The Seduction of Phaeton Black

by Jillian Stone

  She rolled her eyes and bit her lip. “What will become of us?”

  “You will return to your shipping business and I will, doubtless, muddle on. Solve the occasional odd crime of an occult nature.”

  She shifted her gaze away. “So, you really don’t love me.”

  “You and I don’t believe in love.”

  “I don’t understand.” All her lip chewing did nothing to assuage her confusion. “There were so many proofs of love.”

  “Proofs? What proofs?” Brows raised, he appeared genuinely surprised.

  “I hardly know where to begin.” Nervously, she pressed lips together to moisten them. “From the very beginning, actually. That first night in the row, when you saved me from Yanky Willem’s men.”

  “As I recall, the pleasure was all mine.” She expected a grin to punctuate the remark. Yes, there it was, right on cue, but this time, something darker veiled his eyes.

  “You found the night shelter and offered me work.”

  “A lapse in judgment.”

  “All right, let’s call them small proofs, then.” She twisted up a wry pout. “And what about that shopping trip and all those lovely clothes you purchased?”

  “You owe me six hundred and seventy-five pounds.”

  “I owe you a great deal more than that, Phaeton.”

  He shrugged. “After a few profitable voyages you can look me up and repay the loan.”

  A scowl formed at the edges of her mouth. “You were nearly killed chasing after pirates on my behalf. Twice.”

  He ignored his empty glass and swigged directly from the bottle.

  “Whether you care or not, you are a hero, Phaeton.”

  “I’m uncomfortable with the term, Miss Jones. It comes with expectations.”

  She picked up her glass and tossed the hot burning liquid down her throat. “There are more proofs—” She gasped, nearly choking on whiskey fumes.

  “I had no idea you were counting.”

  “You rescued me from Qadesh.”

  He tilted his chair back. “I’d call us even on that score. You even donated blood to my cause. I’m afraid we cancel each other out.”

  America smiled. “And what about Mrs. Horsley?”

  “The pompous boardinghouse matron?” His incredulous look was almost comical.

  “You didn’t have to torture her, Phaeton.”

  “She was a cunt.”

  She stabbed him with a look. “Nasty word.”

  “Nasty woman.”

  She sighed. “Yes, she was.” A smile might have tipped the edges of her mouth. “You distracted the pirates so both Inspector Moore and I could get away.”

  “A fluke of luck.”

  “You walked the plank for it.”

  “Got keel hauled, as well.” Phaeton leaned forward, returning all four legs of his chair to the floor. “We’ve been over this—”

  “You taught me how to experience pleasure.”

  He took his time answering, his smile uneven. “Lust, Miss Jones. No proof of love.” He corked the bottle and returned the whiskey to the pantry cabinet.

  Her heart sank. She was so sure he cared. And her father was almost never wrong about these things regarding men’s odd behaviors. Something had to have happened to change him into such a cool character. “Phaeton.” She looked up. “All those monsters you confronted as a child.”

  “What about them, my dear?”

  “It must have been quite horrifying, at such an impressionable age, to discover your night terrors were real ...” She drifted off, hardly able to complete the thought.

  “Quite beyond the pale, Miss Jones, to wake up with a succubus on my chest, attempting to suck the life from my body.” He stood behind her chair and nuzzled her neck. “Checking under the bed for ogres and finding one.”

  A tingle of arousal and horror shivered down her spine. She closed her eyes and pictured a frightened young boy and a fragile, clairvoyant mother whose soul departed this world, leaving her small, defenseless son behind to fend for himself.

  He spoke softly in her ear. “I think you should leave before I carry you to my bed and beg you to abuse me.”

  In the deepest reaches of her soul, she knew she was close to unlocking his heart. Why else was he asking her to leave? She lowered her eyes and shifted gently into a trance, reaching out to connect with his secrets. “You lost your maman, your only defender, but there was another female—” A flash of terror, as the devil’s red eyes pierced the veil. A horned creature with the cloven hooves and the legs of a beast, strode toward a terrified girl. “There was a young woman—when you were in still in school.”

  He stepped away from her.

  America stood up and whirled around. “I saw a young lady. She trembled with fear. What happened to her?”

  She held her breath as he paced the floor. Rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder, he vigorously rubbed the back of his neck. He pivoted midstride and returned her gaze with a glower. “You don’t really want to hear this.”

  “Yes, Phaeton. I do.” She set her chin.

  “Georgette Pfeiffer. Thought I was in love with a professor’s daughter at Cambridge. One night on our way home from a social, we stopped off at a pub. I was attacked by something large and hulking, and we were both dragged into a back alley. Exeter rescued us from Beelzebub or whatever the hell it was.”

  She knitted her brows. “Doctor Exeter?”

  Phaeton shrugged. “Destined to keep crossing paths with the man. I suppose he was there adding letters to his numerous degrees; I don’t know.”

  “Does this happen often, Phaeton? Monsters popping out of bushes, bent on mayhem?”

  “Often enough.” The cocky grin was replaced by something more wistful. “Sometimes they carry knives and demand I mount them against a wall.”

  She ignored his reference to her behavior in the alley. “And Miss Pfeiffer?”

  “Unhappily married to a linguistics instructor.” His mouth settled into a grim line. “The night of the attack, Exeter managed to pull me away. She took the brunt of it. Torn clothes. Terrible claw marks on her flesh. Left her soaked in blood.”

  America’s knees wavered.

  “Occasionally I get a wire. ‘Come quickly, Phaeton.’ Georgette has become a presage. She has quite dazzling dreams and terrifying possessions. l am the only one who can talk her off the ceiling.” He shrugged. “Could be worse, she could have ended up in Bedlam. Living in chains, taking the ice bath cure.”

  He rubbed his face, scratching day-old stubble. “Have you ever been submerged into ice water? Feels like a million tiny needles stabbing at your flesh.” The set of his mouth was pained, rueful. “Calms the terrors.”

  She tried to focus on the enchanted young woman rather than the fear that trickled into her heart. Horrified and close to tears, she needed to either cry or scream. Perhaps both. “I take it you fight shy of women now. Other than the occasional doxy, to trim the sails.”

  “I stay away from attachments of any sort, male or female. Surely you can see what happens to people around me? I place all of you in jeopardy of your lives.” He seemed to tower over her. “Do not push me any further on the subject.”

  Like an errant, uncoiled bedspring, her patience unraveled along with her temper. “You will die a wizened, lonely old man, Phaeton Black, without a single grandchild to bounce on your knee.”

  He took her by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled. “Exactly right, Miss Jones. Why would I want to put my children through the same kinds of terrors I experienced? Imagine your worst nightmare come alive in the nursery.”

  Stunned, she blinked at him. “But this time, they might have two parents to watch over them.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing.”

  His eyes narrowed, darkened. “You’re sure?”

  She sighed. “I just meant to imply—if, you and I, were to have children—”

  “You just assured me we are not.”


  Her lower lip quivered. “We are not.”

  She had finally needled him straight over the edge. With his secrets shattered and his guard down, his temper was now free to rage. She braced herself for further assault, but he backed off, flexing fingers that had dug through jacket and dress to bruise the flesh of her shoulders. “For the last time, I beg you to leave, Miss Jones.”

  The silence, the stillness, finally became unbearable. “Good-bye, Phaeton.”

  She managed a shaky climb up the stairs and a dazed walk out of the house. Even with her vision somewhat impaired, she found Charing Cross Road and waited for a ride.

  “Cab’s empty, miss.”

  She hardly noticed the hansom stopped at the corner. “So it is.”

  The driver jumped down and opened the door. “Miss?” The man’s face was a blur. “Is there something the matter, miss? You look like you’ve lost yer best friend in the world.”

  America sniffed and climbed in. “Hardly a friend.”

  Phaeton Black was so much more than that. But a person cannot be brought to love by force or other device. Even a strong heart like Phaeton’s, darkened by years of terror, was likely damaged beyond repair. As the carriage lurched off, the jolt shook the first tear from her eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  PHAETON SET THE EGGLIKE ODDITY INSIDE A RAGGED OLD PORTMANTEAU, and stuffed a number of soft rags around the orb. Gaseous trails of life, either seen or imagined, one could never be sure, swirled deep inside the object’s mystifying depths.

  A zephyr of whispers and snarls wafted across the pantry. “You’re in a nasty mood.” He snapped the worn leather bag shut.

  A pair of disembodied golden eyes blinked. Edvar materialized on the edge of the counter. A swish of slithering tail curled a tight coil around the bony, sullen frame.

  “Miss Jones is far better off without us.” The gargoyle cocked his head and hissed at the moan and creak of stair treads

  “You here, Phaeton?” Exeter paused for a glimpse at the flat below.

  “Caught me on my way out.” He glanced upward. “About to pay a visit to a certain back alley in Limehouse.”

  The doctor finished his descent. “Off for an afternoon with Julian Ping or the dream pipe? Perhaps, both?” Exeter eyed the bulging portmanteau. “I suggest your destination is Pennyfields Lane, and you’re to about to meet with The Gentlemen Shades.”

  “Bloody schoolyard name for a band of Gothic mesmerists who fancy themselves warlocks.” Phaeton didn’t hold back an impatient sigh. He opened a cabinet and brought down a near empty bottle. “Enough for a dram each.” He handed over a glass. “Who is your sponsor?”

  “Gaspar.” Exeter sniffed the whiskey. “Oak and orange peel with a nice bit of smoke.”

  “Talisker’s finest.” Phaeton studied Exeter. It was the first time either of them had formally acknowledged the occultist organization comprised of peculiar hominoids and the odd, remnant peer of the realm. “Gaspar Sinclair. The dissipated and delusional Viscount Stuart of Findhorn. Pipe never leaves the hand of that lotus-eater.”

  The doctor edged up a one-sided shrug. “I take it your sponsor is Ping.”

  “Rather drunk one night, skulking about Pennyfield’s looking for a smoke, knocked on the wrong door.” His mind drifted back to the alley lined with opium dens. “Ping or Jin answered. One can never be entirely sure.”

  True to form, the doctor raised a supercilious brow. “And how is that?”

  He tossed back his whiskey and set the glass on the counter. “You will find out soon enough, when you are alone with him.” He grinned. “Or her.”

  Exeter’s gaze left the travel bag. “And you trust him—or her—with the orb?”

  “What would you have me do, twiddle thumbs and wait ’round for this thing to hatch? Or worse—give it to Chilcott.” Phaeton snorted.

  The doctor seemed strident this afternoon, troubled. The imposing, stoic man strolled the perimeter of the table and sipped his whiskey. “I didn’t expect to find you at home. Thought you’d be down at the docks, waving bon voyage. Perhaps even sailing off to Cairo with Miss Jones.”

  “Alexandria.” Phaeton leaned back against the pantry counter, arms crossed over chest. “And why on earth would you think that?”

  “Because, you two are—like spirits, are you not? Among all the beings of the earth and stars, you have crossed paths with the special one, Mr. Black.” Exeter appeared genuinely concerned. “Do you not feel love?”

  “I do not wish to fall in love.”

  “Ah, Phaeton. It’s too late.” Exeter had the nerve to grin. “You already have.”

  He shook his head, eyes darting about under the man’s stare. “I’ll get over it. It is infatuation.”

  Exeter frowned. “You could learn something from Anubis.”

  “Ha!” Phaeton snorted. “Who couldn’t?”

  The doctor was not amused. “Anubis, in his prime, was overseer of the weighing of souls. Is your heart lighter than a feather, Phaeton?”

  He grimaced. “I’m damned to hell in this life, why not the next?” The last thing he wanted was to appear cornered—wild-eyed.

  No answer, the doctor just stared.

  He drained the last drops of whiskey and dropped the empty bottle in the dustbin. “This missing her will only hurt for a while. Pain can be tolerated.”

  “What if it doesn’t hurt for a while. What if it hurts for a lifetime?”

  Phaeton swung around. “Well, that’s just it. You see what follows me about. What lurks in my pantry closets. She could be injured or killed.”

  “The rationale of a frightened little boy. Not a man.”

  Phaeton’s eyes darkened, narrowed, even as his jaw clenched.

  Exeter backed away. “Shall I remove my jacket?”

  His gaze landed on his frock coat hanging on a wall hook. “No sense bruising knuckles. I’ve got a standard issue Webley Mk1 in my jacket pocket.”

  If this tête-à-tête was a chess game, Phaeton had just called check. “Miss Jones knows everything. All about Georgette. My obligation—”

  “That demon was after Miss Pfeiffer.” Exeter shook his head. “The fact that you were with her, Phaeton, most likely saved her life. Both your energies, under tremendous psychic assault, attracted me to the scene.”

  How his jaw got from clamped together to hanging open was behind him. Phaeton clapped his mouth shut. “Left quite a bloody mess for an apparition.”

  “Our world, the universe, and everything in it—we all play a part in this very persistent illusion.” Exeter stepped closer. “Georgette always had abilities. No doubt the attack triggered something more powerful. She is gradually learning to control the episodes of transference.” He leaned against the pantry counter beside him. “You owe Miss Pfeiffer nothing more than your continued friendship, Phaeton.”

  He studied the man beside him. “You’ve been working with her?”

  “Only on occasion, like yourself.”

  The doctor leaned a bit closer. “There is really nothing stopping you from accompanying Miss Jones on an ocean voyage. You’re free to go, Phaeton.”

  He thought his brain might explode, either from relief or his disconcerting, rapidly rising disquiet. America was gone. “I cannot ...” He hesitated, searching his words, thoughts. Since early this morning, he had existed in a state of utter turmoil, body and brain tied up in knots. She had walked up those stairs and out of his life, in all probability, forever.

  “Yes, Phaeton?”

  They both stared at each other for what seemed like an eon of time. “Christ, Jason, I miss her beyond words.” Phaeton glanced away. “It’s too late anyway, the Topaz Star sailed on the tide.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “Impossible to catch up at this point. Likely there’s also a good breeze along the Thames to tack along with.”

  “Very likely, yes.” Exeter sympathized. “Unless ...”

  Phaeton choked a bit on the knot in his throat. “Unle
ss?”

  “Unless one had at his disposal another ship.” A flash of light sparked in those piercing green eyes. “Something fast and a good deal lighter than air.”

  Phaeton blinked. “The airship?”

  Deep creases formed to each side of Exeter’s grin. “I happen to be out for an afternoon of aeronautics. Last year, Esmeralda had a large archery target painted on the roof. Makes for convenient access—”

  Phaeton stood upright. “That explains how you are able to slip in and out of here.”

  Exeter pressed further. “We could chase her down. Waylay her.”

  Something swelled inside his chest. “Doubt whether she’s much past Greenwich.”

  “Worth a try, wouldn’t you say?”

  A million thoughts bombarded at once, but the picture of America, standing at the helm of her ship, wind in her hair, eyes trained on the sea, easily muted a battery of warning, internal voices. With her image locked fast in his heart, the last “no-you-don’t” and “you-bloody-fool” faded away.

  He met Exeter’s maddening grin with one of his own. “Always wanted to see the pyramids.”

  “Pack a bag and meet me on the roof.” Exeter climbed the stairs. “Quickly, Phaeton.”

  Jerked into action, he piled shirts and drawers, trousers and coats into a large traveling case. He slammed the lid shut.

  On second thought, he reopened the bag. An irritating bit of snuffling and whining emanated from the bedpost. He gestured impatiently to his slithery companion perched upon a finial. “All right then, jump in.”

  An indentation formed among his clothes, a nest between hose and shirt collars.

  “Phaeton, are you leaving us?” Lizzie stood at the entry to his room. “I overheard the doctor and Mrs. Parker in the salon.”

  Phaeton closed and latched the case. “You’re looking well, Lizzie.”

  “Oh yes, sir. Much improved. No sign of fangs.” She bared her teeth, but the smile soon faded. “Will we ever see you again?”