The Seduction of Phaeton Black by Jillian Stone Page A

slowly as he brushed off a bit of soot, “If I do not hear from you by end of day tomorrow, I shall be forced to take Mrs. Parker up on her offer.”
    Mrs. Parker? Phaeton smiled. “Now, that sort of service I do hire, Miss Jones.”

Chapter Six
    A MERICA KICKED A FEW CHARRED BITS OF RUBBLE as she picked her way across the burned-out remains of the warehouse. A shiny metal button caught her eye. She turned it over and ran her thumb over the letter D . A typewriter key of all things. The shape of the character form was distorted —now all she could think about were D words. She stepped over chunks of blackened timber. “Distressed, despairing, devastated, dejected, despondent ...”
    “Careful now, Miss Jones.”
    “Yes, Officer Wilkie.”
    Their district policeman patrolled the burn site to ward off the ragpickers. Scavengers, who would comb through the debris inch by inch, collecting anything they could sell to scrap dealers.
    “My orders are to keep trespassers out, everything nice and quiet-like. An agent from Scotland Yard is coming to look about for evidence of arson.”
    She stopped in her tracks and slowly eased her way out of the wreckage. So, one of London’s celebrated detectives suspected something. A faster rhythm beat in her chest, as her breath caught for an instant. The possibility that anyone, besides herself, suspected foul play gave America a measure of hope. Something she had given up on, as of late.
    “What are you to do, lass, now that the business is gone?”
    “I must find employment, Officer Wilkie.” She sighed. “I detest the idea of factory work, but I must labor at something if I am to afford a room in a boardinghouse. The Lucifer Match factory is always looking to hire.”
    “Ahh, girl, a bad lot o’trouble for your toil.”
    She nodded. Just passing by the dank, malodorous sweatshop made a person choke from the sulfurous air. A girl might contract the disease that gradually rotted a body’s jawbone away. A shudder ran through her body.
    Mrs. Parker had offered a job. Said she ran a clean house and encouraged the use of condoms. Still, America wasn’t desperate or frightened enough to earn a living on her back.
    A small bit of happiness tugged at the ends of her mouth as she fingered the large bill in her hand. She considered the rude, irritating man who likely planted the five-pound note in her coat pocket last evening.
    You are a puzzle, Mr. Black .
     
    Phaeton stood in the middle of Savoy Row and stared at the basement railing of the mercantile building. The lane was different in morning light. Day laborers pushed hand carts past bookbinders and printing guilds. Bustling, noisy. Completely unthreatening. He recalled a pretty, copper-skinned female with almond-shaped eyes. Out cold, right about—here. She had swung at him and missed, striking her head on the corner of the iron rail.
    Had he helped the little minx escape justice? Those pirates she claimed to be hiding from were likely men she had stolen from. He could not shake the idea, however, that an experienced thief would have held onto her blade, taken money over sex, and knocked him, not herself, unconscious. He surveyed the small niche where he had thrust himself into the bonnie lass. There, the narrow outcropping of brick where he rested her plump derriere, just enough leverage to get in between those luscious thighs ...
    “Phaeton?” A pale-skinned young man wearing thick, dark spectacles struck a safety match and held it to his pipe. Long tapered fingers curled around the bowl as full lips drew down on the stem.
    A blush of tawny color washed over an elegant face shaded partially by a top hat. The glasses, which guarded light-sensitive eyes, gripped the bridge of an aristocratic nose. High cheekbones angled toward ears that were nearly elfish.
    He smiled. “Sorry Ping, woolgathering.” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “I ended up in circles, following a cold trail. I’m afraid any trace of the fiend