The Moonstone and Miss Jones (20 page)
Phaeton stared at him. “A shield of some kind.” He sidled close and spoke quietly. “Might you be able to stitch a length of that fabric together—enough to make a shawl to wrap around someone?”
Wheels turned behind eyes made smaller by pudgy cheeks. “I guess so. When do you need it?”
Phaeton grinned. “Tonight, at dusk.”
Chapter Twenty-three
A
MERICA BLEW A LAYER OF DUST OFF
what appeared to be a serviceable desk in the office space for let. “Here it is ladies, 21-A Shaftesbury Court. I’m afraid it’s a bit musty at the moment.” Esmeralda opened a window to let in some air. “I gave up on rent for this space”—she clapped her hands—“it hasn’t been occupied in years.”
MERICA BLEW A LAYER OF DUST OFF
what appeared to be a serviceable desk in the office space for let. “Here it is ladies, 21-A Shaftesbury Court. I’m afraid it’s a bit musty at the moment.” Esmeralda opened a window to let in some air. “I gave up on rent for this space”—she clapped her hands—“it hasn’t been occupied in years.”
America thought the lack of interest had a great deal to do with the shop’s proximity to Esmeralda Parker’s—the most infamous brothel in all of London. She peeked into a closet. “Does our flat adjoin this space?”
Esmeralda pointed to a storage closet under the stairs. “We could easily add a pass through below the landing. At one time, there was a dentist in here—grisly old Drake himself used to have gentlemen dragged in here. The dentist would remove gold teeth—inlays, anything to repay their gambling debts.” The brothel madam nudged the brass kick plate and the door creaked open. America led the way outside and up a few steps to the sidewalk.
Ruby squinted at the gaming hall down the street. “Quite a brutal way to call in your markers.”
Esmeralda blinked in the bright sun. “And effective.”
America paid little attention to the ladies’ conversation; rather she pictured a sign . . . hanging just about—there. And a crisp navy blue awning over the door. She whirled around. “I’ll take it.”
“You’re sure?” Esmeralda asked.
America inhaled a deep breath. “Positive.”
“What do you have in mind, America? A shop of some kind?”
“Moonstone Investigations. A private agency specializing in . . . ”
Esmeralda grinned. “The very unusual?”
“I’ll keep the sign small,” America added. “I don’t wish to scare off your customers.”
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
All three women turned toward the familiar voice. Shading her eyes to see better, America recognized the face. “Inspector Moore. You’ve arrived just in time to celebrate.”
“Whatever you’re up to, Miss Jones, it is bound to be exciting. ”
“Inspector Moore,” Esmeralda greeted the detective without a sign of trepidation. Why should she? According to Phaeton, Mrs. Parker enjoyed special protection in exchange for the girls’ services as occasional night crawlers or honey pots for Scotland Yard.
“Come, I shall make us up a nice tea in the flat.” America started back. “I believe there is also a bottle of whiskey, if you’d rather.”
“Tea would be lovely at this hour.” Dexter doffed his bowler.
Esmeralda parted ways at the stairs. “Strange noises coming from down there last night—laughter, and a great deal of moaning and carrying on.” The madam lifted both brows. “See what you can do about it?”
Dexter kindled a fire in the stove and put a kettle on. “I take it you and Phaeton are staying with Jason Exeter?” The detective was snooping around for a reason.
America sensed something, a flutter of shadow against the ceiling. Perhaps she’d give him something sensational to report back to the Yard. “No room in this small flat since we’ve been assigned bodyguards.” America added ground leaves to the teapot and set out a plate of biscuits. “Phaeton is working on an important case.”
“I see.” The inspector frowned. “Dangerous enough that you are also in jeopardy?”
“I don’t believe you’ve met Ruby.” America smiled across the table. “I have her to protect me today.”
Dexter appeared unimpressed. “And who has assigned these bodyguards? Surely not the Yard—”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss much about the case,” she cautioned.
Dexter joined Ruby at the table who was nibbling a biscuit. America added a fourth cup and laid a finger to her lips. “We have a visitor.”
Dexter Moore reached in his pocket and set his revolver on the table. America stared. “You can’t shoot her.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because—she’s a succubus and they don’t die.” Ruby poured hot water into the teapot to steep. “They’re closely related to demons . . . I think.” She rolled her eyes upward. “Anyway, you have to banish them—send them back to their world. Or trick them, which is hard to do.” The challenge in Ruby’s eyes seemed to be directed at the detective. “They’re clever.”
Dexter’s gaze lingered on Ruby, before returning to America. “And your idea is to invite her to tea?”
America shushed him. “She must believe it is her idea.”
Dexter’s gaze moved around the room. “Where is . . . she?”
A quick glance told America that he was watching her eyes track the ethereal young lady circling in the air. “She’s—hover-ing close by?” His voice was soft, husky.
Quite suddenly a fully materialized apparition perched on the back of the kitchen chair. She waited for Ruby to pour, then plopped two lumps of sugar into her teacup. “Is this Deejarling? Deejarling is one of my favorites.” The singsong voice belonged more to a fairy than a young woman.
America smiled. “You must be Fleury.”
Dressed in a pale blue frock and a white apron overskirt, the young succubus looked perplexed. “I was Alice this morning, but you can call me Fleury if you wish.” She stirred her tea. “How do you know my name?”
America caught the look of astonishment on Dexter’s face. This one had to be the youngest sister. “Phaeton—Mr. Black mentioned you were a bit of a . . .”
“Flibbertigibbit?” She punctuated nearly every sentence with a tinkle of laugher followed by a low wailing moan.
“What seems to be the difficulty, Fleury?”
“Velvet gave me an address for Mr. Black,” Fleury whispered, nearly in tears. “But I cannot find him.” She squinted at Dexter. “You are not Mr. Black.”
Dexter looked to America and she shook her head. “No, he is not.” Without Phaeton present, she would have to be cagey if she was going to wheedle the message out of the little minx. “You might leave him a letter—write it down on a piece of notepaper.”
Fleury glowered. “No pens or papers.”
She racked her brain. “You could send Mr. Black a telegram. I’d be happy to write the address down. We could walk down to the wire office together if you’d like—send it off to Mr. Black.” America smiled sweetly.
Eyelashes fluttered. “I’ve never sent a telegram,” she cooed.
America caught a grin from Dexter.
“Eight and a half Queen’s Yard,” the pretty girl whispered.
America held out her hand. “Come along, let’s send it off to Phaeton.” America winked at Ruby and Dexter. “Back in a jiff.”
Phaeton rocked along pleasantly inside Exeter’s well-sprung carriage. The ride back to Mayfair would at least be comfortable, if a bit silent. Unusually brooding of late, the doctor seemed doubly troubled at the moment. “America asked me if I wouldn’t please try to get you to open up about your difficulties.” Exeter stared blankly at the blur of shops along Piccadilly. “A man to man chat might be helpful.”
“I don’t need your kind of help, Phaeton.”
“Which can only mean that you believe my advice will be to roger her royally. And not to waste another moment in this ridiculous agony you have imposed on yourself—and Mia, as well, I might add.”
Somewhat baffled, Exeter slid a glance his way. “You mean that
isn’t
your advice?”
isn’t
your advice?”
“Of course it is, but I might also have some suggestions for you, until you find out exactly what is going on with the lovely chit—poor girl.”
The doctor exhaled. “Even you think of her as a chit.”
“Which is why my first assignment for you and Mia is to purchase the young lady a new wardrobe. Box up those middy blouses and demure little frocks and donate them to the needy. You must purchase Mia a new wardrobe—clothing a woman would wear. And gowns that show off her figure whenever possible.”
Exeter finally turned to him. “Do you realize how completely exasperating you are, Phaeton?”
“I’m also completely right.”
Exeter’s mouth twitched. “Yes, I believe you might be.” He checked his pocket watch and exhaled a deep sigh.
“You just have to let this play out, Jason. From what I understand, Valentine is preparing her for—whatever she is going to be.”
“If only I knew what Mia was facing, I might be able to do more.”
Phaeton studied his anxious friend. “Mr. Tandi must know something.”
“I’ve questioned him extensively.” Exeter shook his head. “I asked if she’d been bitten as a child, or dragged off. What fevers she suffered. Were there any unusual pets in the house . . .”
“He may be afraid to tell you. He’s a servant with no family here. Where would he go if you tossed him out?” Phaeton made a mental note to have a chat with the mild mannered servant. “Jason, you’ve been an exemplary guardian, but now you need to shift your relationship with Mia to a new place. As ever, you will continue to be there when she’s frightened—to reassure her. But you must not be afraid to touch her.”
The doctor shifted his gaze away.
“Holding is important—America loves to be held. It makes her feel safe.” Phaeton dipped his head to reconnect with Exeter. “Are you holding Mia?” Phaeton recalled the intimate scene he witnessed in the bedchamber last night. Mia had lifted his palm to her breast. “Touch her when she needs to be touched—like a woman.”
“But if I lose control—”
Phaeton glanced outside the carriage; they were traveling through Green Park. “Your instincts aren’t all wrong—you probably should try to take it slow, at least until you know what may or may not happen when she’s aroused.” His friend was in crisis—the young woman he loved was going through some sort of transmogrification. She could be dangerous to herself as well as others. “Then again, maybe you need to lose a little control, Jason.”
The carriage slowed and pulled up in front of the townhouse. Phaeton waited for the Nightshades to check the street and surroundings before he opened the door. He made eye contact with the doctor briefly. “Do you think Tim Noggy is from our world?”
Exeter seemed grateful for a change of subject. “He says he’s Australian—as if that explains everything. But his odd vernacular is as strange as his science. He speaks in a kind of advanced physics I’m not completely familiar with, but . . .” The doctor exited the coach and caught up with Phaeton at the door. “I don’t believe much of it is from this century.”
Mr. Tandi greeted Phaeton holding a silver salver. A telegraph envelope sat in the middle of the tray. Phaeton opened the message. A grin tugged up one side of his mouth. “It’s from Fleury Ryder.”
“A succubus sent a telegram?” Exeter handed off his top hat. “What does it say?”
“An address in Queen’s Yard.” Phaeton folded the cable and jammed it in his pocket. “I’m fairly sure The Orchid Lounge is located there.”
Exeter raised a brow. “Shall we all go over? I’ll send Gaspar a message—and you’ll want the Nightshades with you.”
Phaeton shook his head. “The cable wire is quite explicit. Eight and a half Queen’s Yard. Stop. Come alone.”
Chapter Twenty-four
“M
IND TELLING ME WHERE WE’RE GOING
?” America held onto her boater as a gust of wind swept through the mews alley.
IND TELLING ME WHERE WE’RE GOING
?” America held onto her boater as a gust of wind swept through the mews alley.
“It’s a birthday surprise.” Phaeton towed her around the side of Exeter’s carriage house.
“But, my birthday was months ago,” she protested.
“You thought I forgot, didn’t you?” He had that look of mischief about him. “I am stealing you away for a night on the town together.” A breeze ruffled his hair and his smile was so dazzling, her heart danced in her chest.
“But—I’m not dressed for an evening out.”
“You will be.” Phaeton peered around the corner of the carriage house. “Ps-s-st! Tim—over here!” He turned back to America and smiled. “Tim very kindly agreed to design a little something for you.”
The well-rounded young man squeezed into the niche and opened his bag of tricks. “It took twenty layers of helmet liner to make this.” Tim unfolded a large square of gossamer cloth. The tightly woven material shimmered in the late afternoon rays of sun. “Here you go, mate.”
Phaeton folded the large square into a triangle and turned to her. Holding a corner of the scarf in each hand, he wrapped his arms around her and tied the ends together above her bustle. “There now—you are perfectly protected, my love.” He rearranged a few of the folds in front and looked up at her. “As is our little pea in the pod.”
She wanted to weep—not just a few sniffs but an all-out blubbering good cry. Phaeton had referred to their child as
ours
. And he had placed the apron-like shawl around her in the sweetest way. Emotional as well as bewildered, she suddenly thought she knew where they were going. “You’re taking me to—”
ours
. And he had placed the apron-like shawl around her in the sweetest way. Emotional as well as bewildered, she suddenly thought she knew where they were going. “You’re taking me to—”
“Quickly my dear—I’ve a carriage waiting in the Hays Mews.” Phaeton whisked her and Tim Noggy down the lane and into the rented clarence.
Phaeton leaned across the aisle. “I need you to get us across and help us to return.”
“You’re going on a date to Outremer?” Tim shook his head. “By yourselves? No Jersey, no Valentine?”
“America and I need a night out—alone.” Phaeton leaned inside the coach. “What shall I tell the driver?”
Tim thought a moment. “Hanway Yard may still be open.” Phaeton relayed instructions and climbed in as the carriage lurched off.
Settling in beside her, Phaeton explained. “I’m also hoping to mix a bit of business with pleasure. This afternoon I received this wire—just an address.”
“Eight and a half Queen’s Yard.” America peered over his shoulder to confirm the message.
Phaeton turned to her. “You sent this?”
“Shall we say I assisted Fleury?”
Phaeton nodded. “Note these two words at the end of the address. ‘Come alone.’ ”
“Yeah, but . . .” Tim’s brows collided. “You’re not going in alone.”
“I imagine this to be a preliminary meeting—no puppet masters. Just me and a shadow player. Someone who either has the stone or knows where the stone is. Perhaps a few terms will be discussed, after which, I will return to our side of the equation.”
“While I wait to be summoned, I plan on having a bit of fun with America—a belated birthday party—for two.”
Tim’s worry-riddled face eased some. “Happy birthday. So . . . how belated is he?” He rolled his eyes over to Phaeton.
“The nineteenth of April.”
Tim’s observant eyes crinkled. “Aries. Cardinal. Fire. Yeah, you’d have to—you know—have horns and be hot to keep up with him.”
America snorted a laugh. Tim had the oddest way of putting words together. She understood him perfectly, but there was something about the accent.
“Wow. A goat and a ram—no wonder.” Tim shook his head.
Phaeton stared. “How could you possibly know what astrological sign I am?”
The amiable man shrugged. “You’ve got to be a Capricorn, mate.”
America grinned. “Phaeton was born the tenth of January.”
“Since we are early—pre-witching hour . . .” Phaeton instructed the driver to continue on Tottenham Court Road, to Queen’s Yard. “Drive up a ways and park near the mews.” As they passed the narrow yard, America glanced into the entrance and blinked. She gripped Phaeton’s arm.
“I see him,” Phaeton growled. “What the devil is Dexter Moore doing lurking about Queen’s Yard?”
Tim dipped his head and peered around. “He’s got at least two other men with him—one at the corner and another farther inside the yard.”
Phaeton swiveled slowly back to her and raised a brow.
“The Inspector paid a call to the flat this afternoon. Ruby and I went over to collect a few things.” She certainly wasn’t going to tell him about renting the office space—not yet, anyway. She wanted to surprise him.
“What things?” Phaeton queried.
Frankly, she didn’t care much for his tone. “For one thing, you’re out of clean shirts and collars. I believe Inspector Moore was attempting to find out where you and I are residing.”
“No doubt he’s curious to know who is doing what to whom—and where.” Phaeton frowned. “Excellent use of Scotland Yard’s resources, chasing down our sleeping arrangements. Nosy bastard.”
Tim turned to them. “Speaking of ins and outs, your entry point is well down the block on Hanway Place. Where do you want your out?”
“Last time we hoofed it all the way to the Thames—Vauxhall Bridge.”
Tim nodded. “The professor likes that one. It’s easy and it’s always open. Keep that in mind if you ever get stuck over there.”
Phaeton stared at Tim. “Whatever happened between you and Lovecraft?”
“You don’t want to know.” Tim shook his head slowly. “Do you?”
“Why would I ask”—Phaeton bit out the words—“if I didn’t wish to know?”
America pressed her lips into a thin, straight line—anything to hide her amusement at Phaeton’s aggravation. As exasperating as Tim Noggy could be, there was also something wonderfully gentle and genuine about him. America quite liked him, even though she was sure he was neither British nor Australian.
Tim tugged his pocket watch out of a waistcoat that was bursting at the buttons. “Time to go.” America smiled more to herself than anyone. He just didn’t fit here—even his clothes were ill-fitting.
Exiting the carraige, they made a slow tour of both Hanway Street and Hanway Place, a complete circle of the yard. Tim’s eyes darted back and forth. “You both have your inklings?”
America hesitated. “I have mine from the first trip over—inkwell.”
“Don’t!” Tim threw both hands up to stop her. “Never mind—it was kind of a lame inkling anyway—everyone had some variation on it.”
“Lame?” America pouted.
“Uh—I meant faulty. Just use Phaeton’s.” Tim never took his eyes off the sidewalk traffic—and there was plenty at the end of the day. Tim wove in and out of a bustle of pedestrians. He rasped over his shoulder. “I’m going to get you through—just follow me.”
Tim opened his satchel and rummaged around. “Behind us, there’s a man in a purple waistcoat. Phaeton, you need to drop back, get his attention, then follow him, now!” Tim pulled America into the niche of a shop entrance and they watched Phaeton bump into the gentleman.
“Clumsy me—pardon.”
Tim pointed his mysterious metal pipe as the man caught Phaeton by the arm, steadying him. Phaeton slipped in behind the gent and disappeared.
America craned her neck.
“He’s over.” Tim grinned. “Have you ever walked through a cold spot in a room or experienced a brief dizzy spell just walking along—maybe you wobbled a little?”
America nodded. “Of course. Are you saying that the way into other worlds, these rabbit holes are—” America sighed, rather at a loss.
“They’re not everywhere, but . . .” He scanned Hanway Yard. “There’s quite a few of them around right now.” Tim fiddled with the tubular device. “Behind me coming up fast—the lady bobbing along in a hurry? Here you go—” Tim shoved her out into the throng of foot traffic and into the woman who dodged out of the way—but not before their skirts touched—vaguely woozy, America was aware of a brush of fabric and whispers in the air. Carried along, as if on the swell of a wave in the ocean, she looked back over her shoulder.
Tim Noggy faded into a fog of gray.
America looked ahead and the crowded lane was suddenly bereft of foot traffic. “Over here, darling.” Phaeton stood in front of a small shop. America picked up her skirt and ran to join him. Phaeton pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth. In public. When he released her, she was out of breath. “Happy birthday, love. And I mean to make it happy.”
At this moment, she could not imagine being any happier. “More surprises?”
“Many more.”
Something in the shop window behind Phaeton caught her eye. Something so provocative, she was forced to lean to one side for a better look. “Good Lord, Phaeton.” She stepped out of his arms and over to the window. Captivated or stupefied, she wasn’t quite sure which, America studied the scandalous photographs of women wearing—essentially nothing.
“Bigger than life and for all the world to see in a shop window.”
Tiny pantalettes and corsets were scattered about the display in front of the photographs. “This is where you purchased the little undergarments?”
Phaeton moved up behind her. “If I remember correctly, you are wearing the violet lace.”
She turned around in his arms. “Do I look like those women—in the window?”
“Better.” He nuzzled her neck just below her earlobe. “Because you are sassy and warm. And you jiggle.” He took her by the hand and walked her up the block.
“Phaeton, how do you manage all this—purchasing things—using what sort of legal tender?”
“My old banknotes seem to pass for rabbit hole currency. I must admit, I had to withdraw more cash this afternoon; the panties and bar tab drained the wallet.” Near Oxford he stopped at a shop featuring menswear. They both studied the jackets in the window. America tilted her head. “Rather plain and short.”
“Everything over here seems . . . abbreviated.” Phaeton offered her his arm. “Help me pick something out.”
The clerk inside approached cautiously. “I’m afraid we traveled all the way into town only to discover the masquerade ball is next week. Still, it would be a shame to waste a night out on the town.” Phaeton paused to admire the tailoring. “I could use a new jacket.”
The shop clerk smiled, “Right this way sir. My name is Dalton.”
They chose a black blazer and charcoal trousers, in what Dalton described as a tropical wool blend. And there was quite a discussion as to whether a cravat was needed. “I assume dinner? Perhaps a bit of clubbing?” the clerk mused aloud. In a sudden flurry of inspiration, he removed Phaeton’s waistcoat and starched collar. Then he opened a few shirt buttons, and exposed a hint of chest hair. Dalton stood back to admire. “Lovely.”
America sidled up next to the clerk. Phaeton looked breathtaking. “Handsome, indeed.”
She found a smart satchel, which Phaeton purchased for their costumes. Glancing at the bill, she nearly fainted. He stuffed a wad of folded banknotes inside his new jacket pocket. “Might you recommend a shop for ladies?”
“Stella McCurdy’s on Bruton Street.” Dalton studied her as he might a seamstress form—taking in her size and shape. “Or Sylvester McQueen on Bond. I’ll call you a cab.”
Once inside the motorcar she snuggled against him. “Odd, isn’t it? The street names and building are completely familiar and yet so entirely foreign.”
Phaeton grinned. “Like a waking dream. Have you noticed the shop signs aren’t reading backward anymore?”
She glanced out the window at the flashy shops along Oxford. “At least it doesn’t feel like we’re in Slovakia.”
“Look, down there.” Phaeton pointed to a narrow side street in shambles. “Parts of the city are fragmenting, or as Gaspar puts it, unraveling. And yet business goes on as usual.” He spoke quietly. “Farther south, around Piccadilly, I saw signs of street conflict. You’d think there’d be mass hysteria.”
“Perhaps they’re used to it,” she said. The bleak looking row was swept out of sight as the cab moved on. “Tim mentioned Reaper patrols—have you seen them?”
“Jersey and I managed to elude one at the Orchid Lounge. We escaped up the backstairs.”
America turned to him, eyes bright. “Are you taking me there—tonight?”
Phaeton’s eyes crinkled. “Perhaps—if you select a new frock that shows off plenty of leg.”
Her smile was permanent, until she took one look at the price tags in Mr. McQueen’s shop. She looked up. “This can’t be right.” The simple sparkling dress—if one could call something this plain and short a dress—was eight hundred pounds. Even Phaeton appeared stunned.
She grabbed him by the arm and they tried the shop next door, Domenico & Stefano. “It would seem the dressmakers in the Outremer are either Italian or Scot.” Inside, however, the prices were just as shocking. “How disappointing.” America turned to leave but something had already caught Phaeton’s eye. “Hold on.”
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