Esmeralda had encouraged her to borrow a few more furnishings, and she pulled together quite a nice little sitting room. She had also managed to get to the market, stocking the larder with sorely needed staples. Crossing off chores as she went, even the disgusting ones, the list shortened considerably by late afternoon.
He stood in the center of the room, scrutinizing every last detail of her work, but made only a single comment. “It appears you have been busy today, Miss Jones.” He settled into a chair and opened the newspaper.
She jabbed her fists into her sides and bit her lip. Fine. If that was all she got, it would have to be enough. “Do you take a relaxer? Perhaps some sherry or—”
He barely looked up from his article. “Whiskey, neat. A good tumbler full.”
“There’s a wire message for you. Came tucked in the
Times
.” She nodded at the pale yellow envelope that had dropped onto his lap, unnoticed.
America tilted her head and pursed her lips. “I doubt many Scotland Yard detectives receive messages inside their evening paper.”
Phaeton read the wire and returned to the news. “A colleague of mine requests a meeting. Nothing clandestine about it, Miss Jones.”
She exhaled a sigh and pivoted on her heel. Setting several pots of water on to heat, she soon had the copper tub by the stove filled with steaming water. She placed a cake of hard soap and several towels on the kitchen table.
“Your bath is ready, Mr. Black.” She turned to leave the room.
“Stay where you are, miss.” Gingerly, he rose from the deeply cushioned chair. “Went a few too many rounds with Detective Farrell, I’m afraid.” Her drawn brows no doubt signaled confusion. “Pugilism, Miss Jones, at the athletic club.”
“I see, sir.”
With some effort, he stretched himself up to his full height. “A bit stiff, as you can see. You will need to undress me. And give me a bath.”
A slight eye roll accompanied an open mouth. “Are those new duties, sir? They do not appear on the list.”
He stood entirely too close. “You use the word
sir
as though you are prepared to obey me. Are you, Miss Jones?”
She uttered a sigh and removed his jacket and waistcoat. He made only small efforts to help with his disrobing. She pushed braces over broad shoulders and unbuttoned his trousers. Slipping his pants off, she could not help but notice there was also something rather stiff below deck.
It seemed Mr. Black wished to be stimulated, perhaps brought to pleasure. Well, two could play this game.
Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt, making sure her fingernails scratched at the thin undershirt beneath. She removed both and stepped back to admire his chest and arms. They were larger, harder, more defined than she remembered from that morning.
“Your sport does you good, Mr. Black.”
He sucked in air when she reached for the string on his drawers. Gently, purposefully, she worked her palms around his buttocks and slipped off the undergarment.
“I’ll need you to step out of these and into the tub, then.” She looked up to find his eyes fixed on her.
She pressed her lips together to avoid a grin. How easy men were. Give a man a bit of this and that, and he will begin to drool like a hound.
“Too hot?” She poured cool water into the bath to adjust the temperature. The man’s penis jumped and twitched every time she drew near.
Eyes closed, he settled into the bath. With his bare knees out of the water, and his head laid back against the edge of the cooper tub, he looked like a painting she had once admired in Brussels. Such striking masculine repose.
Determined to treat his bath no different from an everyday chore, she scrubbed his shoulders and chest and kneaded arms knotted with muscle fatigue.
She soaped his hair and massaged his temples. He opened his eyes for a moment. “You are a goddess.” She laughed off his adulation and tilted his head back, rinsing him with warm, clean water.
He lifted one leg at a time out of the bath, and she soaped the inside of each thigh, until he groaned.
“Care for a Mandalay foot massage?”
“Please do.” He smiled with closed eyes. “Burma, jewel of the British Raj. You received quite an education in your travels, Miss Jones. Do you speak many languages?”
Both thumbs pressed into the arch of his foot. “Enough to make my way about any port in the world.” She dropped his leg gently back into the water and tapped his knee for the other. “I miss the open sea. Sails snapping with wind. The Orient in my sights and England far behind me.”
The sole of this foot apparently enjoyed her manipulations, for he groaned and mumbled something about divine pleasure.
Each individual toe received a massage, but her mind was off on a voyage. “The warmth of the sun and the taste of brine on my lips.” This time, when he opened his eyes, his gaze moved to her mouth. And she returned his interest. He was a most sensuous man at rest.
She plunged his foot underwater. “Now for the private bits.”
He grinned. “Use your hands and a cake of soap.”
The nasty end of the job took a great deal of her time and attention. Those manly parts had to be soaped and made slippery several times. “Goodness, I believe that needs doing again.”
A gurgling sort of growl rose from deep inside his chest. And when she left him to soak a few minutes, his eyes had gone black and glittered with lust.
She held up a warm bath sheet and wound it carefully around him. His close study, eyes filled with hot-blooded hunger, made her cheeks sear and knees quake. She half-imagined that large phallus rubbing inside her and nearly moaned. “Was your bath satisfactory?” She managed a shy smile.
“Most stimulating, but I cannot claim satisfaction, as yet.” He surveyed her with hooded eyes. “Care to join me in my bed?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I make you tingle, Miss Jones.”
With his hand at her back, he quite purposely steered her down the narrow passage. At the end of the hallway, she turned into her small room.
An iron frame bed, made up with clean bedding, filled a good deal of the space. Bedside, a simple washbasin and pitcher sat on a plain wooden nightstand. Her shabby grey coat hung on a hook attached to the wall.
“I am your servant, not your whore, Mr. Black.” She closed the door.
The door slammed open.
He pressed her against the wall. The towel fell off his body as he wrapped his hand around her waist and yanked her to him. The hardness of him pulsed against her belly as she gasped for air.
His warm breath fanned the heat on her cheeks. “I have kissed your breasts, but it occurs to me I have never kissed you there.”
Chapter Eight
P
HAETON STEPPED OUT OF THE HANSOM
and pitched two bob up to the driver. He was edgy, more so than usual. He ran his fingers over his mouth. His body still burned from her kisses. Not figuratively. Literally. He had gone down hard on her lips, slanting back and forth, insisting she open to him. A brush with the tip of his tongue allowed him entrance and he penetrated deep. Even now, the sweet taste of her made him ache in every part of his lower anatomy. Soft lips surrendered the moment he teased them apart. Her tongue swirled up to greet his and encouraged him to delve deeper.
The woman was a torture to him. How—when, exactly, had this happened?
He had placed both hands on the wall, one above each lovely shoulder, and nipped at a luscious bottom lip, caressing raw flesh with his tongue. “I should be flogged, my dear, for I have wounded you.” Her whispered sigh and moan fully engorged the shaft of his penis. He answered her with a growl that might have come from a den in a wood.
Rallying to his game of kiss and release, she caught the bottom ledge of his mouth between her teeth and tugged. “Exquisitely arousing, Miss Jones.” She spoke in incoherent, musical utterances. And then his name. “Mr. Black?”
“Hmm.” He brushed his mouth gently over hers.
“Please.” Her sweet breath buffeted his face, delicate hands traveled down the flesh of his back, grabbing the muscle of his buttocks. “Yes, my dove?” Shifting her hands to his waist, she shoved him off. “You kiss expertly, Mr. Black.”
“Not quite skillfully enough it seems.”
Their little tête-à-tête had been explosive. Passionate. Like no kiss he ever remembered giving or receiving. Drat, the little minx was going to strain his libido to impossible new heights of discomfort.
What was it about this light brown belle that affected him so? Skin the color of coffee with cream. And that ravishing mouth, plump and inviting. The upper lip’s peaked curvature formed a pout so alluring it distracted him beyond reason.
That she aroused him was a certainty. But her disposition puzzled. She went about her household duties with admirable vigor. He even found her impertinent directness of speech and manner rather refreshing. And it was not as though she didn’t want him. He could feel the heat in her blood, see the wanton way she looked at him. So why such reluctance in matters of intercourse? Considering the way they had begun their acquaintance, her reticence to spread her legs seemed most disingenuous. Unless, of course, she toyed with him.
It really didn’t matter what she was up to; the more he thought about Miss Jones, the more desirous he became. Phaeton exhaled. Just as well he hadn’t bedded her this evening. It would have been a hard slog to leave home with that warm flesh pressed against his body.
He moved quietly into the crisscross of streets between the Strand and the river. Having set to memory every last intersecting byway of Savoy Row, he adjusted comfortably to the lane’s poorly lit surroundings. The buildings, occupied mostly by tradesmen, were related to publishing, stationers, printers, and the like. He stopped at a corner book bindery. The lingering acrid fetor of leather stamping, gilding, and glue pots made his nose twitch.
In the darkness of the alley, he could only approximate an address. He walked around to the side of the building and decided to scale it from there. It was either that, or learn to fly. He pulled himself up onto the top of a large refuse bin, and shimmied up a drainage pipe. Inching upward, he found the occasional jog in the bricks for a toe hold, which greatly advanced his efforts. His fingers shook as he inched them into a mortar crack. The higher he climbed, the more rattled he became. Odd that heights unnerved him. Especially when any number of frightful apparitions had little or no effect.
As he ascended close to the roof edge, a face bobbed into view wearing bloodred goggles. “Mr. Black.”
Losing his grip, he slid downward. Abruptly, his fall was stopped and reversed. Instantly, he was lifted up by a powerful, invisible force, until he stood on the rooftop, facing Dr. Exeter.
He blinked. There remained an odd buzzing noise in his ears, which didn’t help an uneasy stomach as he tried to focus on the sparkle of the Thames drifting behind Exeter’s head.
“How did you do that?”
The stoic man actually flashed a wry grin. “The physics are complicated. Not something I feel inclined to discuss this evening. You require a staggering amount of education, Mr. Black, but we are not here to conduct class in the manipulation of the physical universe.”
The thick spectacles the doctor wore glowed a fuchsia-rose color, swirling into lurid hues of cerise and purple. Phaeton could barely see the man’s eyes behind the tinted glazing. Exeter removed another set of goggles from an inside coat pocket. “We are here to catch a powerful manifestation, an incarnate soul.”
He quirked a brow. “Is she not a vampiress—an Empusa?”
Exeter opened the ear armatures and locked them into place before setting the heavy glasses on the bridge of Phaeton’s nose. “Remember your ancient history, Mr. Black. The immortals have always required blood—in copious amounts.” The doctor scanned the embankment along the river. “London does not currently have a sacrificial temple in which to restore the ichors of the gods. Please correct me if I am wrong.”
As Phaeton’s eyes adjusted to the optics, he noted a shift in the spectrum of moonlight. Reflections of river current, the pale flicker of the gas lamps along the embankment, all glimmered in mysterious brilliant pink tones. “So our Empusa, for we might as well call her that, is forced to stalk the streets, seeking human sacrifice.”
“Replenishment. It is a theory of mine.” Exeter nodded toward the river walk. “These lenses will pick up the slightest illumination. Concentrate your surveillance around Cleopatra’s Needle.”
Phaeton scanned a stretch of Thames behind the needle as he listened to Exeter.
“As you have already witnessed, she travels in a flurry of luminescent particles. I have fashioned these opticals to enhance our abilities. There are often small precursors of essence, before any perceptible occurrence of her.”
The doctor turned to Phaeton. “I felt no presence at Mrs. Parker’s the other evening, but she drew you to her.” Exeter lowered the odd spectacles on his nose and peered over the tops of the lenses. “I suspect she has turned her attention to you, Mr. Black.”
Phaeton grinned. “Jealous?”
Exeter drew slanted brows together. “So carefree and glib, but not for long. You have no idea what you are dealing with—”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Phaeton settled back against a chimney stack. “We have hours yet before dawn.”
The doctor’s gaze continued to narrow. “For my own edification and your safety, a bit about yourself, first. You appear to have contact abilities. Do you see as well as hear them?”
Phaeton nodded his head.
“And when did this all begin for you?”
“As a child I routinely conversed with magical beings. And there were night terrors. Mother understood, even encouraged the parts that didn’t frighten me. Father never approved of her doting.”
The river waters rippled a virulent shade of violet. “When she died, I was packed off to school. To avoid being buggered to death by the older boys, I hid my abilities, tucked them safely away. Gradually, the visitations became less frequent.”
A faint droning noise caused Phaeton to focus on the obelisk. “A swarm of some kind is headed our way.”
“Likely, one of her distractions.” The doctor ran to one end of the building and motioned him to follow. They both ducked as a posse of small objects buzzed overhead. Large eyeballs, framed in black and sharply-pointed on the one end. “All-seeing eyes.”
“With stingers.” Phaeton tracked the buzzing pests back to the swarm. “Rather clever, how she fashions her minions.”
“She knows we’re here. We’ll need to jump to the next building, then the yard below.” From a standstill, Exeter leaped to the roof of the next building.
A swarm of flying orbs bearing knifelike points descended upon Phaeton. The storm cloud of dangerous wasplike creatures encircled him, stabbing from every conceivable angle. He braced himself for a stinging assault, but felt no pain. Phaeton held up a hand and pressed against a thick, invisible barrier. An invisible force field held the prickly monsters at bay.
“Jump, don’t think.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am—” Phaeton dodged several stingers that poked through the membrane. “Damn it, man, I don’t like heights.” Heart racing, palms sweaty, his entire body vibrated with obsessive fear.
“The shield will not hold much longer. Your choice, Mr. Black, you can jump or be ripped to shreds.” Cursing under his breath, Phaeton gritted his teeth. He took a half step back then vaulted over the dark void between buildings. For one long moment, time stood still as he sailed across the divide.
He landed next to the man, who actually chuckled. “A leap of faith by an agent of Scotland Yard. Follow me down to the lane.” Exeter landed neatly on his feet while Phaeton’s fall and subsequent tumble to earth was broken by another unseen shield. Stunned, he lay on the ground for a moment to let his stomach settle.
The doctor shrugged. “It takes practice.”
Phaeton dusted himself off and took the lead. Inching along the rough side of a brick wall, they made excellent progress in the direction of the obelisk. Ivy hung down over a large niche in the barrier. They quickly took refuge behind a curtain of greenery.
Exeter nodded toward a wall fountain which featured the placid, sleeping face of a young goddess. Moss bloomed in the deeper clefts of the sculpture as empty eyes opened and blinked. She opened her mouth but did not speak. Blood gushed out.
They both stepped away.
“Ouch.” An errant eyeball, a scout of some kind, took a stab at Phaeton, and he swung at the nasty pest. A cacophony of cricket sounds indicated the swarm was not far behind.
“Quickly.” As the waspish eyes invaded, the doctor shoved him into the alley. They raced across the lane to the river walk. This time, Exeter signaled him away from the needle. They ran until they stood at the corner of Savoy Row and the Strand. Exhausted and out of breath, they slowed their run to a walk and waited.
“You and I, together, create some kind of magnet. In the future, we will have to make our observations from afar or split apart.”
Phaeton paced in small circles as he sucked in draughts of air. “I take it you plan to locate her hideout and set some kind of a trap?”
Exeter shook his head. “Destroy the lair. She has another located somewhere else in the city.”
“Ah, so one by one, we close in. How many are there?”
“Unsure. Three or four possibly. I destroyed the first.” Phaeton stared. “She’ll just find more.”
“The very reason we have to move swiftly.” Exeter nodded toward the eastern cityscape.
A pale sky streaked with yellow and pink. Charcoal-edged clouds hovered above a row of waterfront buildings. Phaeton exhaled. “Dawn.”
Dr. Exeter turned and walked away, dissolving into the grey mist of early morning. A voice traveled out of the fog. “We must find her hideaway, Mr. Black. Meet me at my laboratory late in the day. 22 Half Moon Street.”
America caught his reflection in the looking glass as the door swung open. Mr. Black stood at the entrance to her room with the back of his hand raised, knuckles turned out, as if he was about to knock.
“Perhaps now you’ll believe me.” She turned around and stuck her chin out. “Doors open around here without the courtesy of a knock, Mr. Black.”
“Most likely fairies.” Eyes half open and shoulders hunched, he leaned against the entry frame. “Pester the devil out of me from time to time. On the subject of minor nuisances ...” He pulled an object out of his pocket, and pinched the quivering oddity between two fingers. “Might we find a cage for this?”
Her eyes grew wider as she approached him. She reached out to touch the queer object and the rabid critter buzzed to life and angled a stinger toward her. She quickly retracted her hand. “Cheeky little pest. What is it?”
“Haven’t a clue. Perhaps, after a good strong breakfast tea, Miss Jones?
At the pantry table, they each held a freshly brewed cup and stared at the little orb fluttering about inside an empty conserve jar. It was an eye all right, encircled by a ring of black, which formed a kind of pincher, or stinger-like shaft, at one end.
Mr. Black slurped a bit of Earl Grey. “We were chased off a rooftop by a swarm of these things.” The irritable orb bounced off every side of the glass container. He picked up the jar and slammed it down, stunning the little fiend.
America tilted her head and leaned closer. “Port Said, in the bazaars. I have seen bejeweled gold pieces for sale with this image. Powerful amulets.” She tilted the jar for a better look.
He stared. “Egyptian?”
She nodded and sat back to sip her tea.
“Keep the kettle hot.” He sprang out of the chair and paused. “And could you possibly make some of those buns of yours, Miss Jones?”