Jillian Stone - [Phaeton Black 03]

by The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter

  He took a sip of the warm amber liquid. “How long has it been since you and Mia announced yourselves at my door, Mr. Tandi?”

  His manservant’s eyes lit up at the memory. “My word—seems very long ago—ten years, I believe, sir.” Exeter recalled the tall, soft-spoken African man standing in the foyer, holding the hand of a doe-eyed waif of a child, the young Anatolia Chadwick. Mia, as she was called even by her parents, was at best a distant relation. But, it seemed, he and his father were all the child had left in the world.

  Mr. Tandi had recounted a hair-raising tale of a bloodthirsty raid on a small town built around a mining operation. Wearing the clothes on their backs and carrying a hidden pouch filled with diamonds, they had made their way to Cape Town, sold a few gems, and booked passage on the first ship bound for London.

  A last swallow of brandy slipped down his throat. Exeter closed his eyes and remembered the scrawny little girl and the African man—as dark as midnight—standing at the door. He set down his glass and rose from the comfortable upholstered chair. At Mia’s bedchamber, he tapped lightly on the door before slipping inside to check on her.

  Silently, Exeter stood near the edge of the canopy bed. He swept back a veil of diaphanous curtain and watched her breathe, tempted to get out his stethoscope and listen to her heart. She had always looked like an angel in her sleep; since when had she become the devil’s own temptress?

  For several months now, there had been provocative moments between them, including a few ardent displays of affection. Some of Mia’s advances had been quite shocking and affected him deeply. So much so, he wasn’t so sure he could still say that the attraction was entirely one sided. This evening, as was his custom, he had waited on a neighboring rooftop for her. From this vantage point, he had spied Mia seconds before her shift. Her nude figure bathed in soft moonlight . . . so breathtakingly beautiful, he had thought her as stunning as a painting he had once seen by Jules Lefebvre in the National Gallery of Victoria.

  Just hours ago, she had stood on tiptoe and stroked the stubble along his jaw. He had captured her hand, and his lips had found the sensitive flesh on the inside of her wrist. His tongue traced a light blue vein, and her pulse had quickened. “Carus Deus, you are torture.”

  How long was he going to be able to resist her?

  Chapter Two

  EXETER PUT DOWN THE MORNING PAPER. “I didn’t expect you up this early.” He studied his charge over the rim of a tipped cup. She appeared entirely too chipper as she poured the Earl Grey and stirred in a dollop of milk and a lump of sugar.

  “I must apologize for our hasty retreat from the ball last night.” She paused to sip, silently. “You and Phoebe Armistead were having such a lovely time dancing together.”

  It seemed chipper had quickly merged with testy. Mia was nearly always out of sorts after a shift. Exeter set down his tea. “I danced twice with Phoebe. Once because I asked, the second time because—”

  “Once was enough, I should think.” Mia scraped a pat of butter across her toast with excessive vigor. “Phoebe is three months my junior, and yet you appear transfixed by her.”

  “More like three years your senior—and I was not, in the least, captivated.” Exeter paused as he forked up a bite of smoked fish. “Phoebe’s mother pushed me on to her. What was I to do, exactly, dance with you all evening? Even if we were . . .” Exeter stuffed the kipper in his mouth rather than finish his thought out loud. No sense encouraging Mia’s lovesickness. For several months now, she had made him the focus of a girlish, adolescent admiration. He had hoped, once she became more settled with her new dual identity, this infatuation would diminish and her foolish behavior would ease. At the moment, it seemed Mia struggled less with the powerful changes to her body and more with her adjustment to her social life.

  He chewed slowly and swallowed. “It would be rather selfish of me not to allow the attending bachelors a chance with the loveliest young woman at the ball, would it not?”

  “Very kind of you, but which young man do you imagine might enjoy a lifelong companionship with a wife in daylight and a feline in the dark?” She bit into her toast and chewed. “Gilbert Sackville, Henry Madigan—perhaps Charles Mercer Fitzmaurice, Marquess of Shelburne?” Mia dabbed her mouth and returned the cloth to her lap before meeting his gaze.

  “Mia, you must try to take this adjustment one waltz at a time—so to speak.” Exeter lowered his fork and exhaled. “I suppose there is a part of me that hopes for some semblance of . . .”

  “Of what, Om Asa?”

  He shrugged. “Normalcy, I suppose.”

  She fixed a stiff, close-lipped smile. “Is there such a thing for a creature like me?”

  When she spoke like that—softly, with that wistful look in her eyes—his heart ached inside his chest. Even now, when she was trying her best to needle and provoke, he admired her spirit, knowing it was this inner strength—this resilience of hers—that would see Mia through this most difficult time of her life. And he would do anything for his ward—short of what she wanted, which was unthinkable. No matter what his friends advised, she was his charge, and he would not take advantage of her—no matter how often or provocatively she threw herself at him.

  “Never apologize, Mia. Your kind are brought in to this world for a reason.” Exeter fashioned a reassuring smile. “You have a destiny to fulfill, my dear.”

  Mia chewed her toast and swallowed. “Is my new—difficulty—the reason Phoebe is old enough and I am not?”

  He forked a bit of soft yolk onto a flake of fish. “Why do you keep bringing up Phoebe?”

  Mia slanted sparkling dark eyes, full of devilish mischief. “Because she fancies you. She called you wickedly dashing, and once said she’d like to come upon you in a dark corner of the gallery behind the ballroom.”

  Exeter nearly choked on his bite of kipper and egg. “Since when does this kind of unseemly chitchat go on between young ladies of quality?” Mia’s chortle of laughter destroyed his attempt to appear stern and disapproving. “And what about that poor young man—Cecil? You were rather rude to him, Mia.”

  His slightly forlorn ward sighed. “It was unkind. But he’s always lurking about. I can’t have a glance across the ballroom without him staring at me.”

  “That’s because he’s smitten.” Exeter softened his scrutiny, but continued to stare at his lovely ward. “And your prowl about last night, after the ball? Are things . . . getting any easier?”

  Her expression darkened before she looked away. “You should know—you followed me from rooftop to rooftop.”

  The door opened and Mr. Tandi entered the dining room. “A message, sir.” Exeter picked up the envelope from the silver tray.

  Early this A.M., iDIP’s tracker picked up the following transmission from the Outremer:

  Voice identified as that of Phaeton Black: “What is this insatiable lust for the Moonstone all about? According to Ping, even if I wanted to help you, the force inside this stone has a moral compass . . . (static) . . . no new army of snake heads. I’m afraid . . . (static) . . . sorry to disappoint.”

  More static before an unidentified voice speaks: “Whose morals—yours or mine?”

  Voice identified as Phaeton: “And no snidely trickery.”

  Transmission cuts off.

  A hurried postscript was added across the bottom of the message in Tim Noggy’s hand.

  Doc—you won’t believe where the message came from: 48°53’59”N, 2°17’59”E

  Mia swallowed. “What is it, Om Asa?”

  He read the message again, this time out loud. Her eyes widened at the mention of Phaeton Black. “Do you think it’s really him?”

  He shook his head. “If it is, it’s a miracle. The odds of finding him this quickly . . . Let’s not get our hopes up too high, as yet.” Exeter stood. “Come, let’s find this location.”

  Mia was out the door, through the hall, and down the corridor. If only she could see herself as he did in this moment. Mia thought of her
self as a woman, and, in the technical sense, she was. As he watched her fly down the corridor he was tempted to call out, “No running in the house,” as he had so often done during the past ten years.

  He stood in the doorway of the study and rounded off the map coordinates. “Forty-eight degrees north by 2 degrees east. If I’m not mistaken that should place us on the Continent.” He moved in beside her at the globe.

  Placing her finger on the line of latitude, Mia turned the globe until he found longitude. Their fingers met over—“Paris, France.” Mia jerked upright. “Our Paris, or an alternate Paris?”

  “Mr. Noggy has advanced the idea that there may be touch points—places where one parallel universe connects with another. Just as we have discovered an alternate London, there may indeed be another Paris.” He moved his finger westward, over the globe—across the channel, over the fertile plains of Kent, stopping at London. “A few months ago, before we lost Phaeton, he suggested a new wardrobe for you, Mia. Something less ingénue. Gowns that are more—sophisticated.”

  “I love that man with all my heart.” Mia sighed. “Not as much as I love you, of course. But there are certain things Phaeton knows . . . mysterious things . . . and so understanding of the female temperament—our dreams and longings . . .” She tilted her chin, exposing a graceful length of neck as she turned to him. “. . . our desires.”

  And then there were moments with Mia, like this one. Sensuous moments when she was so utterly desirable his body ached for her. Caught off guard, his gaze lingered too long on her lips, which parted ever so slightly. Her large, liquid brown eyes returned his gaze honestly, openly.

  He cleared his throat softly. “I thought we might . . . make a trip to Paris—have a look about for Phaeton, and order a new wardrobe for a beautiful young lady.”

  Even as she struggled to remain composed, her eyes lit up.

  Exeter grinned. “One who doesn’t scamper down hallways and say rude, upsetting things to well-meaning young men who just wish to waltz with her.”

  Mia exhaled a deep breath, but didn’t roll her eyes, even though he knew she wanted to. “When might we leave for France?”

  “I shall arrange travel this morning. We could leave by tomorrow morning if my agent can book passage.” Exeter checked his pocket watch. “We’ll give the Nightshades some time to sleep in. Jersey and Valentine got in very late last night.”

  Mia nodded. “I saw Valentine briefly—sneaking out of Jersey’s room.”

  Exeter twisted a look of irony into a faint smile. “In a few more hours, we can all ride over to Lovecraft’s factory together. America should be up and about by now—go check on her, would you?” Mia turned to leave and he caught her hand, placing the message about Phaeton in her palm. “Be sure to caution America about the news.”

  Mia smiled. “After all these months, she’ll likely weep for joy.”

  “And Mia.”

  She turned back. “Yes, Om Asa?”

  “Perhaps you should drop the Om in Om Asa. As charming as it was for you to adopt Mr. Tandi’s honorific”—Exeter felt his jaw twitch from nerves, though he wasn’t sure why—“I believe it’s time to let it go.”

  She lingered near the door of his study. “May I call you Asa privately and Jason or Exeter among company or in public?”

  He returned her smile. “I’d like that very much.”

  She whirled around, tossing a second thought over her shoulder. “And I shall call you ‘the good doctor’ when I’m cross. Or when I’m being minxy.”

  The moment Mia was down the hallway and out of earshot she paused for a muffled squeal of happiness and a bit of fancy footwork. A new wardrobe, designed by couturiers in Paris! The smile she had started with Exeter crept though her entire body.

  Exeter. Jason. And perhaps Asa, when they were intimate together.

  Of course she hadn’t phrased it quite that way, in front of the doctor, but a lady could enjoy a momentary flight of fancy, couldn’t she? She lifted her skirts enough to ascend the stairs. Reaching the third floor, she checked to make sure no one was looking and raced down the corridor to America’s room.

  At times like this she felt completely normal and estranged from the part of her new life that frightened her, terribly, at times. But when those dark urges came—always in the evening, and always so . . . irresistible. At the fifth door on the left, she rapped quietly and poked her head in the doorway. “America?”

  Phaeton Black’s exquisitely beautiful paramour waved her into the bedchamber. “Come in, Mia.” America Jones stood near the tall windows in her room. Her profile was haloed briefly by morning light. She was large and round with child—an earthy fertility goddess—and she had never looked lovelier.

  Exeter had made the remark the other afternoon at tea. And Mia wholeheartedly agreed. America had put on a bit of weight, and her cheeks glowed a rosy peach color, The effect over fawn skin tones was stunning. Everything about her spoke of the new life growing inside her. Phaeton’s child.

  Mia thought about the hopeful news she carried in her hand and smiled. She opened and shut the door quietly. “Exeter received a message from Tim Noggy.” She paused, making sure to measure her words. “It seems Mr. Ping’s flies on the wall have captured a conversation . . .”

  America searched her face. “What are you saying, Mia?” Her voice was hesitant, as if she already knew but wouldn’t dare let herself hope.

  “One of the voices has been identified as Phaeton’s.” Mia held out the folded paper. She felt the tremble in America’s hand as she passed her the note. “Perhaps you should sit down.” Mia guided her over to the settee.

  America held onto her hand as she read and Mia bit back the urge to speak until she could stand it no longer. “Well? I do think there is room to be hopeful, even though Exeter advises caution.”

  America held up a finger. “Shh! Let me read his speech again.” Her gaze slid back and forth across the notepaper and stopped. “Snidely trickery.” Her eyes sparked with light. “That certainly sounds like Phaeton vernacular—don’t you think, Edvar?”

  Large yellow eyes blinked as the gargoyle gradually made his appearance. A snort or snuffle from the leathery gray beast ended in a whiny, high-pitched yuk-yuk. America grinned. “There is always a little bit of no in every yes from Edvar, ” she explained. “Phaeton claims Edvar is contrary by nature, but I have come to believe he’s just a grumbler.”

  “Contrary and curmudgeon do go hand in glove.” Mia agreed. She had only recently become aware of Edvar’s presence, though Exeter had always been able to see the little fiend. Not much larger than a medium-sized terrier, the gargoyle had been Phaeton’s companion since he was a child. Mia thought it quite charming and wonderfully protective of the creature to remain at America’s side all these months. Mia squeezed her hand. “Tim was able to get map coordinates.”

  Near breathless, America looked up and whispered, “Where?”

  “Paris!” Mia could contain her excitement no longer. “We’re going after him.”

  America’s gaze searched her face. “How—when?”

  “Very soon. Tomorrow, if possible. I’ve sent messages to Tim Noggy, as well as my travel agent at Thomas Cook & Sons.” Exeter stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”

  “Please.” America waved him in.

  “Jersey and Valentine are downstairs breakfasting.” Exeter cocked his head and examined her breakfast tray. “I see your appetite remains hearty.” Gently, he took hold of America’s wrist and removed his pocket watch. “Strong pulse—perhaps a bit fast, but after the news”—he smiled at her—“understandable.”

  America wiped away a tear and smiled. “Phaeton is alive.”

  Chapter Three

  LAST ONE IN THE CARRIAGE, Exeter took a seat between Mia and America. Across the aisle, their bodyguards sat rather cozily together. He studied the two Nightshades, both darkly beautiful and private beings, who had revealed little about themselves until recently. Valentine Smyth and Jersey Blo
od had been wonderfully helpful in the first days and months of Mia’s shocking transformation.

  Jersey was a strapping male half-breed, tied by birth legacy to an aristocratic line of Normans, who in ancient times had consorted with fallen angels. The result was a race of demon shifters. To his credit, the captain of the Nightshades appeared to be very much in control of his inner Beelzebub, who had never been seen by any of the other members of the clandestine order of sentries with the exception of Valentine, the stunning female Nightshade, who was also Jersey’s consort.

  “His kind are known as watchers.” Valentine had once explained, after Jersey had left the room. “Rebellious angels in ancient times—they roam the earth in search of duties to perform. No matter what you may hear about them, they are warriors and heroes among men.”

  Sensing Exeter’s notice, Jersey lifted his gaze and tried to probe his thoughts. When this Nightshade gazed at you, it was as if he met your soul, not your eyes, and if he was not mistaken, the very private man under the cloak was a surprisingly compassionate creature.

  Exeter dipped his head to see out the carriage window. They were passing Green Park. He settled into the plush squabs of the spacious town coach and smiled at the bodyguards across the aisle. “Was it a good trip into the Outremer?” His gaze moved from one to the other. “Safe journey, I take it?”

  “We had an informative meeting with an Eden Phillpotts—double l, double t—proprietor of the Antiquarian Bookshop, 77 Charing Cross Road.” Jersey’s gaze shifted to Mia, who raised an inquiring brow. Before she could question him any further, Exeter addressed her directly. “On a private matter.”