The Moonstone and Miss Jones (8 page)

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Authors: Jillian Stone

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BOOK: The Moonstone and Miss Jones
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Chapter Nine
 
P
HAETON WAS PLEASED TO SEE
a comfortable-looking carriage waiting in the yard outside Pennyfields. Cutter jumped on back, taking the footman’s station, while Ruby climbed up beside the driver.
Ping handed America inside the large town coach and turned to him. “Behind the boxwood planter.” Almond-shaped, mercury eyes caught a flicker of gaslight. “He’s asked for a minute of your time, Phaeton.”
He made his way over to the tall, imposing man in the shadows. “Zander Farrell—I might have known Scotland Yard would be curious.”
“Secret Branch is more than curious.” Zander stepped forward. “I had no idea you were back in town.”
Phaeton eyeballed the two officers standing behind the detective. “I arrived just this morning—was I supposed to check in with you?”
Zander sent the two men farther down the alley. “I’m told there was quite a breach of the peace in the Silver Lion this evening. Care to tell me about it?”
He saw no reason to obfuscate. “It seems I have a role to play here in London—not particularly pleased about it.”
A gust of cold mist swirled into the lane and settled along the pavers. Likely wisps of fog, but then one could never be sure. Zander turned up his coat collar. “Mysterious goings on since you’ve been gone, Phaeton.”
The understatement caused a grin. “So I’ve heard.”
“Like to tell us about it, say—in Chilcott’s office?”
Phaeton backed away. “Two o’clock, tomorrow afternoon.” He climbed into the carriage and settled himself cozily between America and Valentine. As the carriage lurched off, Captain Blood took one side of the carriage, while his female cohort watched the other. Not wishing to distract them from their duties, Phaeton settled his gaze on Doctor Exeter. At Pennyfields tonight he had been uncharacteristically taciturn and appeared inordinately preoccupied. “Esmeralda is worried about you.”
Exeter shifted his gaze away and back. “There was an incident at University—something of an occult nature took place near the house where Mia is boarding. Whatever happened frightened her terribly.”
Exeter spoke of his ward, a very lovely young lady who was off attending lectures at Oxford. “What kind of incident?”
“She won’t speak much about it, but suffice to say, what appears to have happened is so unlike Mia, I am at a loss as to how to help her.” Exeter’s expression was grim.
“Might I be of assistance?” America edged forward on the seat. “Mia and I got on well together at Roos House.”
Exeter blinked several times before a wave of relief shone in his eyes. “I would be very much indebted to you, Miss Jones. She has decided to take a break from her curriculum and will return home by week’s end.”
“America and I shall pop by for a visit. You and I will slip away, some sort of errand—leave the ladies to their heart-to-heart. We might pay Lovecraft a visit—something bruising and informal.” The mere mention of the inventor’s name brought Captain Blood’s attention back inside the cabin.
Phaeton met the captain’s gaze. “What? Can I not have a private conversation—”
“Nothing is private,” Blood bluntly interrupted, “not if you want to live.”
Even as he narrowed his eyes, Phaeton stifled a yawn. He looked forward to being back in the flat with America alone. He did not relish the thought of these large hooded sentinels posted about the brothel or the flat. On the other hand, he would sleep easier knowing they were on watch.
“You realize my flat is situated below a brothel—you can’t go barging in there wielding swords.”
“I expect the ladies are used to men flashing swords.” Blood’s gaze moved to Valentine. “This is likely to be a withering change from the nunnery.”
The lady raised a brow. “Because I come from a convent you think I am easily shocked.” Her gaze locked with Blood’s. “Women in service to their benefactor—providing a path to heaven . . . ?”
America nudged Phaeton. “I like her.”
Outside 21 Shaftesbury Court, Jersey Blood assigned Cutter and Valentine to the flat. “Ruby and I will see Doctor Exeter to the residence on Half Moon Street. Depending on how secure he is, either one or both of us will return here to guard the upper floor and roof.”
It was obvious he and America were considered targets of value by Gaspar and his band of Japan-trained stealth warriors. They’d received an impressive demonstration of stealth, and seen something of their weaponry—but the warrior part? Time would tell, he supposed.
Inside the house, Esmeralda appeared to be in excellent spirits, especially after he conveyed a rather sweet message from Exeter. Phaeton introduced his guests. “Gaspar calls them Nightshades.” Phaeton sighed. “It seems London is in need of rescuing and America and I require protection.”
Esmeralda gave the hooded guards an interested once-over and turned to Phaeton, “Would that be Gaspar Sinclair?”
Momentarily stunned, Phaeton nodded. “That name—the one you just spoke. Pretend you never heard it.” By the look on Esmeralda’s face, she knew Gaspar all right—in the naked, rolling around under the sheets, biblical sense of the word. He cleared his throat. “I promise you won’t know they’re around.”
In answer to Phaeton’s pledge, Cutter faded into the staircase banister and Valentine merged into the flock-work wallpaper pattern. “My word.” Esmeralda gasp was more of a whisper. Both Nightshades reappeared. “I might like to borrow one of those cloaks.” The madam rolled a pocket door closed with a wink. “Do a bit of checking up on the girls.”
Phaeton gestured downstairs. “After you, ladies.”
The moment Cutter and Valentine entered the flat they spread out and checked every room, closet, and window for the dregs and other lurkers. Phaeton stoked the stove, and helped America put on several pots of water. “I want a bath and bed—in that order.” A lovely sigh escaped her lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled the sensitive spot behind her ear. “And if I bathe the pretty lady, what favors might I receive in return?”
America leaned against his chest. “Will there be a back scrub?”
“With a Turkish towel,” he murmured.
“Heels and toes?”
“I think I can do a fair approximation of a Mandalay foot massage.”
“Help me get the tub.” America opened the pantry closet and Phaeton pulled out the copper bath. He glanced at their new roommates. “America is going to have a bath and I plan to wash up as well.” He pointed to the overstuffed chair. “She can stay,” Phaeton said, then pivoted toward Cutter. “You station yourself above the flat.”
“Upstairs? With the doxies?” Though he couldn’t see Cutter’s expression, the faint whirs and clicks picked up tempo. The strapping lad backed away and climbed the stairs.
Valentine called after him, “Take care you don’t catch the pox.”
“What me? Hardly a chance of that, Miss Smyth with a y.” Cutter’s rasp was more of whisper.
The female Nightshade’s gaze followed him up a few steps. “The balmy machine head doesn’t know how utterly irresistible he is.”
“I find I am drawn to Cutter in spite of the mask.” America grunted as she helped Phaeton position the tub near the stove.
“His body has healed—but not his pride.” Valentine sighed. She sank into the comfortable overstuffed chair and put her feet up on the nearby stool. “I sense apparitions—female energy.”
America turned so Phaeton could unbutton her dress. “Phaeton claims an entire family has been following him about.”
Phaeton folded her dress over the back of the chair and unbuckled her bustle. “Succubi. Three daughters—each one a siren in her own right. And a mother and father.”
Valentine snorted softly. “Do succubi often travel with chaperones ?”
“These do.” Phaeton held onto America as she stepped out of her petticoats.
Valentine’s gaze moved to the side table by the chaise. “And the gray creature in the corner who follows you about everywhere ?”
America poured two large kettles of warm water into the tub, adding room temperature water until the bath was comfortable. “That would be Edvar—he’s Phaeton’s. I like to think of the two as a boy and his dog.” America smiled at the gargoyle. “I’ve grown quite fond of him, myself.” Her travel bag sat on the seat of a kitchen chair. She opened it, removed a flagon from the satchel, and poured a few drops of its contents into the steaming water.
“Mmm, oil of lavender and rosemary.” Valentine inhaled deeply, then rose from her chair. “I believe I’ll join Cutter . . . for a while.” She climbed the stairs.
“I was rather hoping for a bit of trim with a nun looking on—or even better, a
ménage
à
trois
.” Phaeton stood by the bath with a towel and cake of soap, unable to take his eyes off America. She removed her camisole and pantalettes, and leaned over the tub mixing the oils into the bathwater. The sight of her nude form was breathtaking in the flickering gaslight. His gaze moved over the exquisite curve that ran along the back of her thigh, up over smooth, rounded buttocks.
He caught the prettiest, stolen glance from her. A narrowed eye and the dimple of a smile she held back. “You’re staring at my bottom,
Mr. Ménage
.”
“Yes, I believe I am.” Phaeton thought she had never looked lovelier. “I daresay you have filled out in some wonderful places these past few months apart.” Phaeton walked up behind her, cupping both his hands on the roundness of her buttocks and then moving them over her hips and belly. “There is something voluptuously curvy about you.”
She responded by leaning back against him and wrapping her arms around them both. His skilled fingers ran down her rounded belly into the soft curls below. He waited for her quiver.
“You’re tingling, Miss Jones.” She took both his hands up to her breasts and he felt her knees buckle. Holding her tight with one arm while his free hand massaged a nipple, he whispered senseless utterances of desire, including lewd, indecent promises to endlessly arouse her.
“Goodness, do you think we can both fit in the tub?” America unbuttoned his waistcoat then backed away to watch him shed his clothes.
Phaeton stepped into the bath and pulled her between his legs. She settled back against his chest, with her knees in the air. “There is something wonderful about being naked with you in a hot bath filled with fragrant oils and soap bubbles. Luckily for us, you’re flexible.”
“I believe I was promised a back scrub?” She handed off a cake of soap and cloth, and he worked carefully over her anatomy starting with those firm, plump breasts. He made them slippery with soap and tweaked her nipples until they were hard and erect and she wriggled her bottom against his cock.
“Phaeton?”
“Hmm?” He kissed her shoulder.
“I believe you about being shanghaied in Shanghai.”
“Is that so?” He moved up her neck to nibble an earlobe.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “I have missed your kisses.” She ran a finger over full moist lips. “Here.” She continued down her torso until the finger disappeared under milky bath water. “And here.” Angling her head, she looked up at him. Her eyelids were heavy and sensuous and she opened her mouth just enough to send his ever raucous penis thumping against her bottom.
Phaeton smiled. “And might this kiss involve my tongue?” Gently, he tugged on her nipples. “So clever and talented,” she moaned the words.
It was her throaty sigh that did it. He pulled America out of the tub and watched sudsy rivulets of water meander down her torso. He’d missed her nude body—the shape, the feel of her— just to touch her caused his cock to harden painfully. He hadn’t seen her this way in months, yet he remembered every curve—in particular those plump breasts with high set nipples. “Hold still.” He rubbed the bath sheet over every inch of her then wrapped her in the towel and carried her down the hallway. “Get the knob, darling?”
“The knob tickling my bum or the one on the door?” The little minx referred to his twitching member. Her eyes gleamed with mischief and something akin to lust.
Phaeton narrowed his gaze. “Careful, young lady. As I recall, your bottom turns a lovely shade of pink under my hand.”
She reached out and opened the door to his bedroom, and he lay her out on top of the coverlet—all tawny skin and round curves. With the ducal cock ready for penetration, he crawled over her. “Shall I make you whimper or scream in ecstasy?”
“Must I have one without the other?”
Using a fingertip he stroked softly along her inner folds. Barely rubbing—circling the place that made her shiver and arch upward, she thrust her breasts toward his mouth. Dipping his head, he was happy to nibble. Intimately acquainted with the place that made her writhe with pleasure, he used two fingers and circled gently.
“Yes?”
“Oh, yes.”
A flood of slippery arousal invited his fingers deeper, but he stayed light and played at the edges of her opening, leaving his thumb to circle and tease. Her thighs and belly trembled as her arousal climbed to yet another level. “
Mon Dieu, mon Dieu
,
je suis excité pour vous
—
n’ arrêtez pas
, Phaeton.” French, whispered in a husky voice, was America’s code for “I am close—whatever you do, do not stop. If you stop I might have to kill you.”

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