She steeped a second pot and set about making a bit of breakfast. When her employer returned from upstairs, he carried under his arm a number of tomes on Ancient Egypt borrowed from Mrs. Parker’s library. Combing through the illustrated books, they were able to decipher the symbology of the eye of Horus.
Mr. Black sliced through a rasher of bacon. “Horus’ eye was shattered into six pieces, each representing one of the senses ...”
As he read, America opened the last book in the stack. After a brief perusal of the illustrations, heat rushed from her belly to her cheeks. She clapped the book shut.
Her employer popped a last morsel of buttered bun into his mouth. The man could grin and chew at the same time. “Mrs. Parker has quite a collection of erotica. I brought that down for you, Miss Jones. ’Tis your reward for recognizing this Egyptian Horus fellow.”
Damn the man for smiling that twinkly grin at her. She bit back a flirtatious repartee.
“A reward for me, Mr. Black. Are you quite sure? The book is filled with lewd pictures. I have no interest in pornography.”
“Then perhaps, you might consider another reward.” He studied her, anticipating, assessing her interest in his next offer. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a card. “Yesterday morning, I had a brief discussion with this gentleman at headquarters.”
The calling card stated Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard, 4 Whitehall Place, and the name Dexter Ambrose Moore.
“It seems Dex is working on a case involving an outbreak of unusual thievery. Merchant ships, stolen by pirates, of all things.” He winked.
America sprung to her feet and kissed his neck and cheek. He turned his face toward the warmth of her lips. “No need to wire. He will be expecting a Miss Jones.”
She held the card close against her bosom. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Black.”
“You have the afternoon off.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Run along, then. I am perfectly capable of washing a few breakfast dishes.”
She emerged from her room wearing a pretty dress and coat, which caused him to turn away from his chores and stare.
“Very charming.”
“Borrowed from Lizzie. I sat a few hours with her yesterday, at her bedside. Mrs. Parker says she is greatly improved.”
He soaped a teacup. “I don’t recall that chore on your list.”
“You specifically stated ...” America lifted her apron off the chair back and found the folded note paper. “Right here, Mr. Black. ‘If you complete this list, do not hesitate to be of service to Mrs. Parker.’ ” She could not ignore the stack of dripping dishes. “Would you like me to finish up or may I leave now?”
“Watch yourself around Dexter Moore,” he grumbled. “Comes off as quite the proper gentleman, but I have witnessed a kind of rampant sexual athleticism ...” Phaeton clamped his mouth his shut. “Just be warned.”
She nodded a quick curtsy.
“And, Miss Jones.”
She turned back. “Yes, Mr. Black.”
Drying his hands with a dishcloth, he circled around her. “In the next day or two, I expect you to pick out one of the delightful poses from the
Kama Sutra,
and I shall endeavor to please you.” He leaned over her shoulder and kissed the exact spot on her neck that made her shiver.
Chapter Nine
A
MERICA ENTERED AN OFFICE THAT CONTAINED TWO DESKS
.
The secretary nodded to a chair. “On the left, Miss. Agent Moore will be here shortly.”
She took a seat and perused the orderly landscape of the desktop. A neat stack of files sat to one side of an otherwise spotless, gleaming wood surface. She noted a blotter and pen set. The ink bottle was adorned with an engraved sterling silver stopper. Certainly not government issue.
She glanced at the disarray across the room. A messy desk indicated an agent who was busy in the field. A man of action, or just disorganized? She scanned the pristine surface of the desk close to her. A man who was conscientious and meticulous? She hoped so.
“Good afternoon.”
She shifted in her seat to catch the back side of a reasonably tall, dark-haired man as he adjusted the door to the office. For the sake of decency, he left the door ajar.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his collar points high and cravat slim, the man was the very picture of fashionable. He straightened an otherwise perfect stack of files and twisted a gold cufflink at each wrist before sitting down.
“There now, how can I help you, Miss Jones?”
America tilted her head. Agent Dexter Ambrose Moore was attractive. A shock of black hair fell over his forehead, which might have given him a less imposing, youthful appearance were it not for the neatly trimmed beard that emphasized the man’s best feature. Sparkling sapphire eyes framed by long velvet black eyelashes. Really quite dashing.
She cleared her throat. “Less than a year ago, my father owned a small fleet of merchant vessels and a thriving trading company. In rapid succession, several of his best, single-stack ships were lost at sea, along with their cargo. It was a devastating blow to the business.” Her voice trembled as the words tumbled out. “Then one of his business associates claimed the remainder of his fleet as repayment of debt. One blow after another was too much. My father died recently, in November.”
“Very sorry for your loss, Miss Jones.” He appeared reasonably sincere in his condolence, though perfunctory. All business, this one.
“Those ships weren’t lost at sea. They were stolen.” She raised her chin. “At the moment, I have no proof of thievery. But I shall not rest until I catch whoever did this and make them pay. Bloody pirates.” She supposed the upturn at the edges of his mouth indicated he was at least listening to her. The agent opened a desk drawer and took out several sheets of a paper. From inside his jacket pocket, he removed a fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and shook it down.
“Your father’s name, the name of his business and his investors?”
“Charles Gardiner Jones. Star of India Trading & Shipping Limited.”
“British Registry?”
“All five ships.”
He glanced upward as he scratched names onto paper. “Might the name of your father’s business partner be either a Mr. Harry Poole or Captain Yanky Willem?”
Her heart flip-flopped inside her chest. “You know of Yanky Willem?”
“I hope to find the scoundrel a new home, preferably a cell in Newgate.” He pulled a file off the top of the stack and flipped it open.
He smiled at her. “With your assistance, Miss Jones, perhaps we can expedite his change of residence.”
“I’d like nothing more than to see a rope around his neck.” She answered his raise of brow with one of her own. “The man can go straight to Hades.”
“That would be a miserable change of address, wot?” A chestnut haired man stood in the doorway wearing a pleasant grin. “Sorry to disturb. I’ll just collect a few files and work in the next office.”
“Hold on, Gabe. Midway to his desk, the affable gent pivoted toward them. “Gabriel Sterling may I introduce Miss Jones.” The slightest ring of acrimony edged Mr. Moore’s voice.
She held out her hand. “America Jones, pleased to meet you.”
“Miss Jones.” He studied her for a moment. “You are American, then?”
“My late father, recently passed, was a British citizen. My mother is American.” Both men stared at her, unwilling to ask the most obvious question. Brits could be annoyingly civil. She sighed. “My skin color and curls come from my grandmother, a freed slave, Mr. Lewis. My
Français
grandfather owned cotton plantations.”
She looked from one frozen half smile to the other. “I am known as a high yellow Cajun in Louisiana.”
“In England we would just call you beautiful.” The one with the messy desk certainly had his appeal. “Would we not, Dex?”
Detective Moore sputtered out his agreement.
America studied the more punctilious man. “I find it peculiar, Mr. Moore, that you never met with my father regarding the piracy of his ships. As I recall, he made several trips to Number 4 Whitehall to report his suspicions.”
Moore flipped through a number of files. “There are no records of any interviews, but then I recently took over this investigation.” A hardened expression turned vulnerable as he met her gaze. “The agent working on this case went missing months ago, Miss Jones. He is presumed dead.”
Phaeton stepped off the train and onto the platform. An engraved placard of a hand with an outstretched index finger pointed the way toward the Underground lift.
P-s-s-st.
A draft of steam and a gust of wind whipped through the station. Phaeton glanced over his shoulder as he followed foot traffic up a narrow tunnel plastered with handbills.
A prickly, spine-tingling sensation coursed down his spine as he became aware of a figure trailing behind him. Pivoting on his heel, he swung around to confront—nothing. He scanned the station searching through the crowd of commuters. Imaginary? He thought not; he sensed something, someone.
“Phaeton.”
There, in the corner, a slender man dressed in black emerged from the shadows to stand beside a match peddler. Julian Ping.
Phaeton dodged a few bustling pedestrians. “Hello, Ping. Thought we were to meet in the park.”
“Turned out to be a lovely day topside.” With the dark spectacles off, one could plainly see why the young man needed protection from the sun. “Easier this way. No need to cover up.” Pale skin, silver eyes, nearly colorless, even in the dim light of the tube station. Exotic, liquid mercury orbs framed by dark lashes. Sable hair, pulled straight back and clasped tightly at the back of the head. No. Ping was decidedly not albino. He was ...
“Immortal, potent energy.”
Phaeton leaned closer.
“No ordinary fiend is stalking the Strand. You are dealing with the remnants of a divine being’s corpse. Relic dust and champagne.”
He cocked his head and squinted. “Sorry. Did you say relic dust and champagne?”
“In-between matter. To the naked eye, one sees nothing but darkness. The substance, in-between other substance.” Ping raised both hands and bounced a small, sparkling ball of violet energy between his palms. “But in a vision, she leaves a trace of sparkling effervescence.”
“Yes, I believe I have a bit of in-between matter in this satchel.” Phaeton lifted the bag.
Ping closed his hands in prayer, and lowered his voice. “Gods, reanimated. An ancient form newly risen, with hardly any control.” The wan young fellow backed away.
He considered the message. “Thank you, Julian—oh yes, and Jin.” He tipped his bowler. “So much simpler to call you Ping. Where is she today?”
Ping tilted his chin and swept a leisurely glance up his body. “Aroused, as usual, to see you, Phaeton.” The young man drifted close, then angled away.
He rolled his eyes and called after the solitary figure. “Not Jin—the immortal she-devil.”
An echo of feminine, flirty voice trailed after Ping as he headed back toward the platform. “Be careful, love.”
Phaeton exited the tube station at Hyde Park corner and walked a few blocks to the tony Mayfair address of Dr. Exeter’s laboratory. Half Moon Street turned out to be a charming block of elegant townhomes. The absolute reverse of any residence he might have imagined the doctor would occupy. The austere, greystone Gothic manse he had pictured in his mind’s eye turned out to be a pristine white terrace house featuring elegant columns that supported a covered portico entry.
As he reached the top step, he noted tall palladium windows. A row of flower boxes beneath the sills sent up the first green shoots of spring’s hardiest flower, the daffodil.
Before he could lift the door knocker, a stunningly attractive young lady opened the door. She wore a school uniform and a smile.
Dr. Jason Exeter, it seemed, attracted a number of lovely ladies. And what had he expected? A high-toned butler, large of girth with pointed nose in the air? Or some wizened, prickly old door opener?
“Mr. Black. I hope your journey across town was pleasant. The Underground can be terribly congested these days.”
Since no cab or carriage sat at the curb, she must have guessed at his mode of transportation. Still, he was rather flummoxed. “Do we know each other, Miss—?”
“Anatolia Chadwick. Please use my pet name, Mia, if you don’t mind?” After his coat was hung in a nearby closet, she led the way upstairs.
“I understand you are a detective—a Yard man?” Her eyes gleamed with interest. “All the girls at school positively swoon over the idea of a dashing Scotland Yard inspector.”
“I can hardly think why, miss.”
She looked at him as if he were mad. “Because you pursue evildoers and villains, because ...” The young lady bit her lower lip as she searched for the right word. “Because you are heroes.”
“I suspect your friends read too many harrowing tales of crime in the
Strand
magazine.” A breathy giggle told him he could not be far off.
His young escort tapped lightly on the door before bursting into a large airy space that immediately struck him as both a study and a laboratory. Every wall except for a bank of windows facing the street was lined with shelves, spilling over with books, beacons, and an assortment of peculiar scientific equipage.
They approached a long table in the middle of the room. Glass tubes set over Bunsen burners bubbled mysterious liquid contents. Dr. Exeter sat at one end, bent over an instrument of some kind.
Mia spoke first. “Making progress, Oom Asa?”
“A frustrating day, I’m afraid.” He looked up from the contraption. “Ah, Mr. Black. You have met my ward?”
“Indeed, Miss Chadwick. A lovely and hospitable young lady.” Phaeton nodded to the girl who returned a shockingly sultry smile.
Exeter frowned at her flirtation. “Schoolwork finished?”
“A fiendish tract of Latin left to translate.”
Before the doctor’s glare narrowed further, the precocious chit excused herself with a flip of her skirt and a mutter under her breath. “Bollocks.”
“You are not allowed to say that word, Mia.” The doctor’s perplexed grimace was rather amusing. “Smart as a whip but a bit of a chatterbox. Lately, she’s taken to blurting out the most inappropriate words and phrases.”
“Charming girl.” He clamped back a grin. “Befitting her age, wouldn’t you say?” Phaeton’s interest returned to the odd apparatus in front of the doctor.
“You like my microscope, Mr. Black?”
“Curious.” Phaeton set a leather satchel on the table.
“Come have a look.” Exeter showed him how to adjust focus as a number of plump, brownish red objects resolved into view.
“My area of research is serology. The study of blood serum. I have a contract with the university to discover and identify blood groupings, a theory of mine, which I hope to someday be fortunate enough to publish.”
Phaeton removed a glass jar from the briefcase. The doctor edged closer, eyes locked on the fluttering creature inside the container. “You caught one, Mr. Black?”
“Batted one off my arm and it fell into my pocket. I thought we might take it down to the Embankment and let it loose—”
“The malicious little irritant could lead us right to her den.” Exeter raised a brow. “What could be simpler?”
“Yes, you brilliant types need us simpletons.” Phaeton crossed his arms.
The doctor’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly. “Brilliance is very often simple.”
Phaeton ignored the compliment. “Care to tell me what significance the eye of Horus or Ra has on the case we are dealing with?”
“Ah, so you are studious as well as clever.” The doctor closed a large file full of notes and opened another. “I have come to believe the perpetrator of this murder spree arrived in London nearly fifty years ago, when the obelisk was shipped here from Egypt.”
Exeter turned over several pages. “According to what I have found, newspaper articles and several published articles from the dig, Cleopatra’s Needle was packed in native soil and transported in a large custom-made tube.
“The cargo ship set out from Alexandria towing a barge carrying the obelisk. The voyage was unusually rough. Horrendous storms. At one point during extreme high seas, the obelisk separated from the ship and was considered lost for several days.”