Free The Moonstone and Miss Jones by Jillian Stone Page A

you now.” Their pale young greeter stood at the curved brass railing of the stairs. “Make your way downstairs. Seventh door on the left. Please be sure to count. It is dangerous to open any of the others by mistake.”
    Phaeton had met with the man on several occasions and once attended a soiree of sorts in the upper reception chambers, but he had never been invited into Gaspar’s inner sanctum. They descended the stairs and made their way down a long corridor. Between doors, a number of gallery portraits greeted them—Grand Wazirs of the Gentlemen Shades—with eyes that followed a person down the corridor. All of these characters had no doubt fancied themselves powerful sorcerers, going back how many centuries? The end of the corridor featured a near life-size painting of their current leader. “Gaspar Sinclair, fakir of the highest order,” Phaeton grumbled.
    A chuckle from Exeter drifted up from the rear of the column.
    “And what exactly do you find so amusing, doctor?”
    “You dislike Gaspar because you’re so much like him, Phaeton.”
    The doctor rarely grinned, so it had an impact. Even the ends of America’s mouth twitched upward. “My word this should be interesting.”
    Their escorts assembled around the seventh door, presumably. Phaeton reached for the knob. “Was that seven doors total—or seven on the left side of the passage?”
    The door swung open revealing a spacious room—part library, part gentleman’s study. He stepped onto an intricately patterned carpet. Nothing too outlandish about the place. No doubt the most exotic thing in the room was the swarthy, rather handsome man who reclined against the arm of an oversized chair.
    A silk robe hung open over a formal tuxedo shirt and his tie was undone. Black trousers and a hint of white braces peeked out from under the deep blue dressing gown. His shirt was open down to the navel and exposed just enough chest hair to be provocative. As annoying as it was, Phaeton admired the man’s style. “Sorry to disturb, Gaspar. Did we wrest you away from a liaison? I certainly hope not.”
    “It’s about time you returned home, Phaeton. London hasn’t been the same without you.” The man’s somnolent, heavy-lidded gaze landed on America. “My informants have extolled your looks Miss Jones, but . . .” Gaspar shook his head. “Vous êtes une grande beauté, mademoiselle.”
    A peachy blush colored America’s cheeks. “Merci, monsieur.”
    His gaze lingered a little too long before returning to Phaeton. “My congratulations, little brother, she is exquisite.”
    Phaeton’s eyes narrowed. “Just hand over the Moonstone, and you can go back to seducing the Marquess of Bath’s wife, or whomever your latest conquest is.”
    America mouthed, “Little brother?” and she raised a brow to underscore the question.
    Phaeton pulled her aside and spoke quietly. “I thought he’d given up the notion. By some deluded faulty thought process he believes we are related.” He rolled his eyes in the leader’s direction. “Pay him no mind.”
    A spark of amusement brightened Gaspar’s gaze. “Tell me about this Moonstone you believe is in my possession.”
    “It is the source hidden deep inside the pithos,” Exeter offered.
    Gaspar’s eyes remained steady, unfaltering, almost bored. Exactly the kind of deadpan expression Phaeton expected from the leader of the Gentlemen Shades, whose heart had accelerated at the mere mention of Pandora’s jar. This close connection he experienced with Gaspar had always been disquieting—but it certainly wasn’t brotherly.
    Gaspar blinked, ever so subtly. “Just to be sure—you speak of the quintessence—the substratum that encompasses all things. The indefinite substance to which all things are born and to which all things will return.”
    “It has been described many ways.” Exeter shrugged. “The quintessence—what Aristotle called the fifth element. The Spirit of God moving upon the face of dark