Phaeton gestured downstairs. “After you, ladies.”
The moment Cutter and Valentine entered the flat they spread out and checked every room, closet, and window for the dregs and other lurkers. Phaeton stoked the stove, and helped America put on several pots of water. “I want a bath and bed—in that order.” A lovely sigh escaped her lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled the sensitive spot behind her ear. “And if I bathe the pretty lady, what favors might I receive in return?”
America leaned against his chest. “Will there be a back scrub?”
“With a Turkish towel,” he murmured.
“Heels and toes?”
“I think I can do a fair approximation of a Mandalay foot massage.”
“Help me get the tub.” America opened the pantry closet and Phaeton pulled out the copper bath. He glanced at their new roommates. “America is going to have a bath and I plan to wash up as well.” He pointed to the overstuffed chair. “She can stay,” Phaeton said, then pivoted toward Cutter. “You station yourself above the flat.”
“Upstairs? With the doxies?” Though he couldn’t see Cutter’s expression, the faint whirs and clicks picked up tempo. The strapping lad backed away and climbed the stairs.
Valentine called after him, “Take care you don’t catch the pox.”
“What me? Hardly a chance of that, Miss Smyth with a y.” Cutter’s rasp was more of whisper.
The female Nightshade’s gaze followed him up a few steps. “The balmy machine head doesn’t know how utterly irresistible he is.”
“I find I am drawn to Cutter in spite of the mask.” America grunted as she helped Phaeton position the tub near the stove.
“His body has healed—but not his pride.” Valentine sighed. She sank into the comfortable overstuffed chair and put her feet up on the nearby stool. “I sense apparitions—female energy.”
America turned so Phaeton could unbutton her dress. “Phaeton claims an entire family has been following him about.”
Phaeton folded her dress over the back of the chair and unbuckled her bustle. “Succubi. Three daughters—each one a siren in her own right. And a mother and father.”
Valentine snorted softly. “Do succubi often travel with chaperones ?”
“These do.” Phaeton held onto America as she stepped out of her petticoats.
Valentine’s gaze moved to the side table by the chaise. “And the gray creature in the corner who follows you about everywhere ?”
America poured two large kettles of warm water into the tub, adding room temperature water until the bath was comfortable. “That would be Edvar—he’s Phaeton’s. I like to think of the two as a boy and his dog.” America smiled at the gargoyle. “I’ve grown quite fond of him, myself.” Her travel bag sat on the seat of a kitchen chair. She opened it, removed a flagon from the satchel, and poured a few drops of its contents into the steaming water.
“Mmm, oil of lavender and rosemary.” Valentine inhaled deeply, then rose from her chair. “I believe I’ll join Cutter . . . for a while.” She climbed the stairs.
“I was rather hoping for a bit of trim with a nun looking on—or even better, a ménage à trois.” Phaeton stood by the bath with a towel and cake of soap, unable to take his eyes off America. She removed her camisole and pantalettes, and leaned over the tub mixing the oils into the bathwater. The sight of her nude form was breathtaking in the flickering gaslight. His gaze moved over the exquisite curve that ran along the back of her thigh, up over smooth, rounded buttocks.
He caught the prettiest, stolen glance from her. A narrowed eye and the dimple of a smile she held back. “You’re staring at my bottom, Mr. Ménage.”
“Yes, I believe I am.” Phaeton thought she had never looked lovelier. “I daresay you have filled out in some wonderful places these past few months apart.” Phaeton walked up behind her, cupping both his hands on the roundness of her buttocks and then moving them over her hips and belly. “There is something voluptuously curvy about you.”
She responded by leaning back against him and wrapping her arms around them both. His skilled fingers ran down her rounded belly into the soft curls below. He waited for her quiver.
“You’re tingling, Miss Jones.” She took both his hands up to her breasts and he felt her knees buckle. Holding her tight with one arm while his free hand massaged a nipple, he whispered senseless utterances of desire, including lewd, indecent promises to endlessly arouse her.
“Goodness, do you think we can both fit in the tub?” America unbuttoned his waistcoat then backed away to watch him shed his clothes.
Phaeton stepped into the bath and pulled her between his legs. She settled back against his chest, with her knees in the air. “There is something wonderful about being naked with you in a hot bath filled with fragrant oils and soap bubbles. Luckily for us, you’re flexible.”
“I believe I was promised a back scrub?” She handed off a cake of soap and cloth, and he worked carefully over her anatomy starting with those firm, plump breasts. He made them slippery with soap and tweaked her nipples until they were hard and erect and she wriggled her bottom against his cock.
“Phaeton?”
“Hmm?” He kissed her shoulder.
“I believe you about being shanghaied in Shanghai.”
“Is that so?” He moved up her neck to nibble an earlobe.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “I have missed your kisses.” She ran a finger over full moist lips. “Here.” She continued down her torso until the finger disappeared under milky bath water. “And here.” Angling her head, she looked up at him. Her eyelids were heavy and sensuous and she opened her mouth just enough to send his ever raucous penis thumping against her bottom.
Phaeton smiled. “And might this kiss involve my tongue?” Gently, he tugged on her nipples. “So clever and talented,” she moaned the words.
It was her throaty sigh that did it. He pulled America out of the tub and watched sudsy rivulets of water meander down her torso. He’d missed her nude body—the shape, the feel of her— just to touch her caused his cock to harden painfully. He hadn’t seen her this way in months, yet he remembered every curve—in particular those plump breasts with high set nipples. “Hold still.” He rubbed the bath sheet over every inch of her then wrapped her in the towel and carried her down the hallway. “Get the knob, darling?”
“The knob tickling my bum or the one on the door?” The little minx referred to his twitching member. Her eyes gleamed with mischief and something akin to lust.
Phaeton narrowed his gaze. “Careful, young lady. As I recall, your bottom turns a lovely shade of pink under my hand.”
She reached out and opened the door to his bedroom, and he lay her out on top of the coverlet—all tawny skin and round curves. With the ducal cock ready for penetration, he crawled over her. “Shall I make you whimper or scream in ecstasy?”
“Must I have one without the other?”
Using a fingertip he stroked softly along her inner folds. Barely rubbing—circling the place that made her shiver and arch upward, she thrust her breasts toward his mouth. Dipping his head, he was happy to nibble. Intimately acquainted with the place that made her writhe with pleasure, he used two fingers and circled gently.
“Yes?”
“Oh, yes.”
A flood of slippery arousal invited his fingers deeper, but he stayed light and played at the edges of her opening, leaving his thumb to circle and tease. Her thighs and belly trembled as her arousal climbed to yet another level. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, je suis excité pour vous—n’ arrêtez pas, Phaeton.” French, whispered in a husky voice, was America’s code for “I am close—whatever you do, do not stop. If you stop I might have to kill you.”
“Come for me, darling.” Phaeton crooned.
Her expression moved from that of a joyful lover to complete surrender and pure pleasure. At her apex, he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth. The strong tremor of her climax surged through her loins into his body. The shot
of arousal nearly sent him over the edge.
He released a beige-rose nipple. “Wrap your legs around me.”
Grabbing her buttocks, he pulled her onto the top of his thighs and pressed her down on him. His excitement mounted one inch at a time as she took all of him into her warm slick sheath. She was tight, and wet, and oh so ready for him. All he could do was groan.“You’re killing me, darling.” He withdrew inch by inch, and then returned to her just as slowly, gradually increasing the speed and depth of his thrusts. Holding onto her hips he rocked her up and down—faster and harder until his own pleasure was dangerously close to its peak, which reminded him—he needed a condom. “I sense that was rather good for you, my goddess of love.” Breathing hard, he slipped out of her.
America’s face, still flush from his pleasuring, was half-buried in a pillow. She peeked out of soft folds to smile at him. “Mmm,” was all she managed, but it was a post coital lullaby to his ears.
The banging on the bedroom door sent Phaeton upright in bed. “Who’s there?” The door swung open and a towering specter stood in the threshold. He squinted at the faint orange glow under the hood. “Captain Blood, your timing is most . . . untimely.”
Another Nightshade stood behind Blood. Aware he was stretched out on top of his bed, stark naked and erect, Phaeton tossed a sheet over America and a pillow over his privates. “And Miss Valentine.”
“We waited for the moans and cries to cease,” Blood snarled. There was something awkward and rather comical about the way Jersey described la musique de l’amour. Perhaps more than his hackles were up.
Phaeton narrowed his gaze. “If we’re going to be rooming together, there’s something you should know before barging into my bedchamber. When America and I are engaged in . . . private matters, there will first be a series of moans and cries—perhaps a few naughty demands in French—hers. Those lovely utterances will be followed by a second set of grunts and bellows. Those . . . would be mine.” Phaeton raised a brow. “Did you hear any grunts and bellows?”
“Apologies for the interruption.” Valentine stepped around the captain and strode into the room holding a container of clear liquid. “You must both choose your inklings and drink—from the backside of this glass—before you sleep.” Her hand trembled as she handed him the water.
Curious and amused by her discomposure, Phaeton had to inquire. “Does this bother you, Valentine? All the nudity, body hair—the scent of sex in the air?”
“Stow it, Phaeton.” The captain puffed a bit harder on his cigar.
Holding the sheet around her, America sat up. “We think of an everyday object, then we drink.”
Valentine nodded. “I know this must seem nonsensical, but you’ll understand soon enough.” In a most provocative manner, the female shade rubbed her way past Jersey Blood. “Ready for the grunts and bellows?”
The captain followed her out the door. “If you can stand it, I can.”
Chapter Ten
“91 TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD.” America read the address to the driver and climbed into the carriage. She took a seat beside Ruby across from Valentine and Cutter, who tapped on the roof and they moved off. His gaze dropped to the message in hand. “Anything else in the wire?” Cutter asked. The telegram had been delivered moments before Gaspar’s town coach arrived.
Phaeton had left for Scotland Yard, accompanied by Captain Blood, and now she was suddenly off on a mysterious errand with the three remaining Nightshades.
The carriage made a hard turn onto High Holborn and rocked them side to side. America opened the telegram and passed the missive to Ruby who, in turn, handed it across the aisle.
Cutter reached above his mechanical eye and swiveled a lens into place. “Pitt Brothers London Machine Works,” he read aloud.
America furrowed her brows. “Phaeton and Captain Blood are going directly to Pennyfields from Scotland Yard. If Gaspar is changing the location of our meeting—”
“If the location changes, Ping will let them know where to meet us.” Cutter took a second look at the wire.
America curled up into a corner of the seat and glanced out the window. Phaeton had dutifully rolled on the rubber goods last night. He didn’t know as yet, but it wouldn’t be long before the little pea in the pod quickened, then he was sure to sense the new life in her.
But how to tell him? The last time they had discussed children, he had made it perfectly clear he wished no child of his brought into the world. One who might suffer the same fiendish terrors and aberrations of his youth. Or his life.
“America is a beautiful name—of course you must be American ?” Ruby’s question brought her back from her worries.
She nodded. “American mother, British father.”
“She doesn’t sound American.” Ever vigilant, Cutter dipped his head to see more of the street on his side of the carriage. “She sounds . . . British, with a hint of island in her. Barbados, possibly?”
America smiled. “French Creole. I was raised in New Orleans, until my mother handed me off to my father; he was a sea captain. Eventually, he started a merchant shipping business—we were quite prosperous until he died last year. A nefarious business partner schemed to steal his ships away. Phaeton helped get them back.” How fearless and heroic Phaeton was, when he wanted to be. The thought caused a smile. “It’s rather a long story.”
In daylight the Nightshades’ robes actually had the appearance of long traveling coats. America noticed the split in Ruby’s cloak and had to ask. “Please forgive my rudeness, but I must know what you wear under those robes.”
Ruby blushed at the question but she unbuttoned her cloak. “I suppose you’d call these ladies’ trousers—a bit less fabric than pantaloons.” Underneath she wore a gray waistcoat over a dark, high collared shirt.
America leaned closer. “My word, those trousers look wonderfully comfortable.”
“I miss dressing up in gowns.” Ruby shrugged and closed up the robe. “Sometimes.”
“But not the corsets and bustles,” America teased.
Valentine and Ruby laughed, and Cutter winked. “You won’t hear much complaint from Jersey and me—especially during martial arts practice.”
“You train together?” Just as America asked the question, the carriage pulled up alongside a notorious shooting range establishment called Fairyland. Cutter studied the buildings to each side. “Pitt Brothers Machine Works can’t be far off.” He pulled his hood down and exited the carriage. “Wait for my signal.”
Ruby kept a lookout street side, while she and Valentine watched Cutter disappear inside the building next to the shooting range.
A sudden downpour of spring rain broke the silence inside the coach. The patter of drops on the roof was soothing somehow—something natural and real in her increasingly unreal world.
America squinted at a sign in a third-floor window. “Pitt Brothers—patentees and manufactures of the . . .” She wiped a bit of condensation off the window. “New and improved ‘Princess’ lock stitch sewing machine.”
Ruby snorted. “Not bloody likely.”
The sky had darkened considerably during the cloud burst. There were few passersby on the sidewalk—just one man, standing under a shop awning. America eased back from the window just as a bolt of lightning flashed past the carriage and struck the lone man full force, knocking him back against the building.
Horrified, America stared openmouthed as the poor bloke slumped over. A black cloud of particles, much like a swarm of bees, drifted up out of the body. So, he wasn’t an ordinary man—and that bolt of lightning had been deliberately fired at him. A shadow of movement raced toward them—Cutter was running for the coach.
“Take us round to Star Yard.” She recognized the raspy shout to the driver as the carriage lurched off. A loud thump and dip in the back meant that Cutter had jumped onto the footman’s perch of the town coach.
The carriage quickly picked up speed on Holborn, but slowed on the turn down Chancery Lane. They came to a jerk
ing halt in front of Ede and Ravenscroft. “Legal outfitters . . .” America turned to the women in the carriage. “Are we picking up a barrister or do these gentlemen make your cloaks?”
The door of the carriage opened without sight or sound of anyone. Although, if she listened carefully, she could hear the whir and click of Cutter’s headwork.
America leaned forward. “Stay back!” the invisible Cutter hissed. “Here he comes.”
Ruby craned her neck to see down the row. “Good Lord, if it isn’t Tim Noggy.”
She sat back in her seat and waited. She heard footsteps and panting, just before a large man leaped inside the carriage.
“Make room, ladies.” The portly young man tossed a satchel into the carriage and squeezed through the door. He fell onto the seat beside Valentine and the carriage lurched off, quickly picking up speed—much too fast for this narrow lane. They had not traveled far when something large and heavy struck the roof of the coach.
All America could think about was the horrid creature that had attacked her in the hansom. Only this time she had with her three rather formidable Nightshades and this new chap, who continued to huff and puff.
“Where’s Cutter?” America cried. “Cutter? Where are you?”
Out of nowhere the machine head appeared outside the coach window, upside down. “Be right with you.”
“Not to worry.” Ruby winked. “He’s likely finishing off the Reaper that was after Tim.”
America did her best to ignore the high-pitched shrieks and thumping noises by focusing her attention on the round-faced young man across the aisle.
He also appeared curious about her. “Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Noggy.”
He gave her a strange sort of military salute and dragged his portmanteau onto his lap. Digging inside, he removed a metal pipe about the length of a foot ruler. He pointed the object at the roof and followed the thumps and screeches back and forth.
The Moonstone and Miss Jones Page 8
