He felt a nudge as the minxy, adorable young lady pressed close. “Have you given any consideration to our sleeping arrangements this evening?” Mia whispered.
Somewhat taken aback at her choice of topics, he checked the young woman across the aisle. America had made a pillow of her travel duster and had drifted off for a nap. He leaned close to his ward and changed the subject. “America is no doubt expecting her usual inclusion in this operation, but I must protect her from herself. Phaeton would never forgive me if she or the child were injured—what am I saying? I couldn’t forgive myself. If I deny her participation, she’s likely to balk or, worse, strike out on her own.”
Mia arched a brow. “So . . . you want me to stay close, shadow her without making her feel as though she’s being mollycoddled.”
Exeter nodded. “There will be times I will ask you both to stay behind. Other times, I will want you and her to take up the rear guard. If America sees you cooperating she is more likely . . .” He shrugged, and let his words drift off.
“I see.” Mia flashed a wary smile. “If I docilely go along with your plans, she might be less inclined to make trouble.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.” Exeter frowned. “Exactly.”
Mia pressed her Cupid’s bow to her bottom lip to suppress a smile. Unfathomably, he seemed to amuse her again. “I suppose I could be hornswoggled into this scheme, Exeter.”
“Hornswoggled?” Now, he was amused. “By any chance, is that in the Oxford English Dictionary?”
“To cheat or trick; bamboozle,” she answered his jibe. “I see through your cleverness, Exeter. You wish to keep us both out of harm’s way and you mean to do so by enlisting me as a coconspirator.”
Her pout caused a further grin. “You’ve found me out, Mia. Now, if you will please just agree to my stratagem—?”
“Oh, very well,” Mia sighed. “But you now owe me a singular and prodigious favor.”
“Done.”
She raised her chin. “You never answered my question about sleeping arrangements.”
“We have a three-hour respite in Calais. I have reserved a suite at Le Meurice where we can all refresh ourselves during the layover.”
Mia stared at him. “And what about the night train to Paris?”
He quietly exhaled a deep breath. “Two sleeping compartments. You and I have one to ourselves. America can ride with Valentine and Jersey.”
She moistened her bottom lip, and he noted the red scrape. The one he made when he had momentarily lost control. “So—you intend on giving me another—what would you call it, a lesson, I suppose?”
In the light of day, this had all suddenly become awkward again. Exeter rocked his head. “We could call them training sessions.”
“There is no mention in Valentine’s notes with regards to the duration of these”—she cleared her throat—“lessons.”
Exeter peered over at her. “You’re a quick study, Mia. I suspect it won’t take long for you to learn to control your body to manipulate the shifts.”
Mia lowered her voice. “Odd, don’t you think, that the two are tied so closely together?”
Exeter inhaled a breath, squinting absently into the unknown for answers. “Sexual gratification and transformation? Odd, perhaps, but understandable, and certainly no less shocking then say . . . a proper young English woman asking after the address of a male prostitute.” He raised a brow. “Who gave you the name Etienne Artois?”
He nearly chuckled when her jaw dropped open—only he didn’t. The very thought of Mia asking after a male prostitute stirred up a hornet’s nest of anger in his chest.
She clapped her mouth shut. “Mrs. Parker told you.”
“And well she did, though I have no particular worry over it, since you shall never be without escort in Paris.” He flicked his gaze upward before narrowing it on her. “Why, Mia?”
Her eyes darted a bit, avoiding his scrutiny. “Silly of me I suppose, especially now that you have become my . . . instructor.”
“That was the reason? To become experienced?” Exeter was flummoxed. “A young lady’s innocence is to be preserved at all costs.”
“Why?” She flicked her eyes upward. “I can’t think of a single reason to preserve such an antiquated idea of purity.”
Exeter marshaled his reasoning. “What about the question of pregnancy—legitimacy?”
“Blather and poppycock. Affairs go on between married ladies and gentlemen of the ton with such frequency—frankly I haven’t a clue how they manage to sort through who sired what to whom.”
Sharp as a whip and capable of pointing out the maelstrom of social hypocrisy that was the peerage of Britain. Mia might have joined the Oxford Union debating society, if women were accepted as members. He veered off subject, slightly. “Who on earth gave you his name?”
Mia turned to him. “How long have you and Mrs. Parker been lovers?”
Exeter stared at her. “This may come as a shock, but there are aspects of my life that are none of your business.”
Mia tugged off both gloves and opened the hamper beside her. She lifted out a tray of dried fruit and sampled. “Apricot?” she offered.
“No, thank you.” Exeter watched as she selected a candied fruit. “Was it Phoebe Armistead?” Almost from the start, he had discouraged the friendship. Both Phoebe and her married sister, Lisbeth, Countess of Bath, had reputations. This past summer the wicked little countess had lured him out onto the veranda and made advances. He hadn’t mentioned it to Mia—but he had quietly steered her away from the Armistead sisters.
“How is it you seem to have no compunctions nosing about in my personal business, while I must refrain from inquiring about yours?” She sniffed. “It isn’t fair.”
For the last two days, ever since Jersey and Valentine had returned from the Outremer with Phillpott’s disturbing instructions for shift control, he had felt as though he was on the losing end of a sticky wicket—or was he schussing down a slippery slope? Whichever, it really didn’t matter.
His sigh was long and loud. “Even though nothing in life is ever fair . . . and it’s none of your business, I shall deign to answer you. Esmeralda and I have been acquainted for something over a year, now.”
Mia nibbled on a dried cherry. “How did you come to meet each other? You aren’t the type of gentleman who frequents brothels.”
Exeter relaxed some. If he could assuage her curiosity by answering a question or two . . . what could it hurt? “We both attended a private lecture by Sir Richard Francis Burton.”
“On the Kama Sutra or The Perfumed Garden?” Mia blurted out the words and then halted, abruptly. Before he could raise a brow, a swath of pink blushed her cheeks, followed by a grin. “It took me all morning to find them in the library of secrets.”
He may have been wrong about “what can it hurt?” Exeter proceeded with caution. “Burton addressed the Kama Sutra. Contrary to popular perception, the Kama Sutra is not just a sex manual, it is a guide to virtuous and graceful living that discusses the nature of love and family, as well as the pleasure-oriented aspects of our lives.”
Mia put the sweetmeats away and closed the hamper. She appeared to carefully consider his words. “And . . . have you two explored all the pleasure-oriented aspects of the manual?”
Unbelievably, he found himself grinning at her—and in a lusty flirtatious way. What else could a grin mean after such a question? Rather alarming, but he couldn’t help it. Mia had always known how to elicit a smile, particularly when he was on the verge of becoming exasperated or cross.
And she looked enchanting today, dressed in dark blue and cream stripes—a formfitting navy blazer and a small high-crowned hat set at a jaunty angle, she was the very picture of a vivacious young woman. Phaeton had been right. She needed a new wardrobe—sleeker, rich in color. Without exception, at every soiree they attended, Mia drew heated stares from the young bachelors. A half dozen new evening gowns in gemstone colors with plunging necklines. Good Go
d, he’d have to fight them off her.
He caught a glimpse of silver-gray ocean out the compartment window. “We’re nearly to Dover Priory.” His words were punctuated by a hiss of brakes as the train slowed. “We can take this up again once we’re—”
Mia’s face had drained of color. He followed her line of sight back out the window. Something—strands of dusky black whisked away as he stood up to see more. Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of a whirling tangle of filaments—thousands of tendrils in motion that promptly disappeared.
Exeter opened the compartment door. “Stay with America.” Using a bit of potent lift, he landed on top of the passenger car roof, and widened his stance. The apparition perched on the edge of the railcar, like some strange bird with ragged wings, an amorphous mass of dark metallic fibers merged together, then whipped apart. He took a step forward and the strange entity dispersed into the buffeting winds with a hiss and an eerie, high-pitched wail. A banshee’s moan.
A few scattered raindrops fell on his cheeks; the storm had passed. Not far ahead, rays of sunshine slanted through a break in cloud cover. Exeter lowered himself down the side of the railcar and slipped back inside their compartment.
“What did you see?” Mia sat beside America, who was wide awake and curious, having slept through the initial disturbance.
He shrugged. “Not much, I’m afraid—a glimpse at something odd wearing a ragged cloak of tangled fibers. The tattered threads made hissing noises. Whatever it was—it’s gone.” He shut the compartment door and turned back to the young women.
“Reapers make hissing noises.” America’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “Prospero knows we’re coming.”
Chapter Eight
“A STRONG STEEP OF ENGLISH TEA, and I shall be restored.” Mia curled up in a comfortable corner of the settee and stirred a lump of sugar into her Earl Grey.
Their brief voyage across the channel had gone smoothly and uneventfully. Exeter had spent most of the hour’s journey speaking in low tones with Jersey and Valentine, while she and America enjoyed a brisk walk around the deck.
The moment they stepped foot in Calais, they were greeted by a cloudburst and had made a mad dash to L’Hôtel Meurice. Their suite turned out to be wonderfully inviting and would be a comfortable place to rest and regroup while they waited for the train to Paris.
Mia sipped her tea and sighed. “Out with it—You three have been conspiring ever since the Princess Beatrice left Dover Harbor.”
“Prospero toys with us. It’s the only explanation for why he might send such an apparition.” Jersey popped a delicate tea sandwich in his mouth and chewed with such purpose, it caused her to grin.
“Yes, well, thank goodness we don’t terrify easily.” Mia’s smile dimmed somewhat at her next thought. “I suppose this means those snippets of Phaeton were a deliberate transmission?”
“A lure from the start. He wants us in Paris.” Exeter’s jaw was flexing.
America leaned forward, clearly alarmed. “We’re not calling off the mission. No matter what, I’m going ahead—”
“We are proceeding as planned, but doubling the guard on you, America. As soon as Noggy has the portal ready, we’ll bring over Cutter and Ruby.”
Mia bit her lower lip. “Cutter and Ruby are needed to care for Gaspar—as well as Lovecraft’s son.”
“What about Mr. Ping?” America offered. “He knows many of the secrets of the Moonstone and is a powerful jinni.”
“I have sent urgent cables to the four corners. Hopefully, he will meet us in Paris.” Exeter groused. “I had hoped we might get a few days to ourselves—scout the catacombs, start formulating some ideas about where Prospero’s lair might be—whether it’s in our time or some future realm.”
Mia loved watching the wheels turn in Exeter’s brain. She sampled a smoked trout deviled egg and wrinkled her nose. “I imagine there is an alternate Paris, just as there is an alternate London.”
“There is also the matter of an exhaustive and expensive shopping excursion.” Mia looked up from the platter of delicacies and found him staring at her—and not in the way she was used to her guardian viewing his charge. His gaze sent a tingle running from her breasts to her womb. Something in his eyes spoke of secret kisses and velvet touches, and suddenly she knew. He was remembering last night.
The woman inside Mia met his gaze and held it. “I very much look forward to spending a vulgar amount of your worth at the House of Worth.”
Exeter’s mouth slowly curved upward. “I’m quite sure the results will be—well worth the price.”
“Shall one of us send a wire?” America asked, setting down her cup. “Try contacting Ping, again?”
Exeter rose from his chair. “All this talk of my dwindling income reminds me to contact my solicitor—I want to make sure he’s wired an ungodly amount of British Sterling to Lloyds in Paris.” Then he did something he rarely, if ever, did. He winked at her. “I will also wire Mr. Noggy about the matter of Mr. Ping.”
The moment Jersey and Exeter were gone, America and Valentine called Mia into the bedroom. “Out with it, Miss Chadwick,” America teased. “Something is different between you and the dashing doctor.”
Mia could hardly contain herself. “Is it obvious? Oh, I do hope so.”
Valentine shot her a sly mile. “Exeter has never looked or acted more romantic. You both exude, well, to be frank—there is an evident underlying sexual tension, Mia.”
“Just seeing you both . . .” America sighed. “I miss Phaeton, so very much.” Mia hugged America tight, or as close as she could. Mia rubbed her roundness. “Exeter refers to this as your ‘goddess belly.’ ”
America’s eyes brightened, then narrowed. “And this very pregnant goddess would like an arousing and delicious tale now. You must tell all, Mia.”
“From the start—he was so worried about losing control—and I was so worried he wouldn’t.” She supposed the look on her face gave it all away—because a squeal went up into the air. All three of them piled on top of the giant four-poster bed. Mia shared as much as she thought seemly—with perhaps a few tantalizing bits just for fun.
The fruit was sweet, the pastry as light as a cloud, and the roast duck, succulent. In other words, they were in France, and the diner fare was perfect. Unfortunately, Mia picked through the lot of it. There was an agitation that gripped her belly—the cat stirred inside and another thing . . . she and Exeter shared a private compartment together.
Lifting a fork, she could not help but admire the large gemstone that sparkled from her ring finger. An oval-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds, and a de Roos family heirloom. Not long after they boarded the train for Paris, they had freshened up for dinner. He had fastened her dress, complaining softly about the number of small covered buttons. Fumbling a bit, she had helped with his cuff links. Reaching into his portmanteau, he produced a velvet box and slipped the dazzling emerald on her finger. “As a precaution, you are Mrs. Exeter for the duration of the trip.”
She had lifted her hand to admire the ring—as well as the fit. “The emerald was part of my mother’s dowry.” He had spoken softly, with a good deal of emotion evident in his voice. “The baron had the ring made for their first wedding anniversary.”
She had met his gaze. “It’s . . . perfectly . . . stunning.”
He had nodded, smiling gently. “Family legacy has it the gemstone comes from an ancient mine in Upper Egypt, and was worn by Cleopatra.” He had taken her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “In keeping with its history—the emerald adorns yet another beauty.” They met their cadre of friends in the club car and made their way to a crowded dining car. She and Exeter were seated at a table for two, while Jersey, Valentine, and America dined together several tables away.
She nibbled on a tender piece of duck breast. There was something daring and naughty about this ruse. Mrs. Jason Alexander Exeter, Baroness de Roos. Another glance at the ring forced a hard swallow past the lump in her throat. She
angled her bustle to one side of her chair and lengthened her back.
She felt like stretching—or prowling.
“How are we feeling this evening?” The doctor in Exeter didn’t miss much, and she was beginning to exhibit signs of a shift. A distinctive flush to her chest, neck, and cheeks along with restlessness.
“The cat stirs—and my head hurts.” She lowered her eyes. “Would you mind, terribly, if I retire early?”
Exeter reached for her hand across the table. “Stay with me—just a few more minutes.” He signaled the waiter. “Cognac.” He looked to her. “Darling?”
Stunned, slightly, at his endearment, she ordered a Cointreau. “Avec eau gazeuse, s’il vous plaît.” Exeter brushed his index finger along the inside of her wrist. “Can you describe what it was you saw, or thought you saw, through the train window as we approached Dover this morning?”
Mia pieced together a careful description before answering. “A hooded face, not unlike the Nightshades when they wear their warrior gear and cloaks—and the cape swirled about, trailing strands of glittering particles. There was a flash of iridescent green in the creature’s eyes as they passed over me.”
“Any recognizable facial features?”
“It was a specter that came and went so quickly, I could almost believe the apparition didn’t happen at all, but for the eyes . . .” An icy shiver ran through her. “Strange beams of light passed through the glass, but I felt as if there was no life behind them—like the moving images Tim receives from the Outremer. The ones that act and talk like a human being, but are in fact, particles of light.” Tim Noggy often communicated using this form of science, or magic. Frankly, it all seemed rather Jules Verne to Mia. She looked up at Exeter. “What do you make of it?”
Jillian Stone - [Phaeton Black 03] Page 7
