The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (4 page)

 

Mia held on to her hat as the group emerged from the abandoned train station. A strong wind whipped off the Thames and through the looming construction girders that currently made up the Tower Bridge. Would the impressive overpass ever be completed?

America trotted up beside Exeter. “Would you mind dropping me off at Mrs. Parker’s? I’d like to make arrangements to close the office. Better now, before we leave, I should think. I’m nearing my last month and it’s to be expected that I would take a bit of time off.”

America smiled sheepishly. “Once we find Phaeton and our pea in the pod arrives, we can reopen Moonstone Investigations. Try to get back to normal—if such a thing is possible for us.”

A lopsided grin tipped the ends of Exeter’s mouth, telegraphing his skeptical amusement. “The pairing of a daughter of a Cajun witch raised by a sea captain and a gifted investigator of psychical disturbances.” He shook his head. “Such a couple could hardly enjoy a mundane life.” He helped America into the carriage and then turned to Mia. As luck would have it, he failed to notice the flush on her cheeks—thank God. Because she wasn’t about to answer his prying questions.

At the very mention of Mrs. Parker, Mia’s pulse had elevated. Over the years and especially these last few months, she had either overheard or been privy to conversations that paired Doctor Jason Exeter with Mrs. Esmeralda Parker, madame to a bawdy house of notorious reputation, and home to Phaeton Black’s below-street flat.

Something raw and envious roiled around in her gut, and by the time they turned onto Shaftesbury, she was nearly afire with curiosity about Madame Parker. Lost in a preoccupation of lurid thoughts, she listened absently to snippets of conversation, until she caught Exeter’s stern look. “You are and will continue to be the most sought after of any of us, America. Phaeton is obviously being held by someone—whether it is Prospero or some other unknown force . . .” Exeter frowned to emphasize a point. “You must listen and obey my orders at all times or I cannot protect you.”

Mia tilted forward in time to catch an upward flutter of eyelids from America. She well knew the feeling. Exeter could be insufferably protective at times.

In front of 21 Shaftesbury Court, America was soon out the carriage door, and Valentine followed after. At the last moment, Mia stepped out of the carriage. Exeter grabbed hold of her elbow as she descended.

“This is rather irregular, Mia; where might you be going?”

“I believe I’ll tag along here while you and Jersey have a pint or two at the Drunken Lizard.” Mia followed after America and Valentine. “Be sure to ask Mr. Potter if he might have a copy of the original quarry map—as I recall, there are several unauthorized entrances.” She tried a smile, something to warm the scowl on Exeter’s face.

“Mia, I’d rather you didn’t . . .”

A low iron fence encircled the below-stairs office. “Didn’t what?” She hesitated at the gate. Turning to Exeter, she arched a brow. “Why would you object to a visit with Mrs. Parker? She’s a friend of yours, is she not?”

M
IA FELT THE COOL DISAPPROVAL
of Exeter’s gaze all the way down the stairs to the below-street shop America and Phaeton rented from Mrs. Parker. She tilted her head back to read the writing on the plaque above the door knocker.

The mental image of her guardian’s icy stare melted away as she opened the door and viewed the space that had recently been refurbished. The walls were papered in a subtle paisley of warm caramel tones, and the furniture, though not ornate, was quietly professional. Two upholstered wing chairs were angled toward a desk that had recently been polished to a gleaming luster. “I quite love the smell of beeswax.” Mia sniffed. “My word, this is, so”—she searched for the right words—“very professional. I would guess it to be the office of a solicitor, if I hadn’t read the sign on the door.”

America beamed. “Phaeton insisted we not look like a couple of gypsies out to hoodwink a frightened client who has just seen an apparition.”

Mia examined a smaller secretary positioned under a high-set window. A Franklin Typewriter perched upright on a small desk no larger than a vanity, and beside the typewriter, a gleaming wood box. A brass armature cradled a handle with a speaking cone at one end and a listening cone at the other. “And this is the telephone I’ve heard so much about,” she exclaimed. “May I?”

America showed her how to hold the receiver and crank the handle. “One short ring for the exchange.” Mia’s eyes grew wide as she listened intently. “The gentleman is asking for a name?”

“Tell him you wish to speak with someone at the order desk of Fortnum and Mason,” America whispered with a grin.

Mia nodded, speaking somewhat stiltedly. “I should like to speak with the gentleman at the order desk at Fortnum and Mason, if you would, please.”

While she waited for the call to go through, they discussed their favorite Fortnum’s hampers—something to take on the train with them tomorrow. Mia’s eyes suddenly grew wide. “Yes, hello? Is this Fortnum and Mason?” She smiled. “My name is Anatolia Chadwick, calling on behalf of Doctor Jason Exeter, Twenty-two Half Moon Street, Mayfair.” Mia nodded her head again.

America grinned. “You must speak!”

Mia returned the grin. “Yes, yes . . . that is correct. I’d like to order the Park Lane hamper—the one with the smoked salmon and the cheese . . . yes, the one with the Scotch eggs . . . lovely.” Mia winked at both women standing close by. “And a tin of cinder toffees, please . . . dipped in chocolate.” Mia’s head bobbed. “That will be all . . . first thing in the morning—twenty-two Half Moon Street.” She smiled broadly at the group, which now included a very attractive woman who had entered the office through a rear door. “Yes—thank you, sir.”

Mia set the receiver handle down gently. “My word, that was . . . so . . . simple.” Wide-eyed, she turned to the ladies surrounding her. “I want one.”

America laughed her musical, tinkling laugh. “Even though the installation was costly and the phone rarely rings, I must say it is a marvel. Though I suspect if Phaeton were here, he’d sit in that desk chair and glower.”

“Phaeton does so love to glower.” The attractive woman spoke, and, tilting her head slightly, she smiled at Mia. She didn’t appear to be a prostitute. She wore a high-necked blouse and skirt—afternoon attire, not unlike the blouse Mia herself wore under a fitted jacket.

The woman moved closer. “Could this be . . . ? I am guessing by the company you keep . . . you must be Doctor Exeter’s ward.”

America also stepped forward. “Silly and rather rude of me. I did not realize you two have never met. May I introduce Anatolia Chadwick? Anatolia, please meet Esmeralda Parker.”

She shook Mrs. Parker’s hand. “Please call me Mia.”

Madame Parker had lovely blue eyes, a good deal of ash blond hair arranged in a topknot on her head . . . and . . . Mia lowered her eyes . . . an ample bosom. How cruel of Exeter to have an affinity for large breasts, something she would never, ever have.

Esmeralda took both of her hands. “What a pleasure to finally meet. Jason has told me so much about you—how proud he is of all your scholastic accomplishments.” Mrs. Parker stepped back and studied Mia as though she were a new doxy to offer her whoremonger clientele. “He never once mentioned how beautiful you are.”

A wave of shame descended like a heavy, wet woolen blanket over Mia. Mrs. Parker was being kind, even as her own thoughts were resentful and envious. Short of breath, Mia gulped for air as quietly as possible.

The appealing Madame appeared to sense the awkwardness of their situation. Was this uneasy tension between them as difficult for her as it was for Mia? And Mia certainly did not wish to be thought of as a smitten, jealous child, inappropriately taken with her guardian.

“America, why don’t you and Valentine put a kettle on in the flat, while Mia and I get acquainted?” America and Valentine opened a door and disappeared down a hallway that, presumably, led to Phaeton’s old flat.

Mia cleared her throat. “Exeter . . . the doctor . . . never . . .” She realized she had nothing to say to Mrs. Parker—she knew nothing about the woman. Exeter had never spoken of her directly, and why would he? According to her friend, Phoebe Armistead, a gentleman never discussed his mistress. Oh, there might be an inference or the occasional whisper at his club, but nothing more.

Her entire body wanted so badly to turn away—run from this intimidating woman of experience. Mia willed herself to stay put and not—repeat not—bite her lip. She lifted her chin. “You are his mistress.”

“Jason has a standing weekly appointment.” A faint smile tugged at the edges of Mrs. Parker’s mouth. “Although, I must say he has not been as regular of late. I was hoping you might have some idea why. The last time I saw Jason, he seemed on edge, as though something weighed heavily on his mind.” The woman quirked up a brow. “And now that I see you, Mia, I am harboring a suspicion. Might his preoccupation have something to do with you?”

So . . . as it turned out, the Madame was intrigued. Mia slid an equally curious look back at her. There were, in fact, many things she would like to know about Exeter. Intimate, personal things. The doctor likely had sexual preferences . . . proclivities.

Back when Exeter’s father, Baron de Roos, was alive, they had spent a good deal of time at the baronial mansion on the Thames. Mia didn’t know much about sex, so she had gone exploring for books on the subject. Since childhood, she had called the huge two-story room in the manse the library of secrets, as it was perhaps the most extensive, private library of arcane knowledge in all of Great Britain.

Mia had found a number of illustrated texts edited by Sir Richard Burton. Sitting on the top step of the spiral staircase, she had pored over the exotic sex manuals for hours—until her bum hurt. She had also grown more and more aroused, to the point that she called for a bath and had a good long soak. Afterward she had touched herself—in exploration—and thought of Exeter. She had awoken the next morning in an irritable temper, harboring the distinct impression that there was much more to know about her bodily desires.

Mia’s cheeks flushed with heat, even as she dared to look the worldly Mrs. Parker in the eye. “I expect Doctor Exeter’s disquiet may have a great deal to do with me.”

“Would it help any to talk about it?”

She began to shake her head no, deny her agony again, like she had so many times before. Perhaps . . . not this time . . . not with the answers to so many of her questions standing right in front of her.

“Even as a child I adored him. Exeter was barely out of university when he took me into his care. I thought him the finest, handsomest man in all the world—with his long dark romantic hair and green eyes. Later, I grew to greatly admire his brilliance. Both his dedication to the arcane sciences, as well as his work in practical medicine—blood grouping and the like.” Mia fingered a stack of blank pages beside the typewriter. “I expect most everyone thought I’d grow out of my childish romantic attachment.” Mia sighed. “But it is not so easily done, I’m afraid.”

“Have you told him?”

“Not in so many words.” She resisted a frown. “He is aware of my admiration”—Mia lowered her gaze—“awkward as it is.”

Mrs. Parker ventured closer. Something in her eyes spoke of trepidation, but there was also a gentleness in her manner, as if she had expected this moment might come for some time. “Jason loves you dearly, Mia.”

“I’m sure you’re right—just not in the way I would hope to be loved.” Mia swallowed, “I was rather hoping you might help me in this matter. After all, you know all the things he most . . . enjoys.”

The moment she said the words, Mia understood the shocking boldness and impertinence of the request. The Madame stared for a moment. Then the moment turned into a very long moment. Frankly, Mia wondered if the woman was going to laugh or slap her hard across the face. She braced for either one and received neither.

“Shall we join America and Valentine for a spot of tea?” Mrs. Parker slipped an arm through hers. “You must realize, Mia, that whatever transpires between Jason and I is a private matter. But I might suggest to you something I have learned about men, over the years.”

Mia exhaled a breath, brightening somewhat. “That being?”

“Most of them, the strong virile ones anyway, like to do the chasing—part of the hunt I suppose, it gets them wanting . . . needing more.”

Mia nodded. “Yes, of course. I have been too obvious. I must learn how to beguile him.”

Mrs. Parker slanted an amused gaze her way. “Jason is a man of fine character—but I suspect you are a great temptation.”

 

Exeter rocked gently with the sway of the carriage and observed the agitated behavior of his ever vigilant, unflappable bodyguard. Tucked into a corner, Jersey Blood stretched out on the opposite bench seat of the coach and glared out the carriage window. The scowl deepened, however, when he fixed his gaze on Exeter.

“You’re going to have to face facts, sooner or later. Someone needs to administer some relief to Mia—she needs to learn to control that inner wildcat.”

Exeter returned Jersey’s glare with one of his own. “We’ll discuss the matter this evening with Mia. The proposed measures are quite extraordinary and frankly, somewhat deviant. She not only should be apprised of this unusual therapy but she must have a choice in the matter.”

“We are about to embark on a mission that is not without its dangers.” Jersey persisted. “This is a way for her to quickly gain control over the shifting.”

Exeter narrowed a menacing gaze at the Nightshade. “As I said, we’ll take this up after supper.” He had hoped for a method less carnal for Mia. But even the ancient codices had alluded to the control and release of sexual pleasure as a way to manage aberrant transformations.

He inhaled a few deep breaths and fingered the rolled-up map on his knees. Using his own method of mind control, he moved his thoughts to something less perturbing. Their trip to the Drunken Lizard had turned out to be timely as well as fortuitous. They had easily found the cartographer, Potter, in the pub. An angular hollow-cheeked man, with pointed ears that protruded between locks of hair, making him seem all the more . . . elvish. After several pints, Exeter convinced the spindly bloke to sell him his map of the proposed Paris underground. Leastwise, that was what the map’s legend purported. In actuality, the map also included the labyrinth of interconnected limestone quarry tunnels—better known as the Paris catacombs.

“There are a number of ways down into the catacombs from the colleges and there are likely many more.” Potter was on his third or fourth pint and still seemed perfectly alert—not a bleary eye or a slur out of the man. So when he suggested they move to the rear of the pub, they all followed him into a small private dining area and watched the mapmaker consume yet another glass.

“See here . . .” Potter held the translucent parchment map up to an oil lamp that afforded a whole new view of the catacombs. “Secret passageways and pass-throughs only a rare few know of, but be wary”—Potter had flashed a warning look—“not all of these byways are safe to use.” The flickering wick behind vellum paper barely illuminated his face. “Some of these larger alcoves are new, relatively speaking, dug within the last fifty years. Nowadays Red-shirt anarchists and the like hold meetings in these spaces . . . store arms and explosives—so take care. By now there could be miles of underground fortifications that are mined and booby-trapped.”

Exeter mulled over Potter’s warning as the carriage slowed outside 21 Shaftesbury Court. It seemed myriad worries filled his head this afternoon. The trip, the tunnels—and Mia for another. He had left his ward in excellent hands, yet he could not help but worry. The tic in his jaw muscle signaled his underlying concern. Would Mia and Esmeralda talk? And if they did—what, or more specifically, who would they discuss? Mia was curious right now and looking for answers, as were they all. He tried shoving the troubled thoughts into a dark corner of his mind with no success.

Jersey leaned forward and pressed the door latch. “I’ll collect the ladies if you wish.” His bodyguard exited first, and Exeter joined him on the sidewalk. “Would you see the ladies home in the carriage? I intend to speak with Mrs. Parker on a private matter—pop in at Thomas Cook, check on our travel arrangements. I’ll hire a cab outside Drake’s. I shan’t be far behind.”

Inside the brothel, Exeter checked his pocket watch. Not yet four in the afternoon, well before peak hours, and business appeared to be brisk. Exeter glanced at two attractive females sitting in the parlor. They looked for all the world like well-bred young women—not the doxies they actually were. Part of the appeal, and Esmeralda’s secret to success, was appearances. Mrs. Parker’s looked to be more of a quality boardinghouse than bawdy house. No doubt it was even more titillating that way.