Read The Seduction of Phaeton Black for Free Online Page B

unconvinced. “Just a guess, but I think you could use some help.”
    The man took one step back and leaped into air. One moment he stood in front of him, the very next—nothing. Vanished. . . but to where?
    Phaeton turned in time to observe a familiar shadow leap from the top of the wall to a window ledge to the rooftop in three swift moves. Good Christ, he was seeing things. And he hadn’t had a drop of absinthe in over a day.
     
    Curls of smoke and the crackle of blazing timber was all that was left of Number 67. Warehouse of the Seven Seas Tea Company, owned by Charles Jones & Partner. The enflamed storehouse in Wapping Basin had been declared lost beyond saving. The fire brigade would continue to defend the other buildings surrounding the facility until it burned to the ground.
    America sat on the back of the fire wagon and struggled to keep her composure. Until now, there had been no time for tears.
    Months ago, she had quit the expensive town house and fashioned a small apartment for herself in the offices of the warehouse. Now all was lost. Her clothes, a cache of money she kept hidden under the file cabinet, and an old daguerreotype, the only portrait she owned of her father. Handsome and dressed as a sea captain, the way she remembered him as a child.
    She slipped into the distraction of memories. No more than six or seven years old, standing on the dock. Her father sternly protested as her mother handed her off to him. How frightened she had been on that first voyage. The nightmares. Waking in the dead of night to an unfamiliar rocking sea. Crying out, “ Maman .”
    “You’ll be needing to find another place to sit, Miss.” When she didn’t move, the fireman lifted her off the back of the hose wagon and set her on the steps of a nearby storehouse.
    America stared blankly into the ruins. A blackened wood beam broke off and crashed to the ground, throwing a swathe of sparks into the air. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked. The gentle motion returned her mind to that first trip across the Atlantic. Days away from making port, she had taken a fever. Her father had sat with her, wringing out a cool damp rag and forcing down a bit of broth.
    “You are a survivor, Amiee .” Papa had told her so just before he passed.
    She would carry on, all right. And if she ever laid eyes on Yanky Willem again, she’d murder him without so much as a “good day.” She imagined her trial, and conviction, but not before blackening the man’s name in public with the truth of his crimes. She’d march to the gallows whistling.
    “Miss Jones?”
    Her gaze moved from the huge building in flame to a mild looking gentleman with a thick tuft of unruly grey hair falling over his forehead. He wore a dark suit and a clerical collar.
    “My name is Father Lowell, Covenant of the Faithful Angel. I work with the Reverend Mother, who runs the Night Home on Lower Seymour Street—you’ve heard of us? A safe place to sleep for girls of good character.”
    All she could manage was a blink.
    “The fire brigade captain has informed me that your place of residence will be gone by the end of the evening.” His gaze darted toward the flickering light of the blaze. “Will you be needing a place to stay, miss?” He reached out a hand.
    Tears didn’t come until a Sister of Mercy tucked her into a soft cot at the shelter and covered her with a scratchy, thin blanket. A copy of the New Testament rested on a small night table between two beds. At first she hiccupped and choked, her eyes unable to manufacture enough tears. Eventually, the soft rain of grief streamed down her cheeks and dampened the pillow.
    America slept fitfully and awoke with a thumping pulse and a startling idea. Nothing much more than a notion, but the thought kindled something akin to hope, deep inside her. There might be one person in London willing to help. In fact, the man was at least partially responsible for her delay. If she had returned to the warehouse