The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  The bartender poured the whiskey and collected two glasses of the absinthe. “I hear she’s expensive.”

  Phaeton counted out several months’ rent, plus gratuity. “What isn’t?” He grouped four glasses together and winked. “Cheers.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  PHAETON SHOUTED OVER THE DIN. “I believe they refer to these places as clubs—not casinos. And if anyone inquires about your costume, just say we’re back from The Anti-Christ in Whitechapel.” Jersey, who was never interested in having any fun—ever—actually sipped the absinthe he’d ordered for him.

  Phaeton tipped his glass and let the pale green liquid slip down his throat. He hadn’t had an absinthe in months and it tasted like heaven.

  One throbbing tempo slipped into another of similar rhythm with little or no pause. Phaeton found his body moving to the pulse of the music. A lovely tall thing with legs that inspired lustful thoughts approached him from the dance floor. “Bootie rub?” Not sure how to answer, he leaned toward her and tilted his ear. She dipped closer. “Dance?”

  He handed his glass to Jersey. “You had me at rub, love.”

  Somewhere in the midst of a crush of dancers, they faced each other. She moved up close, as the beat pulsed absinthe through his body. He rolled with her, hip to hip—bodies in motion, rocking with the beat. She raised her arms above her head, in a kind of sultry surrender, the motion of her lower body swung her around and she backed up against his crotch, rubbing her buttocks against him.

  Phaeton placed his hands on her hips and rocked with her—then against her. He exchanged looks with Cutter, Jersey—even Lovecraft looked like a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen. From the corner of his eye he caught something wild, dark, and sultry on the move.

  Jinn was dancing his way.

  America made her announcement at dinner, between the turtle soup and filets of cod. “I shall open a sleuthing firm specializing in mysteries of an odd and unexplainable nature. And I have every intention of exploiting all the talent in this dining room.”

  “Any riddle in need of solving?” Exeter lifted a wine glass and sipped.

  “I believe America means to pursue matters of Phantasmagoria,” Mia exclaimed. America smiled at Doctor Exeter’s beautiful charge, who had recently blossomed into a sophisticated, young woman.

  Valentine grinned. “Demons are my specialty.”

  “We could expose all those horrid séance charlatans out there,” Ruby enthused.

  Her gaze scanned the table, Doctor Exeter to Valentine, Ruby, and Mia. “Very discreet investigations, of course. The calling card shall read: Moonstone Investigations. No uncommon psychical disturbance refused, no matter how perplexing.”

  Surrounded by a bevy of beauties, Doctor Exeter looked pleasantly amused. “What about the shipping business?”

  “I shall run the shipping office and the detective agency out of a workspace near the flat—I shan’t need a very large place,” America enthused.

  “It would seem advisable that you remain in London, at least until the happy event.” A gentle smile tugged at the ends of Exeter’s mouth. The upward tilt gave America a lift. She hadn’t seen him this relaxed since arriving in Port of London. The doctor had been rather occupied with pressing matters and had all but withdrawn from the pursuit of the Moonstone.

  “Moonstone Investigations,” Mia contemplated aloud. “Has a lovely ring to it.”

  America studied the very capable young women at the table. “I’d like to be able to call on all of you to assist on cases. Depending, of course, on your availability—particularly once the pea in the pod arrives.”

  Valentine sliced into a succulent piece of roast duck. “Of course we will help in any way we can; that little pea is very special.”

  “Feel free to call on Scotland Yard, as well.” All eyes strained in the same direction. Zander Farrell stood in a dim alcove of the dining room entry. “Sorry to intrude. Mr. Tandi asked me to announce myself. Something about a small grease fire in the kitchen.”

  “This seems to happen whenever the cook serves duck.” Exeter stood up. “Please join us; I shall return as soon as I am assured the house isn’t going up in flames.”

  Farrell sat down beside her. “I might have just the unsolved problem to get you started, Miss Jones. And, I’ve assigned Inspector Dexter Moore to the case, someone you’ve worked with in the past—and quite successfully I might add.”

  America’s heart raced at the idea of Scotland Yard being her first official customer. “I’m a bit overwhelmed, but of course your offer is welcome, indeed!”

  The fact that she would be working with Inspector Moore made it all the more comforting. Moore had helped bring Yankee Wilhem to justice and had seen her stolen ships returned to her. Phaeton did not get on well with Moore—but she was perfectly capable of smoothing that over.

  She met Ruby’s gaze across the table. “Looks like you have your first case.” The cheerful blonde winked. “It will be nice to have something to do with the men off—”

  Valentine cleared her throat.

  Ruby stuffed a forkful into her mouth.

  Farrell caught the exchange.

  “Where is Phaeton by the way?” The inspector looked around the table. “I ventured here this evening with the hopes of having a quick consult. I need to know if he’s uncovered anything on the Ryders, or sisters succubi, as we’ve come to call them. Perplexing case. Investigation’s got us buggered.”

  “Can I offer you anything, Inspector?” Exeter was back and took his seat at the head of the table. “Dessert and coffee—perhaps a brandy.”

  “Coffee would be very much appreciated, as well as a brandy.” Farrell gave a wink. “Phaeton passed on an important lead and we’ve gone nowhere with it. We need specialized talent, and I’m afraid we don’t have the right manpower at the Yard.

  America raised a brow. “It sounds like you need woman power, Inspector Farrell.”

  Farrell grinned. “You read my mind, Miss Jones.”

  “That was the most fun I’ve had with my clothes on.” Phaeton returned from the dance floor, over stimulated and in great discomfort.

  Jersey gave him one of those stone cold grins of his. “Sandwiched between the leggy blonde and Jinn—that’s gotta make you feel—”

  “Thirsty.” Phaeton whipped his empty absinthe glass out of Jersey’s hand.

  A double shot of whiskey seemed to have little or no effect on Lovecraft. Phaeton took a moment to study the men in his strange coterie. Two of them were magnificent specimens of manhood, who were socially inept. The other two were—well, Jinn was Jinn, or Ping, depending, and Lovecraft was . . . Just looking at the poor man caused Phaeton to exhale. “How long has it been since you’ve had a bit of trim, professor?”

  The question caused those weird watery eyes to vibrate. “My wife died several years ago—just before my son . . .” The professor drifted off in a haze of memories.

  Phaeton almost felt sorry for the poor bloke. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m working a lead. One of the Ryder sisters works here.”

  His news did seem to perk the professor up. “Perhaps . . . I’ll have another double.”

  At the bar, waiting for their second round, Phaeton surveyed the passage that led to what the bartender had called the private rooms. A female dressed in nothing more than a corset and skimpy panties descended the backstairs with a paying customer. The glowing overhead sign read: STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN.

  Phaeton counted out his remaining cash and turned back to face the bartender. “How much?” He narrowed his eyes. “For one of the private dancers?”

  “Forty quid for a ten minute lap dance.” The female bartender looked him up and down.

  Phaeton needed details. “And . . . what exactly happens in ten minutes. For forty quid?”

  “You want me to talk dirty to you?”

  He dropped his gaze to those unrestricted, bouncing breasts and leaned across the bar. “Would you please, love?”

  P
haeton returned to his comrades, his head swimming with lusty images. He passed around the drinks. He clinked a toast. “Drink up gents, we’re going to call on Velvet.” He led the way downstairs into yet another sub-basement covered with padded walls and plush furniture—the throbbing beat from the dance floor, though muffled, still filled the room.

  Phaeton’s gaze meandered though a sea of gyrating . . . booty. The word for buttocks in the Outremer. He tried to remember what the Ryder sister looked like and got distracted. Everywhere he turned there was a near naked female grinding on a customer. He wasn’t sure his brain was functioning—but he was sure his cock was.

  “Mr. Black—is that you?”

  Phaeton pivoted. “Velvet.” She stood with her hands on her hips wearing something resembling string with small pieces of fabric covering her nipples and triangle. “You’re looking wonderfully. . .” He forced himself to make eye contact.

  “Naked?” She grinned.

  “Yes, indeed. Is there someplace we might go to talk, briefly?”

  The baldheaded bloke with huge bulging muscles appeared out of nowhere. “You gentlemen have had your peep—now pay up or get out.”

  Phaeton tossed the last of his banknotes at the man. “There’s a tip in there for Velvet.”

  “Tip her yourself.” The hairless bruiser handed a tenner back and walked away. “Ten minutes.” He tossed over his shoulder.

  Velvet took him by the hand and led him to a chair in the corner of the room. “How are your sisters?”

  “I don’t see them very often—I don’t crossover much anymore.” She looked over her shoulder. “Sit down and keep your hands at your sides.”

  “Ah yes, the most titillating part of this brief entertainment—I can’t touch you.” Phaeton leaned back into the armless, upholstered chair and watched. Deep violet eyes and raven hair—he had forgotten exactly how attractive she was, for a succubus.

  Phaeton cleared his throat. “I’m looking for an unusual object of power . . .” She bent over—shaking her bum in his face. Phaeton swallowed, “. . . Melon sized.”

  Velvet shot a curious look over her shoulder. Turning to face him, she raised her leg in the air and placed her foot on his shoulder. She pressed in close, and her little triangle dropped to eye level. She rocked into him. “Would it be black, and shaped like a very large egg? With some kind of substance fluttering about inside?”

  He kept his eyes on hers. “You just described it perfectly.”

  She pushed off him, and smiled. Legs spread wide, she snapped the strings at her hips as though she might suddenly remove the small bottoms. Velvet turned her backside to him and slid down his knees. Phaeton gripped the underside of the chair with both hands and hung on for dear life. She lay back against his chest and kept that booty grinding against him.

  Phaeton was overcome with the most mysterious image—it was that tawny colored booty he’d come to know so well—jiggling at him. Even though his cock was about to explode, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The lights flickered, he was almost sure of it. The fusion of strange music and rhythmic thumps stopped so abruptly the silence actually hurt his ears.

  Quite suddenly the spell was broken and Phaeton lifted his head. “What’s going on?”

  “The power is about to go out. The club has a generator—enough to clear the rooms and lock up the cash registers.” Velvet climbed off him and shrugged. “Blackouts are happening with greater and greater frequency—several times a day. There was one earlier this evening.” She looked him up and down. “You all right?”

  He nodded, recalling the incident in the Underground. Most of the customers were headed back upstairs. He staggered to his feet and glanced around the room. Up above the sound of whips whizzed through the air, punctuated by eerie shrieks and chirping.

  “Reaper patrols can sometimes cause blackouts. You’d best be gone,” Velvet advised. She grabbed him by his coat lapels and kissed him. Warm soft lips with just a sting of tongue. “I’m not like my sisters.” She released him.

  The billowing cape of a Nightshade caught his eye. Jersey was headed straight for them. “The others have gone—we’ll meet up across the river.”

  Velvet pointed to a dark corridor. “There’s another set of stairs through here.” At the door, she turned away.

  “Wait a moment.” Phaeton lifted the flexible string at her hip and slipped in a large banknote.

  She looked up and smiled. “Most blokes would complain, they’d be wanting their full ten.”

  “Velvet—I have to ask.” Phaeton connected with violet eyes. “Where did you see the orb?”

  She bit her lip. “It wasn’t there the last time I looked.”

  “Can you find out where it is?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll try to get word through Georgiana or Fleury.”

  Phaeton raced up the stairs after Jersey. Somewhere below, tentacles whipped the sides of the narrow passage. The Reapers couldn’t be more than a flight of stairs behind them. Phaeton and Jersey surfaced just below street level.

  “Hold on.” Jersey took out his dagger and ran a white hot light down the side of the industrial door. “I’m fusing the lock mechanism,” Jersey explained.

  “Practical as well as deadly,” Phaeton rasped, breathing hard.

  He and Jersey made their way through the blacked out streets. The closer they got to the river the more devastation they saw. Things were literally falling apart—unraveling as Gaspar put it. They jogged past a double-decker bus turned on its side, riddled with bullet holes. The buildings behind the omnibus were blackened and burned out.

  “Rebels.” Jersey frowned. “This is what happens when the power runs out. People go crazy.”

  Oddly, there were districts of the city that appeared almost untouched, but as they came upon the river, the devastation grew worse.

  A jog across the Vauxhall Bridge revealed the Thames was gone—or nearly so. Just a small muddy stream running along the bottom of a wide, dry gully.

  They met up with three sober looking comrades across the river. Stunned, Phaeton took in the ruin as far as the eye could see. The only bridges left that still crossed the river were the Vauxhall and the Tower Bridge down river. Looking north, Phaeton was aghast at the sight of a ravaged Westminster Palace—Big Ben was still standing, but God knows what was left of the Abbey.

  Phaeton’s eyes narrowed. “Someone please remind me that this is happening here, not at home.”

  “Their reality is only one possible future of ours.” Lovecraft wore that tiny smirk on his face—the one that Phaeton often had the urge to wipe off with a slap.

  Cutter moved between them, mumbling something.

  Still dazed and dumfounded by the sights around him, Phaeton finally looked up. “What?”

  “I said—how was the lap dance?”

  “Stimulating.” Then, he said something shocking. “Almost the entire time I kept thinking about America.” Phaeton brightened at the thought. “Not in a guilty way. More like—–I kept seeing her lovely round bum.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  AMERICA ACCOMPANIED DOCTOR EXETER and Inspector Farrell to the foyer. “I know Phaeton will continue to be most helpful on the Ryder case, Inspector Farrell.”

  “I’m counting on all of you. Eleven deaths, nearly all of them suspicious; it is a certainty there was some kind of foul play.” The inspector brushed off the brim of his bowler. “This has become an embarrassment and a scourge that will eventually reach the press. Ever since the Ripper, it’s been nonstop. A never-ending stream of unusual sightings, and I’m afraid the Yard is woefully lacking in expertise when it comes to the occult.”

  “I shall ring you the moment I have a shingle up and a telephone installed.” America smiled. “I see no sense in half measures—I intend to run a modern enterprise.”

  “Then, my worries are soon over.” The inspector tipped his hat. “Good night, Miss Jones—Doctor.”

  The moment the door closed, Exeter t
urned to her. “Are you really going to the expense of having a telephone line installed?”

  America blinked. “Is it that costly?”

  Exeter walked her back toward the parlor. “Depends, I suppose, on the distance they have to go.”

  America smiled. “Not far at all—Drakes had a telephone installed last week, no doubt for some nefarious gambling purpose, but that brings the line close, does it not?”

  “The bold and beautiful Miss Jones. I have never for a moment questioned Phaeton’s attraction to you.” The doctor smiled. “It’s so brilliantly obvious.”

  America hesitated outside the parlor door. “Might I have a word alone, doctor?”

  Exeter seemed pleased. “I was just about to request a similar favor.” He gestured to the grand stairs and they made their way to the upstairs parlor.

  America settled herself in a corner of a comfortable settee and waited for the doctor to poke a few coals about in the hearth. A tall, elegant man, everything about Exeter exuded intellect and confidence. He also had the loveliest green eyes that never missed a trick. And there was that dashing Van Dyke beard which suited his golden skin, an exotic gift from his Persian mother.

  “Now, how can I be of service, Miss Jones?”

  “America, please?”

  The doctor took a seat on the settee. “Only if you call me Jason.” There began a very long silence between them until Exeter finally cleared his throat. “Are you feeling well, America? Any morning sickness?”

  “The morning sickness is gone, happily.” Her smile was brief. “Phaeton, on the other hand, did not take the news well.”

  Exeter raised his chin and struck a thoughtful pose. “Despite his devil-may-care approach to most things, I believe Phaeton worries too much about the people he loves. Give him time, America.”

  She felt a pout coming on. “I gave him a week.”

  The doctor’s eyes sparkled. “And, how long ago was that?”

  “Two days ago.”

  Exeter reached across the divan and took her hand in his. “Over the next few months, and even after the child is born, you’re going to be more emotional, for a time.”