The Seduction of Phaeton Black (33 page)

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Authors: Jillian Stone

BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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Qadesh turned toward their whispered voices. Liquid ebony eyes blinked at the group of men. Her rather stunning breasts were exposed. Round and perfect, nipples raw from the jackal’s love bites. Moore’s jaw dropped sufficiently to please the vain little goddess and her gaze moved on.
“Fay-ton.” She smiled. The sated sort of grin of a well-pleasured woman. “You have returned to me.”
A deep grunt shook the room. Another flash of lightning and rumble of thunder swept through the clouds around their knees. Christ, a man could get electrocuted.
“Qadesh speaks far better English than her husband.”
Anubis yawned, baring long, razor-sharp teeth. The ebony-headed god trained a suspicious eye on Phaeton. After a long, uncomfortable evaluation, the jackal turned to his mistress. A long pink tongue slipped out from between fangs and licked her ear. The gesture was clear. Mine.
Phaeton exhaled. “All right then. Had a good long reunion, I understand. Time to”—he backed away as Anubis stood up (Good God, he was half again the size of a normal man, and that phallus was ready for another go)—“pack it in. Jump in the roomy new sarcophagus for the trip home.”
Qadesh propped herself up on an elbow. “Fay-ton, you promise to return us to Kemet?”
Stickles dipped closer. “The ancients referred to Egypt as the black land—Kemet. Scholars believe the name references the fertile dark soil deposited along the Nile.”
“No time like the present for a history lesson.” With a sudden clarity, Phaeton realized, much to his surprise, the two gods appeared ready to go. He bowed deeply to Qadesh. “You have my word, Your Grace.”
Lighter than air, Qadesh slid off the top of the crypt and approached him. “You have returned my husband to me.” The stunning, nude goddess pressed against him and spoke softly.
Phaeton took in ruby lips and kohl-black eyes. Yes. A man felt increasingly virile around such a fertile goddess. “I would not have hurt your woman.”
He raised a brow. “Truly?”
Her eyes shifted away and back. The crafty minx evaded the question and smiled brightly. “I leave you a gift, Fay-ton. Entrust its power only to those who would never abuse it.”
Odd request, coming from a goddess who had wrecked vicious havoc all over the row streets of London. Qadesh stepped back, and joined her husband. “We are ready.”
“Right.” Phaeton turned to Exeter. “Might we clear the commons of all unnecessary personnel?”
“I don’t believe we need to worry about such details.”
A glow of light surrounded the two gods and in a sudden burst of fire and light, they disappeared entirely.
“Shall we check the sarcophagus?” Exeter headed for the exit.
They marched out into the lane of crypts and peered into the coffin. “There they are.” Huddled together on a pocket of sand in the corner of the reliquary were two small, doll-like figures. He sighed. So the gods trembled as well.
Phaeton heard an orchestra in his head. Strains of
Aida
thrummed in his brain, loud enough that he was quite sure that everyone on Egyptian Avenue could hear the mournful notes of the aria.
Phaeton shared the far-off look in Exeter’s eyes. Yes. He was quite sure the doctor heard the same refrains. The end of act four, Radames is sealed in a vault with Aida.
La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse.
Phaeton whispered the familiar words, “ ‘The fatal stone now closes over me.
Morir! Si pura e bella
.’ ”
The doctor moved to one end of the sarcophagus and positioned himself to slide the coffin lid in place. “Gentlemen?” Ceremoniously, they lifted the heavy cover and closed off the stone reliquary. He glanced around at the men surrounding the sarcophagus. Dear God, Stickles looked as though he might shed a tear. Phaeton brushed off his hands.
The aria spoke of death, he mused, but these gods were quite content to rest through the centuries. Perhaps they waited for a time to come, a world they could reign—with a people to worship them. “Mr. Stickles.” Phaeton modified the aria’s lyrics. “Shall we pray the gods ‘
rest
, so pure and simple?’ ” He smiled at the wizened old curator.
“Phaeton. You might have a look at this.” Moore struggled over boulders of displaced stone and waved them over. Likely too stunned to move, the inspector hadn’t left the crypt until now. Something must have prompted him to exit in a hurry.
Exeter and Stickles walked Phaeton back into the remains of the mausoleum. Until this moment he had not thought much about the poor chap that lay buried inside the stately family repository struck down by the gods.
A single shaft of light illuminated an object so unusual, it stopped all three men dead in their tracks. Something the size of a melon sat atop of the stone coffin in the middle of the room.
An orb as black as ebony, polished to a deep sheen. The surface appeared both opaque and transparent at once. There was some sort of glow from within—and heat. Phaeton leaned in for closer look, and felt the warmth on his cheek. Something shivered inside. A sparkling, fizzy sort of energy. The kind of essence Ping referred to as relic dust and champagne.
“Good God, it’s an egg.”
Chapter Thirty-three
“W
HAT IS IT
, P
HAETON
?” America stared at the dark orb with the strange inner glow on the pantry table.
He glowered at the mysterious ebony object and sighed. “Some sort of devil’s spawn, Miss Jones.”
She crept forward. “Is it dangerous?”
“I don’t believe so.” He lifted a good tumbler full of whiskey. “Not at the moment anyway.” After a deep swallow he moved a lazy gaze over her. “One of your new gowns, is it? What color is that exactly?”
“Bleuet.” She smiled. “Cornflower blue.” But then, he didn’t really care to know.
Another gulp of whiskey. “I understand you have accepted the British Museum’s offer.”
“Yes.” She nodded, gauging his reaction, a flash of concern beneath hooded eyes. “I surmise Scotland Yard—”
“Wants the case closed and swept away. In this case as far as Cairo.”
She nodded. “Alexandria, actually.” Awkward small talk made her nervous.
He popped the cork on the bottle. “Care to join?”
She could use a drink right about now. “Yes, I believe I will.” America sat down across the table.
“I’ve never seen you drink anything stronger than bitters, Miss Jones. Need a good jolt of whiskey to gather your courage?” Phaeton stepped into the pantry and opened a cabinet. He shooed the familiar grey gargoyle over and rummaged for a glass.
Edvar whimpered.
“Does ... he need feeding or something?”
“He is not a pet; he’s a demon. It is my greatest wish he might one day turn to stone and be mounted on an unoccupied parapet of Nôtre Dame.”
“Don’t listen to him, Edvar, he’s quite fond of you. He just pretends not to care.” She drilled into the back of his head with her stare. “Like anyone or anything that gets uncomfortably close. Isn’t that right, Phaeton?”
He swung around. “Actually, he’s rather distraught you are leaving us, Miss Jones.”
She would miss the irascible, meddling little monster. Perhaps, both.
He set down a clean tumbler and poured her a drink. “Shall we have a toast?”
“We sail on the afternoon tide, tomorrow.”
“Ah.” Phaeton settled into his chair before meeting her gaze. “Then we need a seaworthy farewell.” He lifted a brow and his glass. “To—?”
“To the wind that blows, the ship that goes, and the lass that loves a sailor.” America clinked her glass against his. “Come with me, Phaeton.”
“I’m no sailor.” His eyes never left hers as he took a swallow. He slapped his empty glass on the table. “Stay.”
She sighed. “I have been offered a lucrative cargo. And I suspect you were behind the offer. Convenient way to send me off.”
“I only heard of it yesterday.” Phaeton gasped out a laugh. “Besides, I thought you wished to captain the
Topaz
. Get the business flourishing once again.”
She turned the near empty glass of whiskey in her hand. “No man will ever love me the way you do.” She could not quite believe she had blurted out the words. Her cheeks flushed with heat.
Phaeton blinked. Gingerly, he picked up the bottle and poured them each another glass.
“Of course, you mean the moaning kind of love.” Leaning back in his chair, he scratched his head. “You are a wanton strumpet, a women of great courage and loyalty. What more could any man ever ask for?” He tilted his chair back and threw up his hands. “Why do women not understand they hold all the power? You will find any man a quick study for a taste of heaven, my dove. That lovely sheath of yours is a temple, teach him how to worship.”
She rolled her eyes and bit her lip. “What will become of us?”
“You will return to your shipping business and I will, doubtless, muddle on. Solve the occasional odd crime of an occult nature.”
She shifted her gaze away. “So, you really don’t love me.”
“You and I don’t believe in love.”
“I don’t understand.” All her lip chewing did nothing to assuage her confusion. “There were so many proofs of love.”
“Proofs? What proofs?” Brows raised, he appeared genuinely surprised.
“I hardly know where to begin.” Nervously, she pressed lips together to moisten them. “From the very beginning, actually. That first night in the row, when you saved me from Yanky Willem’s men.”
“As I recall, the pleasure was all mine.” She expected a grin to punctuate the remark. Yes, there it was, right on cue, but this time, something darker veiled his eyes.
“You found the night shelter and offered me work.”
“A lapse in judgment.”
“All right, let’s call them small proofs, then.” She twisted up a wry pout. “And what about that shopping trip and all those lovely clothes you purchased?”
“You owe me six hundred and seventy-five pounds.”
“I owe you a great deal more than that, Phaeton.”
He shrugged. “After a few profitable voyages you can look me up and repay the loan.”
A scowl formed at the edges of her mouth. “You were nearly killed chasing after pirates on my behalf. Twice.”
He ignored his empty glass and swigged directly from the bottle.
“Whether you care or not, you are a hero, Phaeton.”
“I’m uncomfortable with the term, Miss Jones. It comes with expectations.”
She picked up her glass and tossed the hot burning liquid down her throat. “There are more proofs—” She gasped, nearly choking on whiskey fumes.
“I had no idea you were counting.”
“You rescued me from Qadesh.”
He tilted his chair back. “I’d call us even on that score. You even donated blood to my cause. I’m afraid we cancel each other out.”
America smiled. “And what about Mrs. Horsley?”
“The pompous boardinghouse matron?” His incredulous look was almost comical.
“You didn’t have to torture her, Phaeton.”
“She was a cunt.”
She stabbed him with a look. “Nasty word.”
“Nasty woman.”
She sighed. “Yes, she was.” A smile might have tipped the edges of her mouth. “You distracted the pirates so both Inspector Moore and I could get away.”
“A fluke of luck.”
“You walked the plank for it.”
“Got keel hauled, as well.” Phaeton leaned forward, returning all four legs of his chair to the floor. “We’ve been over this—”
“You taught me how to experience pleasure.”
He took his time answering, his smile uneven. “Lust, Miss Jones. No proof of love.” He corked the bottle and returned the whiskey to the pantry cabinet.
Her heart sank. She was so sure he cared. And her father was almost never wrong about these things regarding men’s odd behaviors. Something had to have happened to change him into such a cool character. “Phaeton.” She looked up. “All those monsters you confronted as a child.”
“What about them, my dear?”
“It must have been quite horrifying, at such an impressionable age, to discover your night terrors were real ...” She drifted off, hardly able to complete the thought.
“Quite beyond the pale, Miss Jones, to wake up with a succubus on my chest, attempting to suck the life from my body.” He stood behind her chair and nuzzled her neck. “Checking under the bed for ogres and finding one.”
A tingle of arousal and horror shivered down her spine. She closed her eyes and pictured a frightened young boy and a fragile, clairvoyant mother whose soul departed this world, leaving her small, defenseless son behind to fend for himself.
He spoke softly in her ear. “I think you should leave before I carry you to my bed and beg you to abuse me.”
In the deepest reaches of her soul, she knew she was close to unlocking his heart. Why else was he asking her to leave? She lowered her eyes and shifted gently into a trance, reaching out to connect with his secrets. “You lost your
maman
, your only defender, but there was another female—” A flash of terror, as the devil’s red eyes pierced the veil. A horned creature with the cloven hooves and the legs of a beast, strode toward a terrified girl. “There was a young woman—when you were in still in school.”
He stepped away from her.
America stood up and whirled around. “I saw a young lady. She trembled with fear. What happened to her?”
She held her breath as he paced the floor. Rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder, he vigorously rubbed the back of his neck. He pivoted midstride and returned her gaze with a glower. “You don’t really want to hear this.”
“Yes, Phaeton. I do.” She set her chin.
“Georgette Pfeiffer. Thought I was in love with a professor’s daughter at Cambridge. One night on our way home from a social, we stopped off at a pub. I was attacked by something large and hulking, and we were both dragged into a back alley. Exeter rescued us from Beelzebub or whatever the hell it was.”
She knitted her brows. “Doctor Exeter?”
Phaeton shrugged. “Destined to keep crossing paths with the man. I suppose he was there adding letters to his numerous degrees; I don’t know.”
“Does this happen often, Phaeton? Monsters popping out of bushes, bent on mayhem?”
“Often enough.” The cocky grin was replaced by something more wistful. “Sometimes they carry knives and demand I mount them against a wall.”
She ignored his reference to her behavior in the alley. “And Miss Pfeiffer?”
“Unhappily married to a linguistics instructor.” His mouth settled into a grim line. “The night of the attack, Exeter managed to pull me away. She took the brunt of it. Torn clothes. Terrible claw marks on her flesh. Left her soaked in blood.”
America’s knees wavered.
“Occasionally I get a wire. ‘Come quickly, Phaeton.’ Georgette has become a presage. She has quite dazzling dreams and terrifying possessions. l am the only one who can talk her off the ceiling.” He shrugged. “Could be worse, she could have ended up in Bedlam. Living in chains, taking the ice bath cure.”
He rubbed his face, scratching day-old stubble. “Have you ever been submerged into ice water? Feels like a million tiny needles stabbing at your flesh.” The set of his mouth was pained, rueful. “Calms the terrors.”
She tried to focus on the enchanted young woman rather than the fear that trickled into her heart. Horrified and close to tears, she needed to either cry or scream. Perhaps both. “I take it you fight shy of women now. Other than the occasional doxy, to trim the sails.”
“I stay away from attachments of any sort, male or female. Surely you can see what happens to people around me? I place all of you in jeopardy of your lives.” He seemed to tower over her. “Do not push me any further on the subject.”
Like an errant, uncoiled bedspring, her patience unraveled along with her temper. “You will die a wizened, lonely old man, Phaeton Black, without a single grandchild to bounce on your knee.”
He took her by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled. “Exactly right, Miss Jones. Why would I want to put my children through the same kinds of terrors I experienced? Imagine your worst nightmare come alive in the nursery.”
Stunned, she blinked at him. “But this time, they might have two parents to watch over them.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed, darkened. “You’re sure?”
She sighed. “I just meant to imply—if, you and I, were to have children—”
“You just assured me we are not.”
Her lower lip quivered. “We are not.”
She had finally needled him straight over the edge. With his secrets shattered and his guard down, his temper was now free to rage. She braced herself for further assault, but he backed off, flexing fingers that had dug through jacket and dress to bruise the flesh of her shoulders. “For the last time, I beg you to leave, Miss Jones.”
The silence, the stillness, finally became unbearable. “Good-bye, Phaeton.”
She managed a shaky climb up the stairs and a dazed walk out of the house. Even with her vision somewhat impaired, she found Charing Cross Road and waited for a ride.
“Cab’s empty, miss.”
She hardly noticed the hansom stopped at the corner. “So it is.”
The driver jumped down and opened the door. “Miss?” The man’s face was a blur. “Is there something the matter, miss? You look like you’ve lost yer best friend in the world.”
America sniffed and climbed in. “Hardly a friend.”
Phaeton Black was so much more than that. But a person cannot be brought to love by force or other device. Even a strong heart like Phaeton’s, darkened by years of terror, was likely damaged beyond repair. As the carriage lurched off, the jolt shook the first tear from her eyes.

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