumbled with thunder as they ventured inside the crypt.

  Qadesh turned toward their whispered voices. Liquid ebony eyes blinked at the group of men. Her rather stunning breasts were exposed. Round and perfect, nipples raw from the jackal’s love bites. Moore’s jaw dropped sufficiently to please the vain little goddess and her gaze moved on.

  “Fay-ton.” She smiled. The sated sort of grin of a well-pleasured woman. “You have returned to me.”

  A deep grunt shook the room. Another flash of lightning and rumble of thunder swept through the clouds around their knees. Christ, a man could get electrocuted.

  “Qadesh speaks far better English than her husband.”

  Anubis yawned, baring long, razor-sharp teeth. The ebony-headed god trained a suspicious eye on Phaeton. After a long, uncomfortable evaluation, the jackal turned to his mistress. A long pink tongue slipped out from between fangs and licked her ear. The gesture was clear. Mine.

  Phaeton exhaled. “All right then. Had a good long reunion, I understand. Time to”—he backed away as Anubis stood up (Good God, he was half again the size of a normal man, and that phallus was ready for another go)—“pack it in. Jump in the roomy new sarcophagus for the trip home.”

  Qadesh propped herself up on an elbow. “Fay-ton, you promise to return us to Kemet?”

  Stickles dipped closer. “The ancients referred to Egypt as the black land—Kemet. Scholars believe the name references the fertile dark soil deposited along the Nile.”

  “No time like the present for a history lesson.” With a sudden clarity, Phaeton realized, much to his surprise, the two gods appeared ready to go. He bowed deeply to Qadesh. “You have my word, Your Grace.”

  Lighter than air, Qadesh slid off the top of the crypt and approached him. “You have returned my husband to me.” The stunning, nude goddess pressed against him and spoke softly.

  Phaeton took in ruby lips and kohl-black eyes. Yes. A man felt increasingly virile around such a fertile goddess. “I would not have hurt your woman.”

  He raised a brow. “Truly?”

  Her eyes shifted away and back. The crafty minx evaded the question and smiled brightly. “I leave you a gift, Fay-ton. Entrust its power only to those who would never abuse it.”

  Odd request, coming from a goddess who had wrecked vicious havoc all over the row streets of London. Qadesh stepped back, and joined her husband. “We are ready.”

  “Right.” Phaeton turned to Exeter. “Might we clear the commons of all unnecessary personnel?”

  “I don’t believe we need to worry about such details.”

  A glow of light surrounded the two gods and in a sudden burst of fire and light, they disappeared entirely.

  “Shall we check the sarcophagus?” Exeter headed for the exit.

  They marched out into the lane of crypts and peered into the coffin. “There they are.” Huddled together on a pocket of sand in the corner of the reliquary were two small, doll-like figures. He sighed. So the gods trembled as well.

  Phaeton heard an orchestra in his head. Strains of Aida thrummed in his brain, loud enough that he was quite sure that everyone on Egyptian Avenue could hear the mournful notes of the aria.

  Phaeton shared the far-off look in Exeter’s eyes. Yes. He was quite sure the doctor heard the same refrains. The end of act four, Radames is sealed in a vault with Aida. La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse. Phaeton whispered the familiar words, “ ‘The fatal stone now closes over me. Morir! Si pura e bella.’ ”

  The doctor moved to one end of the sarcophagus and positioned himself to slide the coffin lid in place. “Gentlemen?” Ceremoniously, they lifted the heavy cover and closed off the stone reliquary. He glanced around at the men surrounding the sarcophagus. Dear God, Stickles looked as though he might shed a tear. Phaeton brushed off his hands.

  The aria spoke of death, he mused, but these gods were quite content to rest through the centuries. Perhaps they waited for a time to come, a world they could reign—with a people to worship them. “Mr. Stickles.” Phaeton modified the aria’s lyrics. “Shall we pray the gods ‘rest, so pure and simple?’ ” He smiled at the wizened old curator.

  “Phaeton. You might have a look at this.” Moore struggled over boulders of displaced stone and waved them over. Likely too stunned to move, the inspector hadn’t left the crypt until now. Something must have prompted him to exit in a hurry.

  Exeter and Stickles walked Phaeton back into the remains of the mausoleum. Until this moment he had not thought much about the poor chap that lay buried inside the stately family repository struck down by the gods.

  A single shaft of light illuminated an object so unusual, it stopped all three men dead in their tracks. Something the size of a melon sat atop of the stone coffin in the middle of the room.

  An orb as black as ebony, polished to a deep sheen. The surface appeared both opaque and transparent at once. There was some sort of glow from within—and heat. Phaeton leaned in for closer look, and felt the warmth on his cheek. Something shivered inside. A sparkling, fizzy sort of energy. The kind of essence Ping referred to as relic dust and champagne.

  “Good God, it’s an egg.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “WHAT IS IT, PHAETON?” America stared at the dark orb with the strange inner glow on the pantry table.

  He glowered at the mysterious ebony object and sighed. “Some sort of devil’s spawn, Miss Jones.”

  She crept forward. “Is it dangerous?”

  “I don’t believe so.” He lifted a good tumbler full of whiskey. “Not at the moment anyway.” After a deep swallow he moved a lazy gaze over her. “One of your new gowns, is it? What color is that exactly?”

  “Bleuet.” She smiled. “Cornflower blue.” But then, he didn’t really care to know.

  Another gulp of whiskey. “I understand you have accepted the British Museum’s offer.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, gauging his reaction, a flash of concern beneath hooded eyes. “I surmise Scotland Yard—”

  “Wants the case closed and swept away. In this case as far as Cairo.”

  She nodded. “Alexandria, actually.” Awkward small talk made her nervous.

  He popped the cork on the bottle. “Care to join?”

  She could use a drink right about now. “Yes, I believe I will.” America sat down across the table.

  “I’ve never seen you drink anything stronger than bitters, Miss Jones. Need a good jolt of whiskey to gather your courage?” Phaeton
stepped into the pantry and opened a cabinet. He shooed the familiar grey gargoyle over and rummaged for a glass.

  Edvar whimpered.

  “Does ... he need feeding or something?”

  “He is not a pet; he’s a demon. It is my greatest wish he might one day turn to stone and be mounted on an unoccupied parapet of Nôtre Dame.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Edvar, he’s quite fond of you. He just pretends not to care.” She drilled into the back of his head with her stare. “Like anyone or anything that gets uncomfortably close. Isn’t that right, Phaeton?”

  He swung around. “Actually, he’s rather distraught you are leaving us, Miss Jones.”

  She would miss the irascible, meddling little monster. Perhaps, both.

  He set down a clean tumbler and poured her a drink. “Shall we have a toast?”

  “We sail on the afternoon tide, tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” Phaeton settled into his chair before meeting her gaze. “Then we need a seaworthy farewell.” He lifted a brow and his glass. “To—?”

  “To the wind that blows, the ship that goes, and the lass that loves a sailor.” America clinked her glass against his. “Come with me, Phaeton.”

  “I’m no sailor.” His eyes never left hers as he took a swallow. He slapped his empty glass on the table. “Stay.”

  She sighed. “I have been offered a lucrative cargo. And I suspect you were behind the offer. Convenient way to send me off.”

  “I only heard of it yesterday.” Phaeton gasped out a laugh. “Besides, I thought you wished to captain the Topaz. Get the business flourishing once again.”

  She turned the near empty glass of whiskey in her hand. “No man will ever love me the way you do.” She could not quite believe she had blurted out the words. Her cheeks flushed with heat.

  Phaeton blinked. Gingerly, he picked up the bottle and poured them each another glass.

  “Of course, you mean the moaning kind of love.” Leaning back in his chair, he scratched his head. “You are a wanton strumpet, a women of great courage and loyalty. What more could any man ever ask for?” He tilted his chair back and threw up his hands. “Why do women not understand they hold all the power? You will find any man a quick study for a taste of heaven, my dove. That lovely sheath of yours is a temple, teach him how to worship.”