Read Online The Moonstone and Miss Jones by Jillian Stone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jillian Stone
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hovered above and around them. The atmosphere under the canopy stifled, but he could see clearly in all directions. America’s exotic golden-green eyes sparkled with adventure. Phaeton curled his hand around hers and she returned his wink with a smile.
Captain Blood removed his cigar and placed a finger over his lips. “We move out fast and quiet.” As they made their way through Wapping Basin, the only sound to be heard was a faint wheeze in the air and a whir of clockworks. Phaeton checked on Exeter and finally got a good look at their two female escorts. One was ivory skinned, raven-haired, and stunning. The other was tall and Nordic—a Viking beauty with ice blue eyes. He also caught a better look at their rear guard. Wheels turned within wheels—just above the man’s ear—the mask appeared to be a mechanical engine of some sort.
They turned onto a forgotten row known to opium eaters as Dragon Alley. No names, no numbers—just a riot of differently colored doors, with one exception. The lane ended at a black door with brass numbers mounted at eye level.
They were about to arrive at No. 55 Pennyfields.
Exactly the spot he, Exeter, and America had set out for earlier this evening, had they not been waylaid by a pint or two and a few testy Gorgons. Better late than never, he supposed. And if they were going to find the Moonstone, they could not avoid the nefarious Gentleman Shade himself. “Gaspar Sinclair, self-anointed dark underlord of Limehouse,” Phaeton muttered under his breath. Besides being the titular head of an arcane flock of psychic talents, the man was connected to every lowlife operator in London. And there were so many reasons to find Gaspar irritating. The man’s jocular familiarity and excessive curiosity about Phaeton’s business, for one thing. The de facto leader always had a better scheme, a cheaper rate, a less risky approach, a faster route, and exactly the right talent for the job. He also happened to have thousands of contacts who all owed him favors. Whenever Phaeton was around Gaspar he purposely obfuscated and muddled about with the facts of his cases. It was perverse, but pleasurable.
The sweet musky smell of opium was in the air. Phaeton sniffed again. Something else was about in the alley—the miasma was subtle but rather putrid. He noticed the doctor scanning the rooftops as well.
Just ahead, Edvar made a sudden appearance, as he scurried up the crooked lane—more pedestrian walk than alley. The gray imp often materialized when least expected, or as a warning. Edvar shinnied up a gas lamp, and turned back, adding an impatient hiss. The gargoyle was right, of course, that they must seek shelter, and as quickly as possible.
The sooner they were inside 55 Pennyfields, the safer they would be. Phaeton could not shake the feeling that the hordes were coming. He tossed out an adviso—just to see who received his message. Watch the gargoyle. Now and then, Edvar would stop to sniff about and whine. At a turn in the lane, a commotion could be heard at the dark end of a connecting yard. Picking up the pace, the captain glanced back at them. “We’re almost there—stay close.”
Edvar climbed a downspout and brilliant, orange-yellow eyes blinked into a veil of darkness. From the hollow echoes and terrible thuds, it sounded like a number of dustbins were being rummaged in—perhaps even turned upside down and rolled about.
America turned to him. “What is that?”
Something like the whistle of a whip moved through the air, easily piercing the cloak and wrapping itself around America’s ankles. Phaeton grabbed for the slippery bindings that flipped her upside down and into the air. America reached back for him. “Phaeton!”
She was being carried away by a hulking shadow. An unseen puppet-master who walked along on the rooftops above. Her dress fell around her waist, exposing a great deal of leg and pantalettes.
“A bit of relic dust and champagne, if you will?” Phaeton
Captain Blood removed his cigar and placed a finger over his lips. “We move out fast and quiet.” As they made their way through Wapping Basin, the only sound to be heard was a faint wheeze in the air and a whir of clockworks. Phaeton checked on Exeter and finally got a good look at their two female escorts. One was ivory skinned, raven-haired, and stunning. The other was tall and Nordic—a Viking beauty with ice blue eyes. He also caught a better look at their rear guard. Wheels turned within wheels—just above the man’s ear—the mask appeared to be a mechanical engine of some sort.
They turned onto a forgotten row known to opium eaters as Dragon Alley. No names, no numbers—just a riot of differently colored doors, with one exception. The lane ended at a black door with brass numbers mounted at eye level.
They were about to arrive at No. 55 Pennyfields.
Exactly the spot he, Exeter, and America had set out for earlier this evening, had they not been waylaid by a pint or two and a few testy Gorgons. Better late than never, he supposed. And if they were going to find the Moonstone, they could not avoid the nefarious Gentleman Shade himself. “Gaspar Sinclair, self-anointed dark underlord of Limehouse,” Phaeton muttered under his breath. Besides being the titular head of an arcane flock of psychic talents, the man was connected to every lowlife operator in London. And there were so many reasons to find Gaspar irritating. The man’s jocular familiarity and excessive curiosity about Phaeton’s business, for one thing. The de facto leader always had a better scheme, a cheaper rate, a less risky approach, a faster route, and exactly the right talent for the job. He also happened to have thousands of contacts who all owed him favors. Whenever Phaeton was around Gaspar he purposely obfuscated and muddled about with the facts of his cases. It was perverse, but pleasurable.
The sweet musky smell of opium was in the air. Phaeton sniffed again. Something else was about in the alley—the miasma was subtle but rather putrid. He noticed the doctor scanning the rooftops as well.
Just ahead, Edvar made a sudden appearance, as he scurried up the crooked lane—more pedestrian walk than alley. The gray imp often materialized when least expected, or as a warning. Edvar shinnied up a gas lamp, and turned back, adding an impatient hiss. The gargoyle was right, of course, that they must seek shelter, and as quickly as possible.
The sooner they were inside 55 Pennyfields, the safer they would be. Phaeton could not shake the feeling that the hordes were coming. He tossed out an adviso—just to see who received his message. Watch the gargoyle. Now and then, Edvar would stop to sniff about and whine. At a turn in the lane, a commotion could be heard at the dark end of a connecting yard. Picking up the pace, the captain glanced back at them. “We’re almost there—stay close.”
Edvar climbed a downspout and brilliant, orange-yellow eyes blinked into a veil of darkness. From the hollow echoes and terrible thuds, it sounded like a number of dustbins were being rummaged in—perhaps even turned upside down and rolled about.
America turned to him. “What is that?”
Something like the whistle of a whip moved through the air, easily piercing the cloak and wrapping itself around America’s ankles. Phaeton grabbed for the slippery bindings that flipped her upside down and into the air. America reached back for him. “Phaeton!”
She was being carried away by a hulking shadow. An unseen puppet-master who walked along on the rooftops above. Her dress fell around her waist, exposing a great deal of leg and pantalettes.
“A bit of relic dust and champagne, if you will?” Phaeton
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