Phantoms In Philadelphia (Phantom Knights Book 1)

by Amalie Vantana

  ***

  George had two houses, one on Pine Street and one in the country. As he only used his country house in the summer months, I went to his two story house on Pine Street. It was Sunday, which meant that it was his servants’ half day. His butler, cook, and manservant knew about our work, but like our own servants, they owed a debt of gratitude to George for one thing or another, and would never speak a word against us.

  My cheeks and forehead were covered in soot to disguise the softness of my skin since I had not wanted to take the time to paste on facial hair.

  As I stepped up to George’s front door, I turned the door knob; it was unlocked. First obstacle completed.

  Inside the house, all was quiet, and though the curtains had been thrown open to allow in light, there were no fires lit, nor did it seem that there had been since George disappeared for the house was unusually cold. I put on my mask as I tread over to his study. I had been in his house many times, so there was no nervousness in my step.

  The study was a square room with bookshelves on one wall and a desk near the other. First, I checked where he kept important documents behind some of the books on one of his two bookshelves. They were still there. His desk was locked, but I knew where he kept the key. Fetching it from behind a portrait of George Washington, I unlocked the first drawer. I was uncertain why, but I pulled out his account book. When I reached the most recent entries, I could only stare, dumbfounded.

  George had made some staggering deposit entries the day before he was taken. Closing the book, I found a stack of correspondence; all opened—letters from clients, letters from his agents both here and in Charleston. There were also reports from his nephew that required a mask to reveal the true message.

  Communications exchanged between agents were a critical part of the Phantoms, but sending the information in a letter was not safe, so we had ways to relay the secret messages by many different techniques. Masking was one way—a cutout paper that could be any shape. Every leader wrote to fill a certain mask. The leader of the Charleston Phantoms always wrote messages that fit into an hourglass shaped paper.

  I looked for the mask to put over the letters, but it was not in the book where George usually hid it. Placing the letters back in the desk, I searched the remaining drawers, but found nothing to help me discover why he had been taken or who had given him the money.

  A crash sounded on the floor above me, and I nearly knocked over George’s desk chair in my surprise.

  The room directly above the study was George’s bedchamber. I told myself that it was one of the servants, but that did not stop the rapid beating of my heart. What if it wasn’t? I pulled one of my pistols from the holster as I left the study. Gripping my pistol, I started up the stairs. Halfway up, one of the stairs creaked under me, and I winced, but no one charged out to attack me. When I reached the bed chamber door which was closed, no noise came from inside the room. Something deep within my mind told me not to open that door, but I had learned to ignore that voice. If I listened to every inner warning, I would never achieve anything.

  With my pistol steady, I turned the knob and pushed open the door. Immediately, I saw what had caused the crash. A vase had fallen from the desk where George’s orange cat was sitting. My breath whooshed out in a small relieved laugh as I leaned against the door knob.

  A strong hand suddenly wrapped around my wrist, and I was unceremoniously thrown toward the bed. I hit it hard, tumbled across the surface, and landed on the other side as the door shut with an ominous click. I scrambled to my knees and found myself looking at a masked man.

  Thick, curly, brown hair tumbled around his head falling to the nape of his neck, but it was the plain black mask over his eyes that sent a mixture of alarm and disbelief skipping through me like a pebble thrown across water. Was he trying to imitate the Phantoms? He was doing a mighty poor job of it.

  His head tilted to the side as his eyes slid over my face. Then to my astonishment, he opened his mouth and laughed. I did not like the sound, though there was nothing wrong with it. It was strong and pleasant. But my nerves were near to frayed, and I did not have time to deal with an imitator who had broken into George’s house. Then there was the question of why he was in George’s house. My gun was lying on the bed, and my eyes flicked to it.

  “No,” he said, but I was all ready going for it.

  He leapt across the bed as my hand touched the handle. His weight landed on my arm, and I cried out. He wrenched the gun from my grasp and tucked it into the back of his breeches as he stood. I whipped out my second pistol. He dropped instantly to the floor on the other side of the bed, completely out of view. I jumped to my feet and started to climb over the bed, when my ankle was captured. He was under the bed!

  He pulled hard, and I flew backward, my backside smacking on the hard wood floor. Pain vibrated through me, but I only had a second to think about it before my other ankle was caught, and I was pulled under the bed. I dropped my pistol in an attempt to catch hold of the bed frame, but he was stronger. He pulled me all the way under and through the other side and sat on my stomach. I groaned as a puff of air left me under his weight. What he failed to do was capture my arms, so I threw one good punch against his jaw. His jaw was covered with a short beard running from over his top lip down along his narrow jaw. He was a handsome man, curse him.

  “That’s not polite,” he said through clenched but perfect teeth as he caught my wrists.

  He stood and pulled me up with him. Once I was on my feet, all that separated us were my hands that he held between us. I had to tilt my head a little to look into his eyes, which were a light bluish gray. Everything within me stilled as I stared into their depths that looked as if they knew no bounds. His eyes were like two perfect thunderclouds with gray strikes of lightning dancing around the iris.

  Even with the mask covering his nose and half of his forehead, I could tell that he was more than handsome. There was an intensity to him, and when he smiled, I felt it in every nerve of my body. I took a step back. He still had my hands clasped between us as he took a step forward. I took another step back, and my legs bumped against the bed.

  In a skilled movement, he knocked my foot out from beneath me with his own and I tumbled backward, landing on George’s soft mattress. I struggled to get up, but his arm came across my chest, holding me pinned in place.

  My breaths came in short, fast intakes, but as I looked into his eyes my panic melted away. He did not have the look of an attacker, neither was he doing more than staring at me. I could defeat him.

  Our gazes remained locked as his free hand fished in his pocket, and he brought a white handkerchief up and rubbed it against first one of my cheeks and then the other.

  “Just so,” he murmured, and his warm mouth was upon mine in a breath-halting embrace.

  It was the kiss of an expert, of that I was left with no doubts. His mouth moved over mine until my lips parted. Warm, firm, possessive; he was the master of the situation. It took me a few heartbeats to react, but react I did. I threw my fist against his side.

  He groaned against my mouth and pulled back, smiling. He had an alluring smile, another thing I found annoying. His finger came up and stroked my cheek. He pushed off the bed and moved to the door. I sat up, leaning against my elbows on the bed and watched him open the door. He cast me a quizzical look then went out, slamming the door behind him.

  By the time I grabbed my pistol—he had stolen the other one,—and went to the door, he was gone. I did not know where he went or how he moved so swiftly or what he was doing in George’s house, but I knew that I did not want to be there any longer. I ran down the stairs, pulled off my mask, and slipped out the front door.

  When I finally reached my house and went up the back stairs, I was fuming. Why had I not done more? I could have bested him.

  No, I could not. I knew the truth, and it only added to my anger.

  We were to attend a party that evening, so when I reached my chamber, I pulled the bell f
or Mariah and threw off my hat and boots in angry, jerky movements. I ordered a hot bath, and when it was ready, I stepped in and sank down until the water was to my chin. I remained in the tub for some time thinking about a pair of stormy eyes and a foe that deserved to be beat.