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Authors: Jillian Stone

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BOOK: The Moonstone and Miss Jones
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Chapter Four
 
A
DIM GASLIGHT SPUTTERED ABOVE THE STAIR LANDING
. America steadied herself and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness below. The hansom ride from the Docklands to the West End had been one of the most harrowing in her life, with the possible exception of a ride in a rickshaw pulled by a Zulu in Durban, South Africa.
She squinted and a few details emerged from the flat below, including a shadowy figure in the overstuffed chair. A soft snore rumbled its way up the stair—it was Phaeton, all right. She ventured farther into the room for a better look.
He lounged in the chair with his pelvis forward, legs spread. America angled her head, studying him. There was a rough of whiskers on his chin; could he look any more dashing? She exhaled a sigh. Only if he opened those liquid brown eyes.
“A little lower, darling.” He mumbled, still asleep. It suddenly hit her. He was safe. He was healthy. The bilge rat.
“Darling, is it?” she whispered. Her gaze trailed down his open waistcoat to the buttons on his trousers. As if in answer to her own lascivious thoughts, the buttons began to open.
She grinned at first—was this some new kind of power emerging? Something ancient and primal fueled by lust? She had noticed a marked increase in her abilities these last few months; there was no question they were getting stronger. She reached out and her hand was slapped away—by what she had no idea. She tried again to reach out and was flung across the flat onto the lumpy old chaise longue.
America sat up and stared. Something tugged at Phaeton’s trousers—something powerful enough to manipulate the physical world and yet remain unseen. Rising to her feet, she strode across the floor and slapped Phaeton hard across the face.
He groaned, still in a deep trance. “Just the tip, Georgiana.”
She slapped him again. “Snap out of it!”
Jarred awake, Phaeton pushed away from her and blinked—several times. She slapped him again. This time he rubbed his jaw and his eyes watered. “America?” Gradually, between squints and blinks, he came around.
Her fists landed on her hips. “Who is Georgiana?”
Phaeton eased back into his chair, though he regarded her with some wariness. “A rather persistent succubus. And you certainly aren’t one of those—thank God.” If it was possible for a man to have sultry eyes, Phaeton had them. Dark lashes lowered over liquid coffee orbs, that weren’t sleepy—just seductive. He tilted his chin and studied her. “Though, I must admit the nasty little vixen has me in some discomfort—would you mind?” He gave a nod to the bulge in his trousers.
“Stuff it, Phaeton.”
“Exactly.” A slow grin twitched on the devilish mouth. “I’m just asking.”
“Goodness, how long has it been?” America rolled her eyes upward, calculating. “Separated for less than two months and already I’d quite forgotten how exasperating you can be.”
“You followed me—rather sweet of you. I wasn’t sure you would. I thought you would think I jumped ship and sailed off—abandoned you.”
America’s eyes narrowed into cat slits. “According to your wire, which I received just yesterday, you were shanghaied—in Shanghai.”
Phaeton shrugged. “Old joke, not particularly amusing anymore.”
She stared at him. “You must trust me when I say that it was never comical—in the least.” America shook her head and moved to the pantry area of the flat. She braced herself against the table edge. “I chased you halfway round the world, Phaeton. I want the truth this time, and not a crafty as-you-please answer.” She swept an errant curl back into her topknot. “I believe I’ve known eels less slippery.”
Phaeton wore that cajoling half smile. “You’re angry with me.”
“Mad at you? No Phaeton, I’m not angry with you. I’m . . . I’m furious.” America choked on her own words—or was it the painful and growing lump in her throat that stifled her breath? “I searched for you in every opium den and every back alley of Shanghai. Only after a great deal of money changed hands was I able to find out you’d cut and run—aboard the
Boomerang
. Do you have any idea how I worried?”
“I’ve caused you great torment, but I swear to you none of it was my doing. Yes, I was on that ship—in leg irons for more than half the voyage. I was cracked over the head in Blood Alley, stuffed in a sack, and taken aboard ship.” She must have appeared unmoved as his eyes fluttered and rolled a bit. “Turns out the captain was a regular chap, with a good supply of whiskey—nightly card play.”
America shook her head. “How lovely for you. I don’t suppose there was any chance to escape—or any way to get word to me?”
“But I did get word to you, darling—my love.” Phaeton appeared rather stricken.
The tears that had welled up began to stream. “And while we were separated, did you . . . think of me?”
Phaeton rose from the chair. “Every minute.” He strode toward her slowly. “Of every hour.” He caught her up in his arms. “Of every bleeding day.” His gaze fell to her mouth, and her lips parted. Good God, what a hussy—she was sending him an invitation.
“Have I ever told you I love you—outside of the throes of passion?”
America shook her head.
“I love you.”
“Too late, we’re in the throes of passion.” America pressed her hands to his chest, but he held on—drawing her lower body against the hardness of him. “The duke appears happy to see me,” she sniffed.
He rubbed gently. “So much so, he asks for a private audience—something quick right here on the table,” Phaeton crooned, gathering her skirt with one hand. “After two months at sea, this won’t take but a minute, I promise.” He nuzzled her cheek and kissed the place below her ear that made her tingle. Still.
Phaeton lifted her skirts higher. “And if I promise to place my finger on your little pink pearl?”
America slanted her eyes. “And?”
The sly grin was back. “And . . . if my finger strokes and circles round and round?” Excitement bubbled in her as his hand went between her legs. His fingers played lightly over the slit in her drawers—teasing her—making her want more. When his hands brushed the inside of her legs she opened her stance.
His blistering gaze moved to her lips, but he did not kiss her.
“Don’t cry, America.” His mouth was nearly upon hers. “Punish me.” Slowly, he moved his lips to her cheeks, and kissed a tear away. Then another. And another . . .
His finger moved past the slit in her pantalettes and sensation fluttered through her body as moist folds flooded with arousal. More than anything right now she needed that great cock and those magic fingers of his that swirled and teased. She opened her eyes and met his deep brown gaze. “You may enter—but you may not withdraw until I say.”
Easing her back onto the table, Phaeton slipped both hands under her skirt and brought her buttocks to the edge. She uncovered his manly cock, which sprang to life and twitched impatiently. He spread her legs and pressed into her with a groan of pleasure. His eyes closed briefly. “Good God, how I missed this heavenly sheath.”
“Stop.” She murmured, then used her hips to circle, taking his prick with her. She flexed the walls of her passage and knew he ached to thrust in and out, but she shook her head.
Phaeton reached for her small, slick pink nub. He circled slowly, pausing to tap lightly, sending spikes of arousal through her. “Now may I withdraw?”
America’s eyes narrowed. “The tip must stay inside me.”
His eyes nearly rolled back in his head and his breathing was harsh, but he withdrew—all but that beautifully shaped head. Hard muscular thighs pressed against hers, opening her wider—shuddering with his own pent-up desire.
She unbuttoned her jacket and blouse. Arching her back, she pulled the ribbon on the edge of her camisole. “You may look, but you must not kiss them—yet.” All his eyes had to do was widen slightly—and her nipples hardened. He kept a finger on her growing pleasure spot and massaged—circling over and around.
“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, “You must have missed me—just a little.”
Her gaze remained steady with his. “So much more than just a little.”
She wanted him to go faster, harder—but she resisted the command. She wanted so much more . . . writhing . . . before her climax came in shuddering waves. It was his own fault. Phaeton had taught her how to prolong her pleasure.
“You may kiss them now.” She met his hungry gaze as he leaned over her breasts and licked. He circled a nipple gently—and when it was hard and tight, he took the whole of her areola into his mouth and suckled with a kind of animal ferocity. Her body trembled with arousal. “I need to be inside you, America.” He gasped.
“Slowly then—and stop when I say so.” He eased his cock in slow. Inch by inch, until she growled and lifted her pelvis. Only then did he plunge deep inside her. “He kissed and nipped the flesh of her body as he pulled her farther to the edge—enough so he could do something very naughty. Phaeton wet a finger and worked it around the tight little sphincter muscle—coaxing it to relax.
“Come for me, America.” With one finger on her clit and the other on her anus, he pushed into her deep—still unhurried, a measured thrust that made her rise up to meet him, to answer his motion as her pleasure climbed.
“Deeper,” she ordered. And he disobeyed. He rubbed her with the crown of his cock—the place inside her sheath that loved to be rubbed. The place they had discovered together one balmy night in paradise.
“Harder,” she moaned. And still he defied her. His finger slipped into her anus and pleasure ripped through her body.
“Faster,” she begged, on the edge of climax. And finally, he complied, pumping his cock into her. His velvet shaft—thrusting deep as his fingers worked every orifice, every sensitive spot—filling her up until her entire body peaked with ecstasy.
The room blurred as reality fell away. He held her at the precipice of pleasure for an eternal moment, until she could stand it no longer. Her body bucked and shuddered as he took her over the edge.
Phaeton, as well, bellowed like a bull in an explosive rush of gasps and groans. She felt the intensity of his climax, as if it were her own—which it was. Lost in bliss, America drifted back to earth with a sigh. Still breathless, she pushed herself up on her elbows and stared at him. “You’re so . . .”—she chewed her lower lip—“good at that.”
Phaeton smiled down at her. “Hard to stay mad at me, isn’t it?”
 
Tucked into a favorite corner of the Cheshire Cheese, America sliced into a thick lamb chop. “Why would someone shanghai you, Phaeton? For what possible reason?”
Phaeton leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I don’t know—I can trim a bit o’sail.”
A smile formed as she chewed. “I admit you push the tiller hard.”
“Made you come about, quick enough.” He took a pull of his pint. “It would seem a mysterious someone wants me back here in London. Badly.” The crowded pub was familiar, even comforting, yet his gaze darted about the smoke-filled room somewhat warily.
America thought about his words. “A horrid creature attacked me tonight, on my way to the flat.”
He stabbed at a slice of chop. “What kind of horrid creature ?”
“Bulbous head, beady gray eyes, skeletal frame—moves about in a sort of mist of particles—quick-like.” As America related the tale of her near abduction, a third entity perched itself on a stool nearby. She glanced at the yellow-orange eyes that blinked at Phaeton. “Edvar fought him off and drove me here—quite a thrilling cab ride.”
He winked at the gargoyle. “When I was a lad, he rescued me from a nasty goblin or two.”
“What is going on, Phaeton? Something doesn’t feel right.” She set her knife and fork on the plate. “There’s a malingering—I don’t know what to call it.”
“Foreboding in the air?” Phaeton’s grin turned thin and rather strained.
America nodded.
Phaeton tipped his chair forward and sat upright. “Exeter.”
America blinked. “What about the doctor?”
“Esmeralda seemed worried this morning—says he’s not himself. I told her I’d pop in on him. Care to join?”
Chapter Five
 
T
HE GENTLE FLICKER OF GASLIGHT ON
H
ALF
M
OON
S
TREET
waxed and waned an unnatural luminescence. Phaeton squinted out the window of the hansom. “Sense a bit of malingering miasma?” He turned back to America.
Her bright eyes grew wider. “There is a definite disturbance in the atmosphere.”
He opened the trapdoor in the roof. “This is far enough.” He handed several coins up to the driver. “Wait for us here.”
He grabbed America by the hand and proceeded down the quiet, mostly residential lane. Nearly all of the unsettling aether appeared to emanate from Doctor Exeter’s stately Georgian townhouse.
A layer of ephemeral whispers echoed through the air. The auditory disturbance swirled around Phaeton. Something akin to the hiss of a steam vent mixed with a peculiar effervescent clicking noise—much like the sound of a thousand pairs of scissors all snipping at once.
The signals strengthened with each step. He paused to focus his attention on the front of the residence. Like an ocean tide in moonlight, the facade glimmered with pinpricks of light. Cautiously, he moved closer.
“Look Phaeton, there—in the shadows on the wall.” America pointed to the dark side of the residence. He could just make out a number of small metallic objects moving over the facade of the house. Craning his neck to take a better look, his mouth fell open. He stepped off the curb and into the lane for a better view. Thousands of rat-sized devils swarmed up the edifice of the manse. Phaeton squinted. More like spiders, actually. No, they were rats, with long spindly legs.
Each metallic, multi-legged minion cast a strange glow from under its belly, as if each creature’s shadow illuminated the way. The pale lights shifted, making the legion of crawling objects appear to undulate. Like foam in an ocean wave, the creatures washed over the residence. He experienced a fleeting sense that the drone-like horde was being directed by something, either by light or sound frequency. The unnatural fizzing chirps from the pests quickly grew annoying. Phaeton plugged his ears with his fingers. “Better.”
America covered her ears and nodded her agreement.
The large palladium windows on the second floor of Exeter’s townhouse crawled with hundreds of metal rodents. The glazing buckled as one by one each small pane of glass shattered in rapid succession. A salvo of glass slivers flew through the air.
Phaeton ducked under a neighboring portico and slipped America behind him. A knife-shaped fragment of flying glass landed inches from his feet. From the shelter of the covered entry they watched a few nasty scavengers break from the mob and rush inside the residence. If memory served, those large windows illuminated the doctor’s laboratory.
Something caught his eye. He detected movement—high up on the roof. The tall dark specter of Doctor Exeter. Phaeton felt a tinge of relief. If circumstances weren’t so grim, he would have hailed the doctor with a shout and a wave. Exeter moved with stealthy precision across his own rooftop. Running from or battling back the swarming minions?
No time to waste, he turned to America. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re going up there, aren’t you?”
Phaeton stepped out into the street, and swiveled back. “Stay put, darling—I shan’t be long.” Shards of broken glass crunched underfoot as he took a step back and leaped into the air. He landed beside a chimney stack not far from the doctor who had taken up a piece of drainpipe in an admirable but futile attempt to beat off the approaching hordes. With a rather impressive swing he whacked one of mechanical beasts off the roof. “Creeping, low-life, anthropoid devil.”
“Esmeralda misjudged. Said you’d be overjoyed to see me.”
Exeter whirled around, a spark of recognition in his eyes.
Phaeton leaned against the brick chimney and grinned. “A bit large for rodents—even the Underground variety. Have you sent for a rat catcher?”
Exeter broke off another piece of pipe and handed over a length. Phaeton took aim at a column of creatures crawling up the slate shingles. He held one of the buggers down with his foot and swung the pipe like a croquet mallet, sending a row of them sailing off the roof.
Exeter stepped up beside him. “Good to see you, Phaeton.”
He swung at a few more. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are we involved with here?”
“Hordes of mechanized rodent-like spiders.”
Phaeton lowered his bat. “I’m not blind. Something of your own invention gone rogue, or is this rabble dangerous?”
At the edge of a steep incline, one of the multi-legged creatures sprang into the air. “Careful, they can jump.”
Phaeton jerked upright. “Clever of them.”
A hundred more crested the rooftop. Exeter sent a swathe of potent energy across the roof and cleared the lot of them. “Relentless might be the word for them.”
The shriek of a police whistle sounded from the street below.
Exeter peered over the roof edge and frowned. “Not sure we need the Westminster Police sticking their nose in this.”
Phaeton joined him. “Shall we?”
“Been practicing, Phaeton?”
“A long ocean voyage is conducive to polishing any number of skills, including the manipulation of the physical universe.”
They landed in the street behind the officer on duty. The trembling neighborhood patrolman nearly backed into them. The doctor sidestepped the man.
America stepped out from the doorstep. “Phaeton?”
He gestured her over.
Exeter nodded a bow. “Miss Jones, always lovely to see you, no matter the circumstances.”
“Doctor Exeter.” She bobbed a curtsey. “What are those things?”
“A temporary nuisance—let’s see if we can’t run them off.” Exeter turned to the neighborhood patrolman. “Officer Willis, might I borrow your whistle?”
With his eyes bulging, the bobby nodded blankly. Exeter blithely removed the whistle from his grip and used a pocket square to wipe off the spittle. “Please observe, gentlemen—and gentlewoman.”
Exeter blew as though he was playing a musical instrument. “I’m modulating the air pressure using my tongue.” Exeter paused between blows. “Some of the commands are no doubt beyond ear range.” He struck a barely audible note and all at once, every crawling creature froze in place.
Phaeton grinned. “Though not all, apparently.”
“Blimey.” The officer scratched his head. “Ye mind me asking sir—”
“Don’t ask.” Phaeton stepped between the two men. “So, the little bastards are being controlled by sound frequency?”
Exeter nodded. “Radio, perhaps. As Hertz has recently proven, electromagnetic waves produced by a radiating conductor can be transmitted and received at a distance of up to 200 feet.”
Phaeton quickly scanned every doorway and niche of the lane. “I’ll put my wager on that carriage just past the mews entrance.”
The moment they all made for the vehicle, the coach moved off. Exeter and Officer Willis chased after the carriage until they reached the corner. By the time Phaeton and America caught up, nothing on four wheels was in sight. A left turn would lead them to Curzon Street. A right would put them on Bolton Place.
“Bollocks.” Phaeton sucked in a breath. Sensing something, he turned along with the other men. They were surrounded by Westminster Police. “About time you blokes showed up.”
Officer Willis grumbled. “Have ye seen the creatures crawling all over the doctor’s house?”
“Been drinking again, Willis?” The bobby shook his head. “All’s we’ve seen is a number of busted-out windows. The street’s a right shambles—broken glass and all. We’ll have to cordon off the block—call out the street sweepers, first light.”
“My laboratory.” Exeter started back. Phaeton and America jogged alongside the doctor. When they reached the house, they stopped short. Not a single iridescent creature crawled about the premises. Except for the broken windows, the residence was back to its old self again. Quiet, peaceful, exactly how this posh street of exclusive clubs and stately homes should appear in the wee morning hours.
Phaeton noted Exeter’s furrowed brow and thin-set lips. “What do you make of all this?”
“Whoever or whatever was behind this attack used a strange combination of science and pseudoscience—likely some form of potent energy.”
“Relic dust and champagne. In-between matter. Potent energy.” Phaeton checked a few window boxes for laggards. “One of these days you must school me in the vernacular.”
He sniffed around the service entrance and mews before joining Exeter and America upstairs. At the laboratory entrance, Phaeton could only stand and stare. The workspace looked exactly like one would expect a room to look after being ransacked by a swarm of eight-legged rats. He stepped over piles of debris, and picked his way through shards of glass. “Couldn’t find a single straggler.”
Leafing rapidly through one journal after another, Exeter looked up briefly.
“No permanent damage to your experiments, I hope?”
“I’ve lost several weeks’ work.”
Exeter set down his notes. “As I suspected, they used the rat fiends as a diversion. They were after only one thing.”
A cold spark of trepidation ran up Phaeton’s spine. “What one thing?”
“They’ve taken what is perhaps the most powerful and dangerous object in the world. So powerful, in fact, it was hidden away for nearly two thousand years. You of all people should know of what I speak. The object was given to you as a gift by the consort of the great Anubis, God of the Underworld.”
“Not the orb?” Phaeton snorted a low throaty laugh. “
That
strange egg?”
A glassy-eyed Exeter appeared to be enthralled by the very thought of the odd globe. “Long ago, your gift was known by another name. It was hidden deep inside a Greek
pithos
and guarded by all the evils of the world. When Pandora broke the jar, its powers were released, but for one at the bottom of the vessel.”
“Hope.” Phaeton blinked. “Of course I know the story.”
“And what form might hope take?” A grin edged up the corners of Exeter’s mouth. “An egg is the most primal of all containers—a stone the most impenetrable. Fables and myths were often created around ancient objects of power to obscure their purpose.”
Exeter braced himself against his worktable. “What Qadesh gifted you with was a massive energy source.” Absently, he picked through broken glass beakers. “And now they’ve taken the stone . . .”
“I dislike the term
they,
” Phaeton complained. “It’s not specific enough. Have you an idea who
they
might be?”
Exeter’s stare narrowed. “Gaspar Sinclair would be first on my list of suspects.”
“Mine as well.” Phaeton turned to America. “Are you up for more adventure or shall we drop you at the flat?”
“I’m not tired in the least.” America checked the watch pinned to the waistcoat of her dress. “In fact, I’m more than curious as to what is taking place here in London. Correct me if I’m wrong, doctor, but there appears to be an assortment of horrid creatures about.” An unexpected smile brightened her face. “And I should like to call on Julian Ping—if he’s about.”
Exeter raised a brow and Phaeton stared at her. “Ping told you about Gaspar?”
“Mr. Ping and I got on very well, the night you and the doctor were off at the British Museum after the jackal-head Anubis.”
Phaeton straightened. “Right. Cab’s waiting—shall we go get the damn egg?”
 
Phaeton pulled America onto his lap to make room for the doctor. “Comfortable, darling?” The driver snapped the reins and turned the hansom down Piccadilly, rocking them all side to side. At this rate the trip to Limehouse wouldn’t take long.
“Did you tell the driver to avoid Covent Garden?” America asked.
Exeter slipped his finger into a waistcoat pocket and fished out his watch. “It’s nearly midnight, there won’t be much theater traffic.”
“For argument’s sake”—Phaeton tilted his head—“mind telling me why it’s so important we retain possession of Pandora’s. . . whatever?”
“Shall we give it a nineteenth century moniker—say, Phaeton’s Orb?” Exeter asked.
He glanced out the window. A drizzle of rain caused the paths along Green Park to glisten under lamplight. “I prefer . . . Moonstone.”
“Moonstone.” America echoed in a soft faraway voice.
“Rather romantic of you, Phaeton.” The doctor grinned.
“Bugger off.”
“As long as Miss Jones approves.” Exeter chuckled. “Moonstone it is.”
America nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, it’s a lovely name.”
Phaeton turned to the man sitting beside him on the bench. “You haven’t answered my question.”

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