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Authors: Jillian Stone

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BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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Phaeton took down a brown container and sniffed. “Eeesh.” He pointed the light down into the mouth of the receptacle. “Dead rodent, perhaps?”
Returning the crock, he studied the clear glass jars. “If I am not mistaken, doctor, some of these bits of flesh appear to be human organs.”
“When the great kings and queens of Egypt passed from this life, we know they were embalmed and mummified. Organs were removed and stored in jars.” Exeter lifted up what remained of a simple reed sleeping mat. “Upon the pharaoh’s awakening, the organs were to be returned to the body, as his servants readied him for the arduous journey into the underworld.”
Phaeton took another glance at the contents of the jars. “Might the assumption be that she is collecting organs for herself? Or is this exercise in mayhem wrought for someone else? She is a goddess, after all. Do the gods perform these rituals on each other?”
“You ask for answers far beyond my ken.”
Phaeton sucked in a breath.
“What is wrong, Mr. Black? Even in the dark, you are obviously distraught.” The doctor’s voice echoed softly off the walls of the chamber.
“The Whitechapel murders. Mary Kelly, the last victim. Found her cut to shreds, her own organs removed and lined up neatly around her body.” Phaeton sensed a growing tension in the atmosphere. The doctor took a position to one side of the sarcophagus.
He pointed the torch directly at Exeter, who blinked under the harsh glare. “You two have been at this game for some time. What is this for you, doctor, round two? Abating or abetting, which is it?”
“Shall we save this discussion for another day? Right now we need to destroy the nest.”
Phaeton kept the light steady. “The nest or the evidence, doctor?”
The man sighed. “What do you wish to know?”
A rush of wailing, hissing shrieks sounded from somewhere above.
“She returns. We have no time for argument.” Exeter shifted his focus to the can of petrol. Opening the tin, he drenched the interior of the sarcophagus.
Phaeton hesitated, but only for a moment. He tossed off the gas cap and doused the chamber floor in petrol. The scratching, hissing noise returned. He flashed the torch upward onto the ceiling and froze. “At your first opportunity, take a glance at the object overhead.”
Phaeton set a stick of dynamite in the sand and unwound a coil of fuse wire.
Exeter placed one foot behind the other and slowly traced his steps backward, toward the opening in the wall. “I know what I perceive. What do you see?”
He glanced upward and followed after. “A large black stain spreading—rapidly.”
“I see an orifice, with large fangs for tearing and chewing.” The doctor pointed to a number of pointed objects projecting from what was now beginning to look more like a cavernous hole.
“Ah yes, but is this muzzle real or illusion?” Phaeton unrolled more wire as the gaping mouth moved off the ceiling and inched down the wall.
“Light the fuse. Quickly, Mr. Black, before we are swallowed.”
The moment he lit the wire, his body was lifted out of the chamber. The walls of the sewer sped by in a blur. He rocketed through the tunnel, passing ladder rungs as he flew up and out of the manhole.
Phaeton stood in the middle of the lane. Dizzy.
He became aware of the clatter of horse hooves and the creak of carriages traveling along the Strand. The thought crossed his mind that it was not terribly late. Cloud cover parted overhead and he could see several stars twinkle in the ink-black sky.
“Come.” Exeter appeared out of nowhere and encouraged him to leap from garden wall to window ledge to rooftop. Exactly as he had seen this strange man escape that first night after the opera.
With his usual amount of trepidation, Phaeton sailed from one rooftop to another with the help of the curious physician, who remained a first-class enigma. Tonight, at the very least, he took satisfaction in matching Exeter jump for jump.
The dynamite detonated while Phaeton was in midair.
Chapter Eleven
A
THUNDEROUS BOOM AND DISPLACEMENT OF ATMOSPHERE
pushed his body through the air. Phaeton tumbled onto the roof and groaned. Rolling onto his back, his addled brain focused on the tall, indistinct man standing above him. An appendage with fuzzy fingers appeared in front of his face. He grabbed hold of a flesh and blood hand and was pulled to his feet. “Blast shock. You should fully recover in a few moments. Can you hear me?” It was Exeter’s voice all right, only it came from the bottom of a barrel.
Propped against a chimney pot, Phaeton rubbed his eyes and the doctor came into focus. He signaled thumbs-up.
Rather quickly, he was able to survey the scene below as Exeter packed up his optical device. A plume of acrid, hissing smoke bellowed out of the fissure as the river flooded into the gaping breach in the retaining wall. Towering behind a curtain of vapor, he could just make out the Egyptian obelisk seemingly no worse for the explosion.
“Thank the Thames for coming to the aid of our lackadaisical fire brigade.” At least he recognized his own voice.
Shrill police whistles joined the gasps and cries from the local onlookers. Jolted out of their beds by the explosion, a group of frightened, angry residents pushed back against the squadron of officers on the scene.
“What could be more inept? The Metropolitan Police appear to need protection from the citizenry.” He swiveled away from the river. “Ready for home? Do impart my regards to your pretty charge, doctor.”
Exeter’s steady gaze met his. “I must say, Mia was quite taken with your detective stories at tea.”
“Your ward is a clever conversationalist. A very bright girl.” He shifted his full attention to his cohort. “She, as well as your African man, call you Oom Asa.”
“An honorific of sorts. Oom means chieftain in Zulu.” The doctor shrugged. “Mia’s parents were unfortunate casualties of the Boer War—caught in a crossfire in the Transvaal. She and Mr. Tandi arrived on my doorstep five years ago.” Exeter picked up his equipment case. “Mia is only distantly related to me, but they are both family now.”
A new round of shrieks accompanied a deep rumble as another section of the Embankment gave way. Phaeton’s attention drifted back momentarily to the chaotic scene at the river walk.
“Two dens down, more left to find,” the doctor murmured.
“I am skeptical. You mentioned three or four, earlier. Why not a dozen? I continue to suspect you withhold information.” He returned to Exeter. “I also harbor growing suspicions regarding this female necromancer. Shortly after the last homicide attributed to the Ripper November last, a fire was set on Dorset Street. It gives me cause to wonder if Mary Kelly’s murder isn’t somehow connected to nest number one.”
His head ached. He rubbed his temples and considered his words carefully. “There has been a fair amount of conjecture given to the idea that the Whitechapel fiend might well be either a physician or a female. What if the Ripper turned out to be both a Jack and a Jill?”
Phaeton chewed a bit of inside cheek. “Before I retire, I intend to offer my assistance to the poor officers at risk from the unhinged locals.” He studied the inscrutable man beside him. Exeter was hard to read, but this time his face was ashen. “I recommend you use what is left of the evening to prepare a confession or alibi. Your life expectancy depends on it, Doctor Exeter.”
 
“When she raises both of her legs, and places them on her lover’s shoulders, it is called the ‘yawning position.’ ” America stared at the book illustration. The female engaged in the unusual congress displayed commendable flexibility.
She turned the page and tilted her head. “When the woman places one of her thighs across the thigh of her lover it is called the ‘twining position.’ ” Two copper-colored bodies reclined on an intricately woven carpet. A tray of ripe fruits and cups of wine sat beside the amorous couple. She admired the size and apparent hardness of the man’s member. According to the caption, he was about to plunge his
lingam
into his partner’s
yoni
.
At least this pose seemed more feasible than the last picture. From the moment she had opened the book, there had been a stirring in her body. So far, her response to the drawings had been brazenly immodest. The
Kama Sutra
turned out to be utterly titillating. She squirmed at the sensation of moisture between her legs.
And her naughty imaginings and desires, with some constancy, involved Mr. Black. He had advised her to pick one of these ridiculous positions, and he would attempt to please her. She uttered an exasperated sigh. The man was a cad and a pervert. And she would never in a million years participate in a single one of these hopeless postures with him.
Earlier that evening, they had found a quiet corner in the cavernous old pub, the Cheshire Cheese. She had matched him swallow for swallow, devouring a dozen oysters each, before supping on seafood chowder and fresh baked bread.
He had sprinkled cayenne pepper and lemon juice over the plump, succulent meat before holding the knobby half shell to her mouth. She had swallowed the oyster in one gulp and licked her lips.
Mmm.
Underneath the table, he took her hand and placed it on his crotch. “You see what you do to me, Miss Jones?”
She had yanked her hand back and shot the rake a withering glare. He had chuckled over her indignation and prepared another oyster in apology.
A scurry of footsteps and a peel of high-pitched laughter filtered down from the brothel upstairs. The house was often raucous in the evenings. A comfort to her when Mr. Black so often worked late hours.
The clock on the mantel chimed a single stroke.
Where was he?
America yawned.
Sprawled out over the chaise, chin cupped in the palm of her hand, she turned the book upside down to view a difficult new pose. She could not fathom how the act of love could be accomplished in this tangle of limbs.
She absently twined and untwined her legs. “ ‘When a man, during congress, turns round, and enjoys the woman without leaving her, while all the while, she embraces him round the back, it is called the ‘turning position,’ and is learnt only by practice.’ ”
She snorted. “Impossible.”
“Nothing is out of the question, Miss Jones, with enough discipline and rehearsal.”
So, her employer was home.
To hide a smile, she didn’t look up. “Perhaps not impossible but rather strenuous, if you ask me.” She propped herself upright, leaving the illustrated volume open to the pose in question.
He tilted his head. “Ah yes, the turning position. Tricky, but I would be delighted to work on it with you.” His gaze moved off the drawing to her. “Is this your choice?”
She puffed herself up with a huff. “Absolutely not, and I am quite sure there will never be a choice.”
He turned away and hung up his coat and hat. “Has the book not provided you with a wonderful selection of pleasures?” He then removed his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
She cleared her throat. “What are you doing, Mr. Black?”
“Undressing.” He lifted the kettle from the stove and poured warm water into a basin. He shrugged out of the vest and unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. With a soap cake in hand, he began to wash up.
“Please do pick a position of some difficulty. After a bit of scrubbing, I shall be ready to perform my duties.”
He wet a dishcloth with water and rubbed it over his chest and underarms.
She snickered. “Difficult for which one of us? As far as I can see, the women in these illustrations do the lion’s share of work.”
He grinned that wolfish fornicator grin. Drat the man. Water glistened over his torso as he took a clean towel and dried off his very appealing ruff of chest hair. There it was again, the tingly sensation. The same one she had experienced when Mr. Black stood very close. Or took her hand. Or kissed her.
She whisked the erotic tome out from under him as he took a seat. “If I am not mistaken, you and I have already completed two of these positions.” He tugged at the picture book. “May I?”
A half naked man pressed up beside her was most distracting. His upper body hard and masculine and—
“Do you recall our first time, Miss Jones?”
Leafing through the volume, he stopped at a page depicting a man standing upright lifting a woman onto his member by cupping her buttocks.
America glanced at the drawing and gulped. “Of course I remember.”
The ends of his mouth quirked up. “The night you forced yourself upon me.”
“I didn’t—exactly ...” She bit back a frown. Intolerable man!
His smile widened as he continued shuffling pages. “I’m looking for ... ah, here we are. ‘When she raises her thighs and keeps them apart and engages in congress, it is called the ‘widely open position.’ ” He glanced across the sitting room at the overstuffed chair. “Right over there, wasn’t it?”
Her bottom lip slipped out from under her teeth.
“Your inaugural zenith of pleasure.”
“Hmm-ph, I’m not entirely sure about that zenith bit.” The prickly, quivering sensation was back as she recalled his fingers swirling over her hidden female parts and his large phallus driving into her. She chanced to look at Mr. Black directly and found him studying her expression.
Warmth flooded her cheeks. All right, she had not been entirely honest with him. America relented with a sigh. “I do remember it being very agreeable.”
“Would you like to feel agreeable again?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Brilliant. We shall start at the front and work our way back through page ...” He flipped to the back of the book. “One hundred and nineteen.”
“All of them, tonight?” Her eyes bugged out.
He chuckled. “Not unless you plan on throwing my back out.” With his index finger holding place, he closed the tome and reclined against the sloping arm of the chaise. He patted the space beside him.
Without much hesitation, she reclined.
“Are we a bit starchy tonight, Miss Jones?” He nestled close and turned her onto her side. “Put your arm around me.” She rather enjoyed the sensation of his damp skin and the clean scent of soap. His upper arms were strong and muscled, and she liked holding onto them. He turned to an early chapter of the text.
“For the duration of this exercise, I shall call you
Sín-nay
.” He pronounced her middle name with an emphasis on the first syllable. He held up the book somewhere behind her head.
He shifted his body and moved his upper leg against hers. “This is called the embrace of the thighs.” He turned her belly toward his and pressed his hips to hers.
Her belly trembled as he shifted his weight against her. His face, close to hers, reminded her of the first night she had laid eyes on him. She suddenly couldn’t help herself, and before she could gain any control over her hand, she had reached out and stroked the dark temptation of unshaven whisker hairs. She traced a faint, nearly invisible scar that ran along the edge of a firm jawline.
Her gesture stopped his recitation midsentence.
She withdrew and managed an uneasy laugh but he caught her hand in his, and returned her fingers to his stubbly cheek and handsomely formed mouth. Gently, he turned her hand palm up and brushed his lips down to the faint pulse on the inside of her wrist.
He said nothing, but his sable eyes darkened into pools of desire.
After a lengthy perusal of her lips, he cleared his throat. “Navels.” Arousal surged through her body as, one at a time, from forehead to shin bone, he pressed parts of his anatomy to hers. Sometimes rubbing, other times barely touching her.
He flipped the page. “ ‘Pressing, marking, or scratching with the nails’—some of my favorites.”
Two of her fingers were selected. “Scratching.” He placed her fingertips on his chest. “Press lightly.” She ran her nails over the hard curve of his breast and followed a thin trail of hair past his navel.
“Again. Harder this time.”
She pressed into taught flesh as he groaned. “Ah yes, Síne.”
He unbuttoned his trousers, and placed one of her fingers on his groin. His voice grew husky. “Now, mark me.”
His stomach muscles shuddered as her nail nicked into his flesh. A rose-colored slash emerged across his lower belly. His belly trembled
Her fascination began at the edge of his dark man curls and moved from his lower abdomen along a sinuous torso. She could not resist spreading her fingers through his chest hair. When her gaze met his, she caught her breath.
“Have a care, my temptress, or you will turn me into Wagner the Wehr-Wolf.” He placed a kiss on each one of her fingertips, and then removed her blouse and camisole. Even as his body temperature warmed her flesh, the air chilled her breasts and hardened the tips. He ran his nails over each mound until her arousal became so great, she moaned and demanded more. Only then did he scrape harder over her nipples.
With his thumb, he marked her with a curved line. “A Tiger’s nail.”
BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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