The Seduction of Phaeton Black by Jillian Stone

groaned.
    Descending one step at a time, the tantalizing aroma of exotic curry spices wafted up to greet him. He dipped down to take a peek and nearly fell head first down the last section of stairs.
    “Mr. Black, I’ve been expecting you for some time. Come, have your supper.”
    The room smelled delightful.
    She had the audacity to smile. “Esmeralda was kind enough to donate the spices, and I purchased a bit of sausage and lentils to make a potage.”
    “I’m not hungry.” His stomach growled.
    “Have a seat, Mr. Black, and a bit of stew. It will do you good. Quash the stout in your system.”
    “Why?” He plopped down on a chair and she ladled out a healthy portion. The blasted little tart bit her lip. To keep from laughing at him, he supposed, but it was alluring all the same.
    She stood beside the table and straightened her apron and skirts.
    Slurping a bit of hot broth, he sighed. “Miss ... Jones. That is your name, is it not? I seem to recall a young lady with pirates after her.” He looked up. “Why are you standing? Spoon up a bowl for yourself and join.” He pushed out a chair.
    She fixed a sober stare his way. “I’ve come to ask for a job.” He looked behind him. “From who?”
    “From you, Mr. Black.”
    “I don’t employ servants. Never have. Never will.” He swallowed a lovely bit of sausage. “This is quite good.”
    She smiled. “I learned to bake and cook some, on voyages. Papa employed a wonderful Indian man he found in the Adaman Islands who taught me many dishes. And I am neat and clean by nature, so keeping house for you will not be difficult—”
    He noted the basket of buns on the table. “Did you make those?”
    She nodded.
    Phaeton set down his spoon. “I am not going to engage you.” He dipped a piece of warm bread into the stew. “Even if you do make heavenly buns.”
    “I’ll work for two and six a week, plus room and board.”
    He concentrated on the bowl in front of him. It seems he had no choice but to frown his way through bread and broth.
    “I need this job, Mr. Black.”
    “Did your father leave you nothing to live on?”
    “All that was left of his property was a large repository in the Basin. Father formed a new business and named me as full partner.” He distinctly heard a catch in her throat. “Everything burned to the ground last night. That warehouse was my living, what I could make off the rent to other traders.”
    Studying her a moment, he chewed on a crusty piece. “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Jones, but your misfortune has nothing to do with me.”
    “I believe it does, Mr. Black. If I hadn’t been tied up all morning, I might have been able to prevent the break-in and the fire. I hold you partly, if not wholly, responsible. Therefore, you owe me.”
    “Hold on—”
    “I won’t take up much space. I notice you have a room, across from your own, that would fit a small bed.”
    Phaeton raised his voice. “How many times must I say no before you grasp my meaning?” Her persistent pestering caused a sudden onset of sobriety, greatly agitating his nerves.
    “I need a job, Mr. Black, and a roof over my head, at least until I can find employment elsewhere.”
    “Not here. For a few extra bob a month, Mrs. Parker’s housekeeper sends her daughter down to dust and pick up laundry. And I take my meals out.”
    For all he knew, she was a common street thief. This imaginary tea trader father of hers and now a burned out warehouse. She must think him a prize thickhead to fall for such a flimsy pack of lies.
    “Get out.”
    She untied her apron and tossed it over a chair back.
    “I will give you one day to reconsider, Mr. Black. I currently have a bed assigned to me at the Sisters of Mercy Night Home on Lower Seymour Street.” She pulled on a dingy, grey coat with black velvet lapels. It might have been a very nice looking coat at one time, but it was singed and blackened now.
    Phaeton leaned back in his chair. “Come here.”
    She circled