“Mm-m, the pleasure is mine—” Phaeton reached into thin air.
“Got nothing to do with your pleasure, sir. They’re comin’ fer ye. Shake a leg now and be quick about it. We made Port o’ London last night.”
His eyelids flew open. The blurry visage of an old sea dog squinted down at him. Phaeton jerked awake at the sight of the grey-bearded geezer. “Crew sez they lost their share at cards last evening.”
Phaeton rubbed his eyes.
His tête-à-tête with a night terror had been a stimulating hallucination—while it lasted. He blinked again, and brought a wild bristle of chin hairs into focus. “Good God. That you, Mr. Grubb?” He barely recognized the croak in his own voice.
Rummy old Joe Grubb flattened weathered lips into a thin line. “Claim ye cheated ’em.”
Despite the blistering hangover, Phaeton vaguely remembered a card game as well as a good deal of grog guzzling. “Preposterous.” Lifting his pounding head, he reached down to scratch his crotch. A rat chewed on a trouser button.
Phaeton hurled himself out of his hammock. “Bloody hell.” He caught a swinging section of knotted rope, and managed to remain upright. The rodent skittered away into the deeper shadows of the crew’s quarters. Listing to one side, he called after the creature. “Georgiana?”
He ventured a squint about his surroundings. “Where am I?” This was no luxury ocean liner but a rat hole in the bowels of a seagoing vessel. A number of men slept in the hammocks strung about the hold. He was aboard a cargo ship. But not the Topaz. And what had happened to America Jones?
He recalled making port in Shanghai, a few screeching arguments and a long pointed weapon tossed at him. On further consideration—he shook his head—he was quite certain, the altercation between he and America had not been the cause of their separation. Again, Phaeton tried to shake the whiskey fog from his brain.
The gruff old seabird poked him in the rib. “Crew sez ye could see through their cards.” One good eye circled about. “As if by magic.”
A blast of rotten breath sent Phaeton backward. “Possibly, but—”
Something surly and imposing stepped through the hatch, tossing a cutlass back and forth between clenched hands. Good God. The brute-sized sailor did seem familiar. Phaeton struggled to recall last evening through a cloud of smoke and amber spirits.
“Now see here—” He straightened up and backed away from the angry seaman. “Let me assure you, I have no peculiar ability at cards, luck of the draw—” A broad swipe of sword took out several hammocks, which fell onto a cold damp floor. He grimaced. “Stroke of bad luck, wot?”
Phaeton quickly assessed his situation. More sailors, rudely awakened, pockets lightened by grog and card play. His heart rate and blood flow elevated to the correct level of alarm. He feigned to his left and tilted sideways, avoiding the next slash of blade. A number of rousted sea dogs fell in behind the hovering thug with the menacing sword. Air buffeted his face from yet another swoosh of the cutlass.
He wiggled his nose and retreated. No time to lose.
Using a bit of potent lift, learned from a man full of such tricks, Phaeton flung himself into the air, banked off the ceiling and landed atop a sleeping sailor. Arms out to his sides for balance, Phaeton grabbed hold of a line overhead and pushed off the grunting body beneath his boots. He aimed straight for the seamen in pursuit, swinging across the barracks, head down, balls out, he struck the lead man and the rest of the crew toppled over like nine pins. Phaeton released the rope and landed near the main hatch. He grabbed his hat from a nearby hook and the loose cutlass sliding across floorboards.
Joe Grubb broadened a toothless grin. “Cut and run, Mr. Black.”
He flicked the brim of his bowler. “Pricks to the wind, Chief.”
Phaeton bolted into the cargo hold, removing belaying pins as he ran. A flurry of cargo net enveloped, then whisked him out of the hold and into the air. Several good swings of the blade loosed the knotted web of rope and he dropped onto the wooden deck. He did not look back until he was well across the gangplank.
Christ. The bloody lot of them were following on behind.
He made a mad dash along the narrow pier stacked with cargo and crowded with dockworkers. He vaulted over bales of cotton and dodged cart loads of whiskey. Sprinting over the footbridge, he turned away from the chaos of the docks and hoofed it into a covered alleyway.
Phaeton ducked into a dank passage off the lane and waited for his pursuers to pass by. Once the seamen were well ahead, he darted back into the lane and made his way toward the cab stand on Westferry Road. Trotting along behind a drayage cart he was steps away from the bustling thoroughfare, when one of the sea hounds gave a shout from behind.
Phaeton pivoted towards the surly bloke who came at him hoisting a belaying pin. He drew a pistol from his coat knowing full well the chamber held no bullets. The sailor lunged just as a fast moving carriage passed between them. The brief respite afforded him the opportunity to abandon all sense of propriety. He wrenched open the door of the passing vehicle and tossed himself inside.
From the floor of the carriage, amidst a flutter of pretty lace ruffles and petticoats, Phaeton perused shapely legs covered in pale stockings. “My word, things are looking up.”
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Copyright © 2012 Jillian Stone
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The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 33
