The Moonstone and Miss Jones (19 page)
Chapter Twenty-one
“Y
OU WERE RATHER WOLFISHLY INSATIABLE LAST NIGHT.
” America sat on the bed with her legs tucked under her. She had taken him in her mouth, and he had been quick to his release, but Phaeton had more than made up for his hasty climax. In fact, she could still feel the pleasurable ache from his hot-blooded invasion.
OU WERE RATHER WOLFISHLY INSATIABLE LAST NIGHT.
” America sat on the bed with her legs tucked under her. She had taken him in her mouth, and he had been quick to his release, but Phaeton had more than made up for his hasty climax. In fact, she could still feel the pleasurable ache from his hot-blooded invasion.
He stepped out of his morning bath and slung the towel around his backside. Rivulets of sudsy water meandered through his chest hair and down his torso. America paused to admire a ripple of thigh muscle and that handsome bum as he toweled off. Everything about him was well made, including that mighty sword between his legs.
“What on earth happened over there to put you in such a mood?” She resumed drying her hair. Phaeton had a genuine talent for naughty, energetic lovemaking, but last night had been particularly delicious.
“The expedition began on an interesting note.” Phaeton wrapped the towel around his waist. “I arrived in Hanway Yard, and was immediately drawn to an exotic little shop specializing in ladies’ . . . unmentionables.” Phaeton grinned. “A number of very abbreviated pantalettes and camisoles were artfully strewn about the display window.” He had that look in his eye—the heavy-lidded lustful look. “Naturally, I was intrigued.”
America blinked. “You went inside?”
“The rest of the team hadn’t arrived. I saw no reason not to explore.”
America considered feigning a bit of outrage, but drat, she was curious. “And?”
“A shop girl helped me pick out a present for you.”
Her heart raced at the thought of little French undergarments. “I didn’t see a package.” She sat up straight and looked about the room.
“They’re in my coat pocket.” He lifted his coat off the back of a chair and dug in one of the pockets. “I thought they might unravel on the return trip. It was the first thing I checked upon arrival.” He untangled strings and lace and held up a triangle of ivory satin and string. “The shop girl called it a v-string pantie.”
America stared. “A what?”
Phaeton raised a wicked, charming brow. “Note the strategically placed rhinestone.”
Stunned, she rose from the bed. “Is there anything with a bit more fabric?” Her gaze moved to hints of black silk and violet lace in his hand.
“Think of them as the briefest pantalettes imaginable.” Phaeton held up each color. “And as these frivolous little items cost me a half year’s rent—I would appreciate a bit of trying on and posing.” Despite the cost, his grin was back.
He loosened a corner of the bath sheet and the towel covering her fell to the floor. “It’s hard to believe I look forward to putting clothes on this luscious body.” He stretched out the tiny pantalettes and bent over. “One foot at a time—hold onto me as you step in.”
“I’d hardly call this clothing.” America snorted. “In fact, I’m not sure why the ladies bother at all.” He slipped them over her knees and up her thighs, angling the strings at each hip. He stepped back and just looked at her. Finally, he spoke. “I think the Outremer has taken the concept of dishabille to new heights of inspiration.”
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Phaeton?”
He continued to study her. “Cross your arms and cover your breasts with your hands.”
She cupped her bosom, creating a bursting-out-of-a-corset effect. “Like this?” America looked up. Phaeton lifted an index finger and circled the air. “Turn around—slowly.”
She pivoted in a circle and returned to him. Lowering her eyes to the towel covering his manly parts she saw her new undergarment was having its effect.
“Once more, but this time, as you face away, widen your stance and turn your upper body toward me, then give me your best, sultriest stare over your shoulder.”
Somewhat amused by his requests, America circled and turned.
Phaeton lowered his chin. “Now think about my finger slipping under the string between your legs.”
Arousal fluttered through her body. She opened her mouth and narrowed her eyes ever so slightly.
Phaeton removed the towel around his waist, and the velvet beast angled up hard. “Allow me to rub up against your bottom.” His warm breath raised the hair on her neck. He slipped his hand beneath the pale ivory triangle. America lay back against his chest and rubbed her bottom against him. He slipped two fingers into moist flesh and circled.
His lips stopped just under her ear to whisper. “In the Outremer they have casinos called clubs. The dance music is loud—all percussion—and the beat throbs through your body.”
Phaeton began to rock against her. “Move with me.”
Her lower body swayed with his, and then—playfully, she shook her bottom against him—taunting his cock. He lay her head back on his shoulder. “Tongue me, deep, love.” She tilted her chin up and he covered soft plump lips with his mouth.
It was broad daylight, but there was something deliciously erotic about Phaeton’s requests—his demands. She licked up through that devilish beard of his to the sensitive underside of his upper lip, until he nibbled the tip of her tongue.
He lifted her up and placed her on rumpled bed sheets. “Open for me, Miss Jones.” He moved between her knees. His fingers slipped down the inside of her thighs, and pushed the fabric and string aside. She moaned as his fingers circled and rubbed. He knew exactly what she wanted—what she needed. He moved over her body and pinned her arms.
“The entire house is up and about, darling. A cry from you could bring the maids running.”
“Or perhaps one of the Nightshades.” Phaeton narrowed his eyes and whispered. “And you wouldn’t want that—would you?” Her arousal shot to new heights. She knew what he was doing—he was making her think about being seen. Caught in the act of such scandalous lovemaking.
He nipped at her nipples and caused a shutter to ripple down her body. He licked his way past her trembling belly. Once again, he pushed fabric and string aside as he lapped with his tongue. Slow, long licks that caused her to flood with arousal. His hands moved under her bottom and lifted her up to his face—he sucked gently on her pleasure spot. Within minutes she was writhing in his arms as he took her over the edge of pleasure.
As was his custom, Phaeton waited patiently for her to return to him. His fingers played over her body and with the pantalettes’ strings at her hips. When she opened her eyes, he was propped on an elbow, smiling at her. “Last night, we entered a kind of casino off Tottenham Court Road. The dancing, if you could call it that, is everyone for themselves. Women and men, makes no matter, move up to you and rub against you—just as we did together.”
America wrinkled her brow. “Do they . . . know each other?”
He rolled his eyes upward. “I received a booty rub from Jinn that was rather memorable.”
“Booty?”
Phaeton grinned. “Their slang for bum.”
America frowned. “Ping—or rather—Jinn was rubbing her bum on you?” She propped herself up. “I’m suddenly feeling rather cross about that.”
“You asked what put me in such a mood. If you’d rather not know what goes on—”
“No.” America bit her lower lip. “I want to know.”
Phaeton turned his head and lowered his chin. “You’re sure?”
“I dislike secrets. I want you to feel like you can tell me everything and anything.”
His smile broadened. “All this lovemaking has left me famished. Get dressed and you can interrogate me to your heart’s content—as long as it’s over kippers and egg.”
On their way down the grand stairs, America blurted out her first question. “What is a lap dance, Phaeton?”
He paused on the landing. “Where—how did you hear of such a thing?”
“Something you murmured in your sleep—just before you awoke this morning.”
Phaeton slowed his pace downstairs. “A lap dance is done in a private room for male pleasure, primarily. The customer sits in a chair and the dancer does a booty rub all over him—but the man can’t touch her—hands off or your arse is out the door.”
“And . . . did you . . . ?” America felt the heat rush to her cheeks.
Phaeton paused outside the dining room. “Yes.”
Try as she might, she could not hide her vexation. And she thought he looked greatly relieved when he opened the door. Nearly everyone in the house was still at breakfast.
Exeter peered over the top of the
Daily Telegraph
. “Good morning.”
Daily Telegraph
. “Good morning.”
Phaeton filled a plate for America and returned to the breakfront.
Exeter lowered his newspaper. “I understand you had an unusually productive and stimulating expedition. Let’s hear it Phaeton. Not just the highlights—details, as well.”
Phaeton swallowed a forkful of smoked fish. He did a quick scan of the breakfasters around the table. “How much have you been told?” He was fishing for a clue as to what the ladies knew of their adventures last night.
“You missed a lively discussion about The Orchid Lounge,” Cutter piped up.
“Wonderful!” America brightened. “It’s all out in the open then? Jersey and Cutter mentioned the booty rubs and lap dances?”
Cutter blinked.
Jersey cleared his throat.
Phaeton rolled his eyes.
America smiled. “Phaeton has promised to be uncensored and completely forthcoming about their gentlemen’s night in the Outremer. Interrogate him to your heart’s content ladies—as long as it’s over kippers and eggs.” She winked.
The silence at the table was broken only by the clink of Valentine’s teaspoon as she stirred. “What’s a booty rub?”
As delicately as possible, Phaeton took on the task of explaining. “It seemed obvious to ask about the Ryder sisters—considering Georgiana directed us to the club. As it turns out one of the succubi worked as a lap dancer. Velvet—”
Ruby snorted. “Perfect name, wouldn’t you say?”
Phaeton set down his fork. “As it turns out, one can’t simply have a conversation with one of these girls, one has to pay an exorbitant fee and gratuity for a ten minute—dance.”
America’s grin was flat and unnatural. “Naturally, Phaeton volunteered for duty.”
Phaeton looked up from his coffee cup and stared across the table. “Tell America what I said at the club, Cutter, about the dancing.”
The big raspy voiced Nightshade straightened in his chair. “The most fun you’ve had with your clothes on?”
Phaeton eyeballed Cutter. “No-o-o.”
She was not quite sure what came over her, but she tossed her teacup across the table at Phaeton and missed. The china hit the buffet with a crash and splintered into a million pieces. Thoroughly embarrassed, America rose from the table to flee the room. Phaeton jumped from his seat and beat her to the door. He stood with his back to the raised panels and held his hand up. “Wait.”
America raised her chin. “Just let me leave, Phaeton.”
A rap sounded at the very door he guarded. “You’re not going anywhere—until you hear what I said last night.”
America shifted her weight from one hip to another. She exhaled. Loudly. “Fine.”
Phaeton opened the door. Julian Ping stood in the corridor—looking as masculine as Ping ever looked—which was at best androgynous.
Ping bowed to America. “I believe Phaeton is referencing the remark he made later in the evening after he questioned the succubus.”
America sighed. “All right, Ping, what did he say?”
“He said as pleasurable as the dance was, all he could picture was America’s lovely plump booty doing the rubbing.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She didn’t know whether to kiss Phaeton or slap his cheek. No doubt he would enjoy either one. He tilted his head and smiled at her. “The thought is so arousing I believe I’ll fill another plate.”
Exeter gestured to America to come and sit beside him. A servant entered the room to sweep up the broken china. Completely humiliated, she joined their host at the end of the table. “I am so sorry, Doctor Exeter.”
“Jason,” he reminded her.
“Sorry, Jason.” Shaking her head, she grimaced. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Pregnancy came over you, America.” The doctor smiled. “Remember what we discussed last night—sudden mood changes, emotional outbursts, unexpected tears.” Exeter looked up, “Are you listening, Phaeton?”
Chapter Twenty-two
“S
UDDEN MOOD CHANGES
, emotional outbursts, unexpected tears . . .” Phaeton buttered a piece of toast. “The most fearful trials a man can face in this life.” America was avoiding his gaze. He waited for the stunning tawny beauty sitting beside Exeter to look up. Would she glower or grin?
UDDEN MOOD CHANGES
, emotional outbursts, unexpected tears . . .” Phaeton buttered a piece of toast. “The most fearful trials a man can face in this life.” America was avoiding his gaze. He waited for the stunning tawny beauty sitting beside Exeter to look up. Would she glower or grin?
She smiled and once more everything went right in his world. She wore a simple gown with a pretty swath of pale yellow fabric that ended in a bow above her bustle. Underneath the virginal frock, however, he knew for a fact she wore the violet lace v-string pantie.
Good God, she had no idea how much she excited him. What a joy she was to have as a companion. How much he loved her. He had been held against his will on that ship for two months. Despite the occasional evening of cards and grog, he’d had plenty of time to think. About his life. About her. Mostly how much he missed her.
And that little outburst of hers over the lap dance—adorable. She was hot blooded, passionate, and he wouldn’t have her any other way. And if things were reversed, if she’d been out half the night, clubbing with Valentine and Ruby—men rubbing up and down her . . . Phaeton swallowed. The prurient, devilish side of him supposed he wouldn’t mind it so much as long as he could watch. The side that was about to become a father, however, wanted throw a punch at any man who touched her.
Something hit him out of the blue. In those two months at sea, they’d missed celebrating her birthday. America had turned . . . twenty-one, or twenty-two?
Phaeton smiled. They really needed a night out together to celebrate.
“So—what do we do now? Do we continue to search over there?” Ruby’s question broke into his thoughts.
“We wait for one of the succubi to contact us,” Phaeton answered.
Jersey agreed. “The Moonstone is not with the RALS. The rat hordes have been exterminated.”
“Or they’ve run out of steam—aether—whatever they run on.” Cutter’s eyepiece levered up. “Like the dead one we found in the air shaft.”
Phaeton eased back from the table. “Meanwhile, I thought we might call on Tim Noggy. See if he’s had a chance to dissect the helmet.” Phaeton connected with Exeter. “Would you mind putting us up a bit longer? Your place is a good deal more accommodating than the flat below Mrs. Parker’s.”
Mia brightened. “Oh yes, please invite them to stay,” Exeter’s young charge pleaded. “I do so enjoy the female company. America, Ruby, and of course, Valentine.” The girl lowered her voice. “Please, Om Asa.”
“You are all welcome for the duration, however long it takes.” The doctor discarded his napkin and rose from the table. “Might I accompany you to Mr. Noggy’s laboratory, Phaeton?”
“I was just going to ask if you could come along—shall we?” Phaeton turned to America. “Are you well, and am I forgiven or tolerated?”
America had already moved her seat to cozy up to her new bosom friends. “Which would you like, dear?” She looked up at him with the most beguiling smile.
“I take that to mean, run along darling, so . . .” Phaeton grinned, “I will.”
There was something even more wretched about this latest laboratory of Tim Noggy’s. It was situated directly above the noxious fumes of a book binder’s guild, in a narrow row south of the Strand. Phaeton jogged to catch up with Exeter’s long strides. “One of our old stakeout spots is just around this bend.”
He and the doctor turned the corner and ran directly into Tim Noggy running toward them. “Grubbers, two of them coming up right behind me.” Large as he was, Tim hid behind Jersey and Cutter, whose daggers were already unfolding into claymore sized weapons. Swords that could cut through a Grubber as if it were steamed pudding.
Phaeton hadn’t seen one up close until now, but he agreed, Grubbers did look a bit like a blob of steamed pudding. Jersey and Cutter caught them in a diagonal crossfire. No ball of light this time. No small pellets of energy. This time they used streams of energy to hold the Grubbers in place, until they melted into a pool of sludge.
Remnant energy crackled over the dark stains on the pavers until both imprints vanished completely. “Those swords are fierce.” Tim peeked over Jersey’s shoulder. “Thanks; if you hadn’t come along they would have swarmed me.”
“Thank Phaeton.” Jersey’s sword folded down to dagger size. “He’s the one who wanted to check on you.”
Tim turned to Phaeton. “Really?”
“I wouldn’t read too much into it . . .” Phaeton stared at the husky young man. “I just wanted to stop by and see what you’ve found out about the helmet.”
“Plenty.” Tim raised both brows. “I have this fear of Grubbers—ever since my lab assistant got swarmed by one.” Tim led the way upstairs. “The worst thing about them is that they have this ability to dissolve into the most miniature of particles—like sub-atomic level, if you know what this is.” He looked around at blank faces.
“Anyway, once they’re in these trillions of tiny pieces, so small you can’t see them with our best microscope, then they permeate a person’s body and dissolve their victims from the inside out.” Tim fit a rather complex-looking key into the lock. “And here’s the creepiest thing about it—for a while, the person with the Grubber inside just walks around—talks, eats, sleeps—until they’re drained of all their aether.”
Noggy opened the door and gestured them inside. One by one they filed in. A single long worktable filled most of the space except for the customary cot and cold closet at the back of the room. Lined up like heads on pikes outside Bishop’s Gate were eight helmets. All in various stages of construction.
“Check this out—after you left yesterday, I removed the helmet lining and examined the fabric carefully. What do you think I found?” He offered a seat to Exeter in front of a large black tubular apparatus. Phaeton recognized the instrument as a microscope; he’d seen one in the doctor’s laboratory.
Exeter bent over an eyepiece and made an adjustment. “I see a mass of hexagonal cells, like a honeycomb of bees, only much smaller.”
“Miniature energy cells—wrapped around your head.” Tim lifted up the helmet. “The leathery tentacles on the original helmet are receptors—like radio antennae, they pick up signals as well as energy.” Tim turned to Cutter and Jersey. “When you fought these things, did you ever feel drained? Like you just wanted to take a nap?”
“Knackered.” Cutter looked over to the captain. “You, Jersey?”
The Nightshade leader weighed the question. “Not during a fight—but a good amount of fatigue after.”
Tim studied Jersey. “You’re also part demon, mate. You’ve got some built-in protection.”
Exeter swiveled the stool he was sitting on. “Radio transmission is in its infancy here, in our time—how much more advanced are they in the Outremer?”
Tim’s eyes flicked up toward the ceiling.“Your guess is as good as mine, Doc.”
Exeter didn’t let up. “Take a guess.”
“A hundred years . . . maybe more.” The oversized young inventor shook his head. “But that doesn’t mean that we’re going to evolve at their speed. We could go faster, or slower.”
Phaeton stared. “So, we could be stuck with steam engines forever.”
Tim shook back a mop of hair that had fallen in his face. “I don’t think so.”
Exeter stretched his legs out. “And why don’t you think so, Mr. Noggy?”
“Doc—call me Tim.” The young inventor crossed his arms over a broad chest. “Because you’ve crossed a few thresholds—steam conversion, the internal combustion engine, electricity, the electromagnetic field.” A smallish grin surfaced on their affable friend. “You’re on your way.”
Jersey raised a skeptical brow. “On our way to where?”
Phaeton peered into a basket full of fruit on the worktable. “May I have a tangerine?”
“Help yourself, mate.” Tim nodded. “They’re from Spain—flown here on an airship. Two crazy Frenchmen Gaspar knows.”
“It seems to me we have a big problem with a whole lot of unanswered questions, so let’s start with what we know.” As he peeled the fruit, Phaeton organized his thoughts out loud. “Are we sure we know the Reapers’ main purpose, besides reconnaissance?”
Cutter spoke up. “They also run squads of assassins and patrol the Outremer.”
“Who’d they assassinate?”
“About ten of our best scientists, so far.”
“Why haven’t we heard about it?” Phaeton asked.
“Because they make it look like an accident or a heart attack.” Tim suddenly looked a little wild-eyed.
“Reapers strike me as too predatory for that sort of ruse,” Exeter straightened. “Detective Inspector Zander Farrell popped by last night. Had a brandy and dessert with us. He mentioned a number of untimely deaths. Gentlemen mostly; he never mentioned their professions.”
Phaeton separated a section of fruit. “Let me guess, after a few exhumations and an autopsy or two, they discovered the deaths were from suffocation.”
Exeter nodded. “Seems the Ryder sisters are on the job, and Scotland Yard is interested in following up on your lead, Phaeton. Detective Farrell has assigned a Dexter Moore to the case.
Phaeton didn’t much care for the idea of Dexter Moore sniffing around, especially since he was so taken with America. “Why did Zander pick Dexter Moore for the job?” he groused. “He knows we don’t get on.”
Exeter explained to the others. “Phaeton is a bit testy around Inspector Moore. The detective helped recover two of America’s stolen ships, then he indirectly got involved with a case Phaeton and I worked on.”
“Gaspar told us—the Ripper goddess, concubine to Anubis, the one who gifted the Moonstone to Phaeton.” As Tim spoke he sidled over to Phaeton. “Any left?”
He handed over a few sections. “Let me deal with Moore. I’ll find something to keep him busy.” Phaeton scratched his beard. “Where was I? Ah yes, the Grubbers. I take it these creatures are ordered to abduct us as well as suck the life out of us. So why are they still around? Why did they attack Tim just now? And who gave us the impression that the maker—or whoever—had called off the Reapers and Grubbers?” Phaeton looked around.
Tim hesitated, and looked to Jersey. “Gaspar might be doing some wishful thinking.”
Exeter quirked a brow. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re the doc. What happens to a person when they start to unravel?”
Phaeton’s gaze narrowed. “Have you ever examined him, Jason?”
Exeter shook his head. “He doesn’t let me get very close.” “Has anyone seen Gaspar lately, besides Ping?” Phaeton looked around. “Where is Ping?” He was sure Ping had been with them in the alley—but had he followed them upstairs?
Jersey checked the corridor outside the flat. Nothing.
No one was alarmed, exactly. Ping was a thousand times more capable than any creature he might run across. And he often disappeared, returning minutes or hours later. In that way, Ping was a bit like Edvar, who had made himself rather scarce these days.
Phaeton walked around the end of the workbench. “Time for a big question. Is it possible that we could become infected by whatever is causing the alternate world’s demise—this unraveling?”
Curious as well, Exeter looked around the room. “Can anyone here get me closer to Gaspar? I need to do an examination. Study what is going on with him.”
Tim exhaled. “Gaspar trusts me . . . I think. I’ll see what I can do.”
Phaeton looked each one of them in the eye before asking question two. “What makes us so sure that the Outremer isn’t us? Our future—a hundred plus years from now?”
“That would mean that the space-time continuum is real, not something H. G. Wells thought up. That it is possible to fold space back on itself.” Tim raised both eyebrows and looked to Exeter, whose gaze moved to Cutter, Jersey, then settled on Phaeton.
Tim shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so, mate.”
“How is that any less plausible than a parallel London that is forced to cannibalize another London to keep itself alive?” Phaeton exhaled. Loudly. “Perhaps we should label them London A and London B.”
Jersey moved to the window and stood behind the drape of a tattered curtain. “Best finish up any business you have here.”
Phaeton examined the row of helmets. “Why make so many?”
“For us—for protection.” The young inventor picked one up. “These helmets don’t do just one thing—they do a lot of things, which will take years, even decades, to figure out.”
“But . . .” Tim waggled his brows. “There’s about a hundred microscopic layers of the honeycomb stuff inside the helmet. It takes only one or two layers of the stuff to block the dark matter in the aether.”
Phaeton pulled Tim aside. “How do you know?”
“Because I tested it last night—on myself.” Tim looked about furtively. “Don’t tell the Nightshades, but I get seasick when I’m over there. Also there’s this buzzing in my ears. Gives me a headache that lasts for days. So, I wrapped a couple of layers inside my bowler and took a quick trip over last night and guess what? Nothing. No nausea. No ear pain.” Tim waggled his brows. “No unraveling.”
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