The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  He gathered her wrists together and held them down with one hand. “You can’t escape from me now,” he whispered. With his free hand he gently stroked and rubbed until the lady begged him to stop. “Turn over.”

  Lifting her up, he set her buttocks on the edge of the worktable. She faced her lover and he gently brought her forward, inch by inch. Slowly. Until she moaned in frustration. He then ordered her to do his bidding. “Open your legs.”

  “Make me.” America had drawn her legs up and she teased him with just enough resistance, until she allowed him to push them open. Then wider still.

  “Now for a taste.” Phaeton kissed the lovely flesh of her belly, moving down through fleecy curls into moist petals of rose flesh. His tongue found the small throbbing place in need of his attention and teased.

  He brought both legs up close, leaving a trail of soft kisses over the inside of her thighs. He understood what she wanted, the pleasure of his gentle, measured force. It was so like his America. In these last days together he felt more certain of her affection than ever, and he had somehow found the courage to love her utterly and completely.

  Phaeton guided his tongue over and over the most sensitive places, his face wet with her scent. He felt her legs and belly tremble and heard her gasp for breath, and only when he knew she neared the peak of her pleasure did he enter her.

  America threw her legs up over his shoulders and he yanked her closer so that he might have a mouthful of breast. He nipped and bit her nipples harder than he ever had before, and she cried out from both arousal and pain. As he pumped into her, America took hold of his hand and placed it so that his fingers reached just the right place.

  All it took was one touch and she went over the edge. Phaeton shook from his own climax and finished loudly, to underscore his pleasure.

  America rested, fully naked, sprawled across the desktop. His breath was on her neck—just his breath—he didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. They were both completely satiated. He carried her to bed and curled up behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  AMERICA LUXURIATED UNDER SOFT SHEETS. She listened to the gentle sound of water spilling over rocks in a brook. A brook? She sat up straight. Then she remembered that she was in an underground facility in the Outremer. “What time is it?” She had an appointment with the telephone company. And the sign maker was coming by to take measurements.

  Phaeton rolled over, a sleepy frown on his face. “My watch is in the satchel.” He rubbed his eyes and ran a finger from the cleft of her bottom, up her spine. “Why do you need to know?”

  “At first, I wanted to keep it a surprise. But then, there was a minor complication. I was going to tell you last night—about the surprise.” Feeling every bit the naked little sprite, America leapt out of bed and opened the satchel. She stopped and blinked. “Phaeton . . . ?”

  “The Moonstone.” Propped on his elbows, he lifted a finger to his lips.

  America nodded. “I’m opening a shop, more of an office actually.”

  Phaeton raised a brow. “A shipping office?”

  “That, too.” Then she added hastily. “Investigations primarily.” She found his pocket watch. “Good God, I’ve only got half an hour—if this is right.” She held the timepiece up to her ear and exhaled a sigh. “Still ticking.” America rolled on hose one leg at a time. Phaeton stared. “Are you purposely trying to give me an erection?”

  “Whatever it takes to get you up.” She winked. “You must dress quickly. We have a very important appointment with the telephone company—we’re—having a line installed.”

  “We’re what?” He sat up straight. “A line? Whatever for?”

  “We . . .” she stared at him, “have our reasons.”

  “According to the Guardian, twenty thousand telephones in a city of one and a half million. Why would you—?” Phaeton’s gaze narrowed. “You need me, don’t you?”

  “There’s a contract involved.” Drat! Her eyes shifted. “I told them Mr. Black was out of town until this morning.” She tossed him his shirt and collar. “Quickly darling, we can negotiate favors once we’re home.” Dressed, with satchel in hand, Phaeton followed her around the pool. “Shall we try the lift?” She tossed the question over her shoulder.

  He pressed the button with an up arrow and waited. “How much?”

  A ding sounded, and the doors opened. America’s mouth dropped open. “You haven’t been riding up and down in this all night—I hope?”

  The Nightshades stood in the lift dressed in their evening attire. Jersey waved them inside. Gaspar appeared far from well, there were dark circles under his eyes. And his color was . . . colorless.

  Phaeton eyeballed Jersey. “Last night you tackled Lovecraft to the ground—so what happened?”

  “The professor is tied up in the room upstairs. Tim is watching him.” Jersey pressed number ten.

  Ruby piped in. “We figured you might try back—so we waited for you to return. A bellboy knocked on the door this morning with a wire. Get in the lift.” The blonde shrugged. They spoke between stops and starts. Passengers entered and exited. By the time the lift opened onto the tenth floor, America felt a bit queasy. “If you don’t mind, Phaeton and I have an appointment with the Oxford Court Telephone Exchange. Might we hurry it up a bit?”

  Inside the hotel room, Valentine drew an ink bottle in an inkwell—she wrote the word quill and drew a picture of a quill pen tracing through a spray of ink splats . . .

  America looked up from the desk and the room was . . . filled with people. Strangers all milling about. She had crossed over and appeared to be caught in the middle of a reception of sorts. A table overflowing with breakfast items caught her eye—a wedding reception, perhaps? America stepped around a bustled skirt, poured a cup of tea and gulped. Between tiered crystal platters filled with delectable tarts she spied Phaeton. Quickly, she forked several pastries into a small napkin and met him at the door.

  “No more lifts.” She took his hand and ran down ten flights of stairs. Phaeton flagged down a hansom on Whitehall Place. Inside the cab she opened the napkin and they shared an iced strawberry pastry and a lemon-filled tart. Cheered by a bite of breakfast, Phaeton inquired about their upcoming appointment. “You never answered my question. How much are we on the hook for?”

  “Twenty pounds the first year, but that includes the expense of running a wire to Mrs. Parker’s.” America braced for the growl.

  Phaeton’s gaze moved out the window, and she took it as a good sign. Perhaps the cost of living in the Outremer had inured him. She slipped her hand in his. “Sir Phaeton turned out to be a very talented lover.”

  He winked at her. “And poet.”

  She thought the worry on his face had more to do with the responsibility of the Moonstone. “I can feel the weight, Phaeton—please know it is on both our shoulders. I understand I am a burden as long as very bad elements scheme to force you to their will.”

  Phaeton slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. “Last night I met with an odd duck—a very small person by the name of Victor. Fancies himself an insurrectionist—but also seems well aware that the stone is needed to heal both our worlds. The man is quite singular in his lack of greed. Victor was also the one who suspected Vauxhall was down and kept an eye out for us at the hotel.”

  America studied his face, a bit more brooding than usual. “But—you don’t trust him.”

  “Between Gaspar and Lovecraft on our end, and this new Oakley chap and Victor—I’d be a fool to trust anyone completely.” Phaeton exhaled. “And Lovecraft is brilliant but raving mad; he should be in Bethlem Hospital, poor unfortunate.”

  “What shall the Nightshades do with the professor? Not likely they’ll be turning him over to the authorities, even though he threatened us both and fired his pistol.” The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. “He should be locked up in a jail cell.”

  “I expect there are more devils yet to come.” Phaeton scanned the street ahead
and the traffic to each side of the hansom. She had never seen him so on edge—so vigilant. He shook his head. “And—who’s the maker—still no real answers there.” Phaeton slid back the cab window to see behind them. “Our self-appointed protectors are following us.”

  “I must say I’ve become rather fond of them.”

  She found the patter of spring rain on the roof comforting. Phaeton closed the window. “After I sign the papers, I’m off to Pennyfields. I suspect things may get a bit rough from here on out, so be mindful, on your guard.”

  America threw her arms around Phaeton and kissed him. She even added a bit of tongue, and a nose-to-nose nuzzle. “You said you’d sign the papers.”

  Sometimes, when Phaeton looked at her the way he was now, he made her feel as though she was the most admired and loved woman in the world.

  “And if I repeated ‘I’ll sign the papers’ would you . . . ?”

  She kissed him again.

  “You look terrible.” Phaeton sat at the opposite end of the settee from the leader of the Shades. Gaspar was losing his hair—or perhaps the top of his head was unraveling; either way it angered Phaeton. No matter how much the man irritated him, Gaspar was too smart, too young and—dare he admit it—too kind to die.

  “And where are the ladies?”

  “America put them all to work, scrubbing the new office.” Three bodyguards remained with America—Ruby, Valentine, and Cutter. Phaeton had left the office with Jersey.

  Gaspar added a faint smile to his heavy-lidded gaze. “Miss Jones is a lovely and spirited young woman. I do not envy the road ahead for you Phaeton, but when it comes to America—she is one of those special women.”

  “I know exactly how special America is—and I didn’t come here so you could tell me.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear it—there was a time not so long ago . . .” Gaspar shrugged.

  Phaeton sighed. “I came to ask you one question—but first things first.” He opened the satchel and lifted out a large, swirling black egg. He placed the Moonstone on the settee between them.

  “Tell me how this might work—if I used the Moonstone to cure you.” Phaeton leaned back into his corner of the divan. “Would that be it? One bloody cure and we toss it in the dustbin? The all powerful stone puts Humpty Dumpty together again—but can it also restore the Outremer as well? And if it can do both, why not have it power Lovecraft’s son’s mechanical parts, as well as the rest of his toys? And why do I believe everything I’ve been hearing about this bloody egg is a pack of lies?” Instead of kicking something, he ran both hands through his hair roughly.

  “You do not seek power, Phaeton—in that respect you are pure of heart.” Gaspar finally ripped his gaze off the stone. “Perhaps that is the reason you were chosen. You have an appetite for life, but no wiles or ambitions—you are a lone wolf—”

  “Who has found his mate.” Strangely, Phaeton felt like taking a bite out of Gaspar. “So, in that sense, I am vulnerable. What if something happens to America? Perhaps she has a hard labor, there is trouble delivering the babe. The stone could make her well—save the child.”

  “A reasonable fear—there might be nothing left to save your own loved ones.”

  “Yes—but again it all seems so nonsensical—if the Moonstone truly is as powerful as everyone seems to think . . .”

  “The power in the stone is equal to the purity of the request.” Ping approached them quietly—at times it seemed like his feet barely touched the ground. His long coat was off and he was in a waistcoat and trousers with his shirtsleeves rolled up.

  “Up all night writing, Julian?”

  Gaspar was perhaps the only one he had ever heard refer to Ping as Julian. A given name one presumed, but then it was hard to think about Ping having a mother or father—or even being born for that matter. Everyone just called him Ping—or Jinn depending on his gender.

  The benevolent, silver-eyed creature peered over wire spectacles. “My kind often sleep for centuries inside jars or oil lamps. We need little rest in the span of a human lifetime.”

  Dumbfounded, Phaeton clapped his mouth shut. It was the first time he had heard Ping speak of his origins. “So, tell me, Ping, how many wishes must I facilitate—and who shall be granted their wish?”

  Ping stared at Phaeton to the point it made him uncomfortable. “You wish for nothing for yourself?”

  “I wish to rid myself of this unwanted, thankless task that has needlessly put my family in jeopardy.”

  Gaspar interjected. “Phaeton did express a concern that should America’s labor run into difficulty, he would like to reserve a little protection—for mother and child.”

  Jinn raised his hand in prayer and bowed.

  Phaeton grinned. “Help me here, Ping. Do I have to figure out a way to coax the jinn out of the bottle, or . . . are you already out?”

  Ping clasped his hands behind his back and thought a moment. “Let us say—I serve in the capacity of advisor to the Moonstone’s chosen guardian.”

  Phaeton brightened some at the thought of advice. “It has been some years since I read the Arabian Nights. I need a refresher.”

  The young androgyne brought out a packet of opium-laced tobacco and a briar pipe. “Rule number one: the stone can’t kill anybody—so don’t ask. Rule number two—” Ping held up a safety match and it burst into flames. “Just a guess, but I suspect the stone can’t make someone do something that is not in their heart to do—for instance, it can’t force someone to fall in love.” He touched the flame to tobacco. After a few puffs on the briar pipe, Ping shook out the match. “Rule number three. No power on earth or beyond can bring people back from the dead, and finally this is not an oil lamp from an Arabian fairy tale. You can’t wish for more wishes—elementary you’d think, but you’d be surprised how many try for it.” Ping blew circles of smoke into the air. “In your instance, Phaeton, I suspect the powers in the stone will rest when your task is finished, so there may well be no limit.”

  “Which only makes the bloody stone that much more appealing to nefarious types,” Phaeton groused. “So how do I begin? For instance, might I ask that Professor Lovecraft walk into Bethlem Hospital and commit himself?” Phaeton sat back and waited for Ping’s answer. “Somehow I don’t believe it’s that simple, exactly.”

  Even as his teeth clenched the pipe, there was a slight upturn to the ends of Ping’s mouth. “That is because it is not in the professor’s heart to do such a thing.”

  Phaeton rolled his eyes. “Promise me you’ll say not a word about this wishing business. Christ, can you imagine if this gets out? They’ll beat a path to my door for favors.” His eyes felt like they were bulging out. “And just in case someone dares ask—no love, no marriage, no sex—right? I mean, a man could ask that a female would sleep with him, whenever he wanted, as long as this woman didn’t also have to love him, presumably.”

  “You cannot trick, cajole, or manipulate the stone. And there is a strong connection between the heart and the will. So, no games, Phaeton.”

  He nodded. “Good, when do I start? How do I get this over with?” He looked to both men. “This is not a task that goes on indefinitely—it isn’t—is it?” Phaeton leaned forward, “Because if it is, I want out—I want to pass this egg to someone who wants the job.”

  “It’s not as easy as that.” Gaspar grinned. “The people who want such a venture, like me for instance, would never be given the charge.”

  Phaeton placed his head in his hands and sighed. “Why not? Why can’t it just be as easy as me walking up to a chap and saying, ‘Here you go, mate—the stone’s yours.’ ”

  Ping stepped closer. “Make up your mind who and what needs help—what must be fixed or righted—and put it directly to the stone. No magic words. Then place the stone in the care of a pure-hearted soul.”

  Phaeton sank back into the divan. “Christ, I’ll never get rid of it.”

  Chapter Thirty

  AMERICA STOOD BACK TO ADMIRE THE OFFICE. The
windows were washed, and the walls and floors were swept of cobwebs and dust. The floor, desk, and a few leftover furnishings were covered with drop cloths as the painters and paper hangers were coming.

  “Fresh paint and a coat of varnish on the door should give the place a lift.” Valentine stepped outside and tossed the basin of dirty water out at the curb.

  “Shall we see if Cutter and Ruby have a spot of tea and sandwiches ready?” America gathered up the dirty cleaning rags and placed them in the just emptied bowl. “Is it my imagination working overtime, or was Ruby beside herself with jealousy last night?”

  “She and Cutter play this cat and mouse game—the advantage constantly shifts between the two. Jersey and I are often amused by their antics.” Valentine’s eyes rolled upward.

  Inside Mrs. Parker’s, on their way back to the flat, they stopped off at the kitchen to return the basin and rags. “Speaking of games—how is ‘who’s got the power’ working for the two of you?”

  Valentine’s sultry dark gaze slid sideways. “Things are—improving. Jersey is beginning to trust me with the game. He is a man of his word and takes his vows seriously—one of his great attractions. Near the landing, America stopped mid-step and placed her finger to her lips. Silently, she bade Valentine stay and descended a stair or two. She crouched down to see below.

  Ruby was giving Cutter a bath.

  All the face plates were off—as was the mechanical eyepiece. A number of small screw drivers and connecting plates indicated that the removal of Cutter’s iron wear was a time consuming, even painful procedure. Drawn in the most lurid, mesmerizing way, she dared to look at his injured face. His ear was missing—nothing left but a semicircular scar and a hole in the side of his head. Crisscrossed with scars—he was not recognizable as Cutter. There was no eyebrow or lid, and what remained of his eye appeared to be dilated. The injured orb also tracked rather well with his good eye. She surmised the lenses attached to the headpiece must have more to do with correction than enhancement.