The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (Paranormal Investigator)

by Jillian Stone

  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. Usi
ng 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.

  “Jason, this is a pleasant surprise.” He turned toward the familiar voice. The Madame approached, looking lovely, but also a bit flushed, and no doubt curious.

  “Esmeralda.” He nodded formally, quickly shifting his attention to the young women who stepped up beside her. His gaze landed on America. “I gather you have made arrangements to close up shop temporarily?”

  “Yes, I’ve written up a notice and posted it on the door.” A glow radiated from Phaeton’s darling paramour. “The paperhangers just finished the nursery.”

  He’d seen the small room she referred to as a nursery in the flat, and it was no bigger than a pantry closet. Still, her smile was infectious. “Fairies and gnomes?” he asked.

  America shook her head. “Butterflies and honeybees . . . in a meadow . . . with rainbows.”

  “Lovely picture—the babe at play in Elysian Fields.” He broadened his smile, before turning to the madame of the house. There had been little or no contact between him and Esmeralda in months. Not since his battle of wills with Mia had begun—how could he have possibly taken an evening off with Mia’s episodic, involuntary shifts on the rise?

  Exeter made eye contact briefly with Mia. “Jersey will see you home.” He nodded to their imposing bodyguard, who gently steered the young women toward the exit. Mia paused at the door, suspicion written all over her face. “You aren’t coming with us?”

  He shook his head. “I shall follow along after I finish here.” He quickly signaled Jersey with his eyes, who took Mia by the arm and escorted her out the door.

  “Your ward is lovely, Jason.”

  He turned back to study her expression, which had not changed, much. The hint of color that had blushed her cheeks earlier had faded, leaving her a bit pale, though the curious expression remained—eyes full of questions, not knowing where to begin.

  “Might we go somewhere private, where we can talk?”

  “My apartment?”

  He shouldn’t have hesitated with his answer. During his brief moment of indecision, storm clouds gathered behind those lovely ice-blue eyes of hers. “Yes, why not?” He shrugged in surrender and gestured up the stairs.

  Inside her rooms, she turned up the gaslight and moved to a breakfront. “Whiskey or cognac?”

  Esmeralda’s boudoir was inviting, familiar—filled with books and art. Looking around at the furnishings, he could not think of a sofa or chair they had not . . . taken pleasure on.

  Exeter set his hat down on the side table. “Nothing for me.”

  She turned away from him, and poured the whiskey. “One for me.” She poured another. “And one for me.”

  Exeter moved closer, so close he nudged the back of her bustle.

  “Your charge is lovely, Jason.” Sweeping her skirt to one side, she turned to face him.

  Slowly, without taking his gaze away, he reached around her. “I believe I’m thirsty after all.”

  “I shall try a third time. Your ward is love—”

  “Mia needs me.”

  She inhaled a breath and spoke on the exhale—barely a whisper. “I need you.”

  He tossed the smoky spirit down his throat, savoring the liquid amber burn. “We do not need each other, Esmeralda—we enjoy each other.” The whiskey loosed a slow smile.

  Though her lips remained pressed together, she responded in kind. “A good deal of enjoying . . . as I recall.”

  “I assume you and Mia spoke.” He gentled his voice. “This is going to sound terribly intrusive, but I must know what you discussed.”

  “Besides you, or including you?”

  Studying her, Exeter exhaled. “Naturally, Mia is curious . . . about us.”

  Esmeralda pushed away from the breakfront, bringing her lips to within inches of his, but she didn’t move to caress him. At the last second she moved away. “Among other things, she asked me for the address of Etienne Artois, a well-known male prostitute—a young amoureux des femmes in Paris.”

  Exeter pivoted toward her slowly. “And your reply?”

  Chapter Five

  THE SLICE OF CHERRY TART DID NOTHING to soothe the tempest in Mia’s roiling stomach. She gathered her napkin and set it beside the slice of barely touched dessert. If she was not mistaken, Exeter appeared to be rushing dinner along.

  For a time, conversation had been lively at the table, what with talk of tomorrow’s travel itinerary—trains, the channel crossing, and a hotel suite in Calais. Even Exeter’s packing instructions caused a stir of excitement. He had advised Mr. Tandi to have several empty trunks shipped separately for the new clothing items they would return with. “At this point it is hard to estimate the length of our stay—though I suspect we will be there long enough for you to have at least one fitting, Mia.”

  Somewhere between the turtle soup and rib roast, she had caught him staring at her across the dining table . . . with angry eyes. In her youth, she knew what that coal-black stare meant. A strongly worded lecture or worse—a paddling. Oddly enough, a vivid recollection of one of his paddlings caused a flush of heat to rise from her chest to her
cheeks. Good Lord, the thought was—titillating.

  As shocking and disturbing as the changes taking place inside her were, something else had shifted these past few months. Her feelings for Doctor Exeter had transmogrified, as well. She no longer thought of him as her guardian—far, far from it.

  Exeter was the first to stand. “Brandy in my study.” He nodded briefly to the ladies at table, yet his gaze lingered on her. “You may join us, as well, Mia.”

  The pounding of her heart doubled the pace of her footsteps as she was escorted down the polished parquet floors leading to the doctor’s study.

  What was this all about? Exeter had stayed behind to talk to, or have relations with, his mistress. She had a sneaking suspicion it was the former. One, because that was the way Exeter was, controlling to a fault. It was his forte, as well as his favorite pastime, to nose about in her business. If it was possible to huff or harrumph quietly in one’s thoughts, Mia harrumphed. Secondly, she imagined a man who had just had a boff with his mistress would convey a relaxed frame of mind, and Exeter was decidedly unsettled this evening.

  Inside the dark, womb-like comfort of his study, she took a seat and watched him pour brandy into three snifters. “Would you like me to warm yours, Mia?”

  Puzzled, she raised both brows. “I’m not sure—yes, I suppose so.”

  Holding the snifter above a candle flame, he turned the glass. As he warmed the brandy, he related a story that was shocking, yet not entirely without hope. Glancing up from the glass, he studied her. “Sorry to put it so clinically, but there you have it.”

  Mia quietly repeated what she thought she had heard. “You’re saying I could gain control over the shifts by using my own arousal, paroxysm, and release. And as I learn to control these physical urges . . . I will also be able to shift at will.” She swallowed.

  Exeter handed her a warm brandy. “Drink me.”

  Mia looked up into eyes that had warmed slightly. He quoted Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Brandy fumes tickled her nose as she sipped. The warm Armagnac slipped down her throat. “Mmm . . .”