“What? And scare the stiff right off my gentlemen callers?” Esmeralda opened a street-level window to let in air. She brushed a layer of dust from the sill. “Shall we say two and six a week, Phaeton?”
Even the chintz-covered overstuffed chair held memories. He had made love to America Jones on every stick of furniture in the room. Phaeton’s gaze lingered in the pantry. He hadn’t had her on top of the breakfast table. But he’d wanted to.
“Phaeton?”
He swung around. “Sorry, woolgathering. Two and six it is.” He dug in his trousers and came up with a pocketful of metal and a wad of banknotes. “Won a great deal of coin last night at Vingt-et-un.” He righted himself for a moment. “At least I believe that is what we were playing.” He counted out a month’s rent.
Esmeralda smiled. “You’ve been sorely missed, Phaeton.”
His gaze moved over her softly. “By Madam in particular?” He placed a banknote and a few coins in her palm.
She pocketed the rent money. “I have a hot bath waiting.”
He could not help but notice the sway of silk across her bottom. So much more arousing than a bustle. “Room enough for two?”
Esmeralda snorted a laugh and climbed the stairs. “Shall I have Bertie make up your bed and heat water for a bath?”
“This afternoon.” Phaeton yawned. “I mean to nick a few hours sleep.” He lifted a seat cushion off the chair. “Georgiana?”
After a quick check into dim corners and pantry closets, he flopped onto the chaise. “Velvet . . . Fleury?” He opened an eye and perused the familiar surroundings one more time. “Girls?”
Chapter Three
HAND OVER HAND, toe behind toe, America shimmied down the bowsprit of the Topaz. Far below, the basin waters of Isle of Dogs rushed beneath the ship’s bow. Millwall docks lay just ahead. The tinge of sulfur in the yellow-brown air sent blood and thrills racing through her veins at the very thought of home.
Without warning, a recurring vision overtook her. America grabbed hold of the jib line to steady herself. Phaeton drifted in a sea of madness. In the vision, they were both in London, but somehow—it was not London. Phaeton was by her side, yet she was but a ghost in his world. America’s eyes rolled back in her head. A memory of something her mother, a Vauda witch of great power, had once advised. “Embrace that which haunts you—draw strength from its power—take it in and make yourself whole again.”
Wave after wave of uneasy thoughts invaded her mind. Darker times were still ahead for both of them. A shiver ran up her spine, jolting her back to reality. “I fear we are in for a nasty adventure,” she sighed aloud. Layered into the sound of rushing water came a series of low-pitched clicks. Something like the vibration heard from the island dragons off the coast of Sumatra. “Edvar?”
Agile as a monkey, the gargoyle slid down the jib sail and landed on the ship’s railing. America laughed at the creature’s antics. After months at sea, she had finally begun to understand the unusual mascot. “We’re about to make port.” She looked for the slinky gray gargoyle whose visibility faded in and out at whim.
“Dun-lon?” The query floated up to her. She thought Edvar meant London, though one could never be sure.
America pushed off the rail. “Best finish packing.” She wound a path through a busy crew tossing dock lines ashore to her cabin below deck.
Her portmanteau sat on a captain’s chair, just where she had left it earlier. She removed a stack of unmentionables from the great chest on the floor and set them inside the satchel.
“Edvar?” America held the bag open. A pale shadow skittered along the floor and landed in the bag. A shifting around of petticoats and stockings indicated the small beastie boy had settled in. Not that the elusive creature needed to be packed for traveling, he just had an affinity for luggage.
After months at sea, she was beginning to decipher a few traits of the little fiend’s. Not just his odd clicks and hisses, and his funny attempts at speech, which were often upside down and backward. It was more like she could fathom Edvar’s intentions. The scampering imp was more magical dog than gargoyle. From the first, her sensory faculties had perceived an aura of protection—and it was stronger than ever now that Phaeton was gone.
When her errant lover had vanished in Shanghai, the great paradise for adventurers, Edvar had stayed with her. It seemed the gargoyle’s umbrella of protection now applied to her and the little pea in the pod.
America recalled the days and nights spent searching Shanghai’s most notorious pits of depravity. Since Phaeton had likely gone chasing after the dragon, she checked the opium dens first, then the red lantern districts brimming over with expensive courtesans and short-time whores. Nothing. And those women would have remembered Phaeton. Her heart ached at the very thought, just as it had then.
When it became obvious he hadn’t gone after a bit of pipe, nor had he been whoring, her fears had led her to a very dark place. Thoughts of him falling prey to the thuggery of Blood Alley had crept silently into her mind—images of him floating facedown in the Yangtzu river. Then, finally, after days of rummaging about and innumerable bribes, she confirmed Phaeton had booked passage on a steamer bound for Ceylon.
What a relief—he had abandoned her.
After a good cry and an incident of teacups crashing against walls and the feathers of a pillow being—well, feathered about—she had sat up straight and made up her mind. By her order the Topaz had set sail early that evening. She had chased the scoundrel halfway around the world, and she would have it out with him—this very night if possible.
A patter of irregular heartbeats danced in her chest at just the thought of seeing him again. She could almost feel him now. They were that close—and yet, she also felt estranged. She wondered, frankly, whether she would kill him on first sight or make love to him. There was such appeal in both, a smile tugged at the ends of her mouth.
“I suppose I’m ready if you are, Edvar.”
A whiny snuffle answered from the depths of her luggage.
Early in the voyage, Phaeton had taught her basic gargoyle speech, beginning with the little monster’s yuk-yuks and nuh-uhs. Apparently there was a whole range of nuanced whines and hissing noises that took years to interpret with any accuracy. “You have to understand.” Phaeton advised. “He is contrary by nature. There will always be a little bit of no in every yes from Edvar.”
She leaned over the travel bag. “You’re looking forward to seeing Phaeton again—aren’t you?” Edvar’s rattle and hum sounded like a harrumph followed by a snort.
“Ha! Thought so—you miss him as much as I do.” Golden eyes blinked at her. The gargoyle whimpered a soft nuh-uh. America grinned. It seemed there was also a bit of yes in every nuh-uh.
A sparkle of light outside the porthole caught her eye. Rather bright for dockside torches. Perhaps it was just harbor light reflecting off raindrops on the glass. She leaned over her berth for a better look. Only blackness—no, wait. An oval face emerged from deep shadows. Luminous gray eyes, as small as pearls, gazed at her without blinking. Below flattened nostrils a gaping orifice opened. A thousand needle-sharp teeth, webbed with viscous threads of drool, glistened in the dark.
America jumped back with a shriek.
“Anything wrong Captain, Miss?” America ran to open the hatch door. Her chief mate stood in the passageway.
She turned back to the porthole, but the face was gone. “Be right with you.”
She shook off a tremble, closed the satchel and handed the bag to Ned.
“Are you sure you want to be traveling at this late hour, Miss?”
She had a bee in her bonnet to face and have it out with Phaeton Black—then perhaps a nice long session of making up. Where did that lusty thought come from? Mentally, she slapped herself. “I’ll just toss and turn all night—best get this over with.” She tugged on gloves as she stepped ahead of Ned.
“And you’re sure Mr. Black will return to Shaftesbury Court, Miss?”
She
was on deck and across the gangway before she answered. “A house full of willing tarts? Where else would the blackguard go?”
She took the shortest way out of Millwork docks, setting a blistering pace over the footbridge that crossed the boat basin. As they passed the cooperage, something slithered into the shadows of the barrel maker’s doorway. America turned onto West Ferry Road. Even at this late hour, the Isle of Dogs enjoyed a bustle of activity.
“I’ll take care of the Port Authority, contact MacLeod—see if he’s got a captain for us. Then I’ll have a look about for shipment—” Nate rattled on, unaware of the wraith-like something that had scurried ahead of them—at least that was the impression in her head. Whatever it was had followed them from the ship to the cab stand.
A solitary hansom waited at the cab stand—lucky break at this time of the night. London Docks were busy around the clock, but cabs were often a scarcity in the small hours. Ned opened the door of the hansom and placed her bag inside.
A shiver ran down her spine just before she turned to her chief mate and boatswain. “Once you hire the rat catchers, wire me.”
A sudden gust of evil wind knocked the chief down. America felt something tug at her innards just before she was lifted into the air and tossed into the coach. Her head hit the side of the cab as the door slammed shut. She hardly had time to blink before they lurched off.
America tore at the sharp icicle fingers that gripped her throat, straining to see her attacker. She focused at the edges of her peripheral vision, just as Phaeton had taught her—where the shadow creatures lurked. It seemed a certainty that her attacker wasn’t human. “Let me go!” Her voice was a barely audible croak.
And whatever held onto her had to be stick thin, as the inside of a hansom was a cramped space, and she felt as if she sat alone on the bench. The long, thin claws coiled around her neck and turned her scream into a rasp.
She was being abducted—but why?
America shook her head and the claws clenched, cutting off her wind again. Panicked for air, she yanked at the vice-like fingers with both hands. “What do you want?” she choked. “I have money, and I can get more—just tell me what you want.”
From the corner of her eye, she could just make out a bulbous oval-shaped head and two very small, pale gray eyes that swiveled about oddly.
“I ’ave mince pies for eyes, but no name. No need—got a dickie from the lath-n-plaster who tinkered me, and many more like Skeezicks.”
A monster who dropped his h’s and spoke in rhyming slang. America raised both brows. “From the East End, are you?”
“Stop yer gob miss and give me no troubles.”
America swallowed, not an easy task with claws wrapped around your neck. Once again she tried to loosen the creature’s hold. “I’m not sure what sort of creature you are—but humans need to breathe in order to live—you do want me alive don’t you? There could hardly be any point to an abduction if you just wanted to suffocate me.”
She was beginning to wonder how clever this odd, skeletal creature was and thought to put it to the test. “Tell me . . . Mister. . . Skeezicks, this wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr. Black would it?” She continued to wrench and squirm away.
“Skeezicks wouldn’t know, we ’ave our directives—” The creature halted mid-sentence. The carriage had stopped. Bit by bit, icicle fingers released her neck. Feet first, her abductor was swept up through the trapdoor in the ceiling. Something above pulled the rail-thin frame through the hole in the roof, all except for the bulbous head which got stuck and rasped out a warning. “Keep yer shoes on.”
Whatever that meant. America wasted no time deciphering the creature’s speech, and tried lifting the latch of the cab door. Stuck or jammed or purposely blocked. Up above, the scratches and snarls of squalling alley cats caused the cab to rattle and shake. The hansom door flew open but before she could step out, it slammed in her face. What in heaven’s name was going on out there? Again the door flew open and she grabbed her travel bag and jumped out.
Locked in combat, a blur of gray shapes rolled about on the cab roof, growling and snarling. The driver was nowhere to be seen. She was sure the smaller faster shape was Edvar. The valiant little scamp was fighting that nasty Skeezick creature.
Edvar leaped away with a high-pitched yelp as the horrid creature crept after the gargoyle. America narrowed her eyes and recited an ages-old incantation of her mother’s. The Helping Hand—something one could never invoke for oneself but could use in the aid of another. As she conjured, something warm moved from her heart to her palm. A phosphorescent ball of energy swirled to life and grew to the size of a melon. Mentally, she gave the energy a push and it flew to the top of the cab. The glob of relic dust and champagne sprouted fingers and slapped the skeletal menace repeatedly—away from Edvar.
The entity cringed at the edge of the cab roof. Beady Skeezick eyes swiveled from the gargoyle to her. With a harsh shriek, their attacker dissolved into small particles and slithered off into the night.
America shook her head. “What was that?”
Edvar licked a few scratches, looking more like a cat than a gargoyle. An eerie chorus of clicking noises echoed along the quay. Her gray protector wrapped a slithery tail around himself and hissed.
She peered into the darkness. “He’s coming back—with more.”
Edvar sprang from the roof to the driver’s seat at the back of the hansom. The gray imp gathered up the reins and motioned her back inside.
She hesitated, then climbed into the cab and opened the trapdoor. Looking up at the little demon she raised both brows. “You’re sure you can do this?”
Chapter Four
A DIM GASLIGHT SPUTTERED ABOVE THE STAIR LANDING. America steadied herself and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness below. The hansom ride from the Docklands to the West End had been one of the most harrowing in her life, with the possible exception of a ride in a rickshaw pulled by a Zulu in Durban, South Africa.
She squinted and a few details emerged from the flat below, including a shadowy figure in the overstuffed chair. A soft snore rumbled its way up the stair—it was Phaeton, all right. She ventured farther into the room for a better look.
He lounged in the chair with his pelvis forward, legs spread. America angled her head, studying him. There was a rough of whiskers on his chin; could he look any more dashing? She exhaled a sigh. Only if he opened those liquid brown eyes.
“A little lower, darling.” He mumbled, still asleep. It suddenly hit her. He was safe. He was healthy. The bilge rat.
“Darling, is it?” she whispered. Her gaze trailed down his open waistcoat to the buttons on his trousers. As if in answer to her own lascivious thoughts, the buttons began to open.
She grinned at first—was this some new kind of power emerging? Something ancient and primal fueled by lust? She had noticed a marked increase in her abilities these last few months; there was no question they were getting stronger. She reached out and her hand was slapped away—by what she had no idea. She tried again to reach out and was flung across the flat onto the lumpy old chaise longue.
America sat up and stared. Something tugged at Phaeton’s trousers—something powerful enough to manipulate the physical world and yet remain unseen. Rising to her feet, she strode across the floor and slapped Phaeton hard across the face.
He groaned, still in a deep trance. “Just the tip, Georgiana.”
She slapped him again. “Snap out of it!”
Jarred awake, Phaeton pushed away from her and blinked—several times. She slapped him again. This time he rubbed his jaw and his eyes watered. “America?” Gradually, between squints and blinks, he came around.
Her fists landed on her hips. “Who is Georgiana?”
Phaeton eased back into his chair, though he regarded her with some wariness. “A rather persistent succubus. And you certainly aren’t one of those—thank God.” If it was possible for a man to have sultry eyes, Phaeton had them. Dark lashes lowered over
liquid coffee orbs, that weren’t sleepy—just seductive. He tilted his chin and studied her. “Though, I must admit the nasty little vixen has me in some discomfort—would you mind?” He gave a nod to the bulge in his trousers.
“Stuff it, Phaeton.”
“Exactly.” A slow grin twitched on the devilish mouth. “I’m just asking.”
“Goodness, how long has it been?” America rolled her eyes upward, calculating. “Separated for less than two months and already I’d quite forgotten how exasperating you can be.”
“You followed me—rather sweet of you. I wasn’t sure you would. I thought you would think I jumped ship and sailed off—abandoned you.”
America’s eyes narrowed into cat slits. “According to your wire, which I received just yesterday, you were shanghaied—in Shanghai.”
Phaeton shrugged. “Old joke, not particularly amusing anymore.”
She stared at him. “You must trust me when I say that it was never comical—in the least.” America shook her head and moved to the pantry area of the flat. She braced herself against the table edge. “I chased you halfway round the world, Phaeton. I want the truth this time, and not a crafty as-you-please answer.” She swept an errant curl back into her topknot. “I believe I’ve known eels less slippery.”
Phaeton wore that cajoling half smile. “You’re angry with me.”
“Mad at you? No Phaeton, I’m not angry with you. I’m . . . I’m furious.” America choked on her own words—or was it the painful and growing lump in her throat that stifled her breath? “I searched for you in every opium den and every back alley of Shanghai. Only after a great deal of money changed hands was I able to find out you’d cut and run—aboard the Boomerang. Do you have any idea how I worried?”
“I’ve caused you great torment, but I swear to you none of it was my doing. Yes, I was on that ship—in leg irons for more than half the voyage. I was cracked over the head in Blood Alley, stuffed in a sack, and taken aboard ship.” She must have appeared unmoved as his eyes fluttered and rolled a bit. “Turns out the captain was a regular chap, with a good supply of whiskey—nightly card play.”
The Moonstone and Miss Jones Page 3
