Exeter was quite taken with the evening wear and chose a black velvet opera cape, embroidered with graceful sprays of gold and red flowers. “Tulipes Hollandaises,” Worth called it. He also fancied a daring gown with plunging neckline, front and back—and a corset so beautifully embroidered it was designed to be seen.

The Italian countess admonished Exeter with a chuckle. “You will have all of London ogling the baroness.”

Mia sat up, pressing her hand to his arm. Something blue was headed their way—an understated froth of a gown strolled through the room. Embroidered silver dragonflies shimmered through a thin layer of transparent overdress. And the décolleté? Exeter imagined perky round globes and a hint of cleavage. His sudden surge of arousal, however, was very real. He turned to Mia, who tore her eyes off the dress long enough to meet his gaze. Yes.

After a near endless parade of evening wear, the showing was finally over. Mia was shuttled into a fitting room to be measured, as Exeter finalized their purchases. He inhaled a quick gasp—twice as much as he imagined. He nodded to Worth, “I look forward to seeing Anatolia in the loveliest gowns money can buy.”

“Absolument! Stunning on such a beautiful baroness.” Worth took him on a tour of the back rooms, ending in the fitting area, where Mia was being measured by two female seamstresses. She stood with her arms out, in camisole corset and petticoat, and she was listening quite intently. There was to be a fitting in the next few days—and another, in London, by a House of Worth–approved seamstress, who would unpack the wardrobe and make final alterations.

“Ah, here you are!” The Contessa wove a path around stacks of fabric rolls and cutting tables. “You must both come to my soiree—très intimate—this evening, eight rue de Talleyrand.”

Following close behind the Contessa, Etienne Artois hadn’t taken his eyes off Mia. “Baroness, you would not, by any chance, be an acquaintance of the Countess of Bath?” Exeter quickly made his way to Mia.

“Why yes, I know Lisbeth, as well as her sister Phoebe.”

“Ah, Phoebe—she is a minx, that one, but also enchanting.”

The Contessa’s prostitué stepped forward, just as Exeter swept Mia off the podium. Gripping her elbow, he led Mia to a smaller stall and pulled the curtain. “Any additional measurements will be taken in the changing room.”

Artois reluctantly backed away. “I did not mean to offend Baron de Roos.”

The Contessa chuckled, “Anglais, always so serious! Please do bring your lovely wife tonight and help us celebrate, oui?” The bold woman snapped her fan shut and left the room on the arm of her escort.

Mia opened the curtain enough to poke out her head. “I’m so sorry, Exeter—I didn’t think—until it was too late.” Her cheeks flushed with pink.

He could kick himself. “This is my fault, I should not have continued the Baroness de Roos . . . ruse.”

Mia’s brows lifted in amusement, then crashed together. “But what are we to do? Our elopement—”

He winced at the word elopement.

“Exeter, you know that is what they’ll call it. The gossip will be all over Mayfair.”

He could almost hear the tittle-tattle being tapped out in Morse code, traveling by undersea cable, arriving in Mayfair days ahead of them. In no mood to think about the scandal they had just created, he shrugged. He would think about it later.

For the rest of the afternoon, he escorted Mia up and down the Rue de la Paix, dutifully carrying hatboxes and opening shop doors. But whenever they were alone in the carriage, he managed to do a great deal of grumbling.

“Exeter, I have apologized profusely, I don’t know what more—”

“This is my problem—I’ll figure something out.”

“Why can’t it be our problem? I can ignore the snide remarks and whispers if you can.”

Exeter looked at her for a moment. “Just let me grouse a bit, Mia. I am responsible for your well-being and happiness and—”

“And, I’d be a great deal happier without your grousing and grumbling.” Mia appeared exasperated—then her lips curled upward, and her eyes crinkled. “Are we bickering, Exeter?”

He could not resist her. Locked in her impish grin, he cracked a half smile. “Where to now?”

Mia checked her list. “Hermine Cadolle. Seventy-one, rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin.”

“More hats?” He didn’t groan, exactly.

“Lingerie.” Mia stuffed the notes in her reticule. “We don’t have to—”

“Skip the one shop I’ve been looking forward to all day?” He tapped on the trapdoor of the carriage. “Seventy-one, rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin.”

Madame Cadolle’s proved to be well worth the wait. Not only were there exquisite corsets and brief pantalettes made of silk and handmade lace, but the woman had invented something new—a two-piece undergarment called le bien-être. The lower part was a corset for the waist and the upper supported the breasts by means of shoulder straps.

After an arousing, near naked fitting for Mia, his smile had returned, though he was perhaps more on edge than ever. He had sat in rapt attention as Mia’s breasts were stuffed, plumped, and lifted into corsets, camisoles, and yes, even le bien-être.

On the way back to their hotel, he exhaled a breath and checked his timepiece. “After four o’clock.”

Mia gazed out the carriage window. “There is almost no place in Paris one can travel and not see the Eiffel Tower.” She looked a bit pale in the afternoon light.

“You must be exhausted from all the shopping and fittings.” Exeter noted the furrow in her brow, a sign of a headache. “How are the two of you feeling?”

Mia continued her gaze out the window. “Soon, Exeter.”

Good God. He was hard from her answer. The hot blood of pure lust burned in his veins. He’d spent the day admiring beautiful gowns and underthings—imagining Mia in all of them. No wonder he was irritable. Yesterday, he had let her handle his cock, bring him some relief, and already he thought of her as his concubine.

Inside the hotel, Exeter arranged for their packages to be brought up. He pocketed a few messages and joined Mia at the stairs. On the sixth floor, Tim Noggy answered the door looking a bit deflated.

“What’s wrong?” Exeter asked.

He shook his head. “The bugs are on the move—it’s just that they’re slow. We’re not going to have a bead on Prospero’s hideout until morning.” Tim led the way to the dining room. Jersey, Valentine, and America already sat at the table. “Sorry we’re late.” Mia sat down.

“You haven’t missed much.” Tim rolled the pocket doors closed. “As I said—the bugs are slower than anticipated.”

Exeter moved around the table to get a closer look at the activity in the catacombs. The electronic map displayed a flurry of tiny green dots moving at a snail’s pace. “How long before they run out of power?”

Tim stuck his lower lip out. “Ten, twelve more hours.”

Exeter turned away from the map. “Cutting it close, Noggy.”

The big man’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling and over to the map. “You’re telling me . . . Doc.”

“Where’s Ping?”

“He’s having a walk through the catacombs from the Outremer.” Valentine offered.

“I expect Prospero has some sort of forbidding presence in the Outremer.” Exeter fished in his pocket and opened a gilt-edged envelope. “A formal invite from the La Contessa di Castiglione . . . who likely worked as a spy for Napoleon the third—no doubt she—”

“Got the hotel name from Charles Worth.” Mia pressed her lips together and stifled a laugh.

Exeter moved on to the next message, but not before he shot Mia a look across the table—the spanking look. “This one is— ah! We are all welcome to visit the exhibits at the exposition grounds, including Mr. Eiffel’s Tower, compliments of L’Hôtel Claude.”

Exeter crumpled the notepaper and opened the next. He read the words once to himself, and then read them again, out loud. “ ‘Meet me at L’Enfer tonight.’ Signed, Phaeton Black.” Exeter surveyed the room and didn’t bother to pose a question. It was obvious the note was a tempting trap of some kind.

America’s tawny cheeks drained of color. “Phaeton wants us to meet him in Hell?”

Chapter Fifteen

“IT APPEARS HELL HAS A STREET ADDRESS.” Exeter handed the missive to America. “Fifty-five Boulevard de Clichy.”

Valentine read the note over America’s shoulder. “If memory serves, Boulevard de Clichy is in Montmartre.”

Exeter searched for the bell pull. “Perhaps one of the staff can enlighten us further.”

“A café of ill repute, messieurs.” The young maid stated in a whisper. “In Montmartre—the Pigalle—le secteur de lumière rouge.”

“The red-light district.” America’s almond-shaped eyes perused the ceiling. “Phaeton shall feel right at home.”

“As well as the devilishly wicked Prospero.” Exeter handed the girl a few coins and saw her out of the suite. This last invite was intriguing, but more than that, the message felt . . . diabolical. It deliberately dared them to come after Phaeton. As Exeter paced the dining room, he noted a small black dot, high up on the wall. The dot moved—just a fly. He changed direction, and halted.

Just a fly . . . on the wall.

Pivoting slowly, he lifted his index finger. A flash of potent energy struck the tiny intruder. “I believe this may be one of ours.” Exeter picked up the smoking insect and turned to a table of openmouthed Nightshades.

Tim Noggy pulled an enlarging glass out of his coat pocket. “Blimey! He’s one of ours all right. You zapped him good—not even a twitch.”

“This would indicate we have more than one spy in our midst—Prospero has likely turned the flies against us. God knows how long he has been listening in on our plans, feeding us transmissions that were sure to lure us to Paris.” Exeter scanned a room full of sober faces.

Jersey rose from the table. “We’ll do a sweep of the apartment. You and Mia need to get some rest.”

Exeter grunted. “The nightlife in Paris starts fashionably late and goes well into the early morning hours. Shall we meet here in the parlor, at say—the stroke of nine?”

America brightened, as her gaze moved from Jersey to Exeter. “We’re going then—to meet Phaeton.”

“I’m afraid this evening’s adventure is fraught with danger, but it is our best chance, thus far, to extricate Phaeton.” Exeter eyeballed the supra-metallic daggers Jersey and Valentine carried. “I do hope those things are fully charged.”

Tim Noggy pulled out a revolver. “Just in case Prospero knocks out our aether.”

A sharp rap at the door brought them all into the parlor. Jersey’s hand was on his dagger. “Entrez.”

A bellhop opened the door. “Delivery for Baron de Roos.”

Exeter waved in the man, who dipped a bow and presented a red leather case stamped in gold roman letters.

There was a quiet gasp and a full complement of stares from the ladies, who spied the Cartier’s jewelry case from across the room. Exeter dug in his pocket for a tip. This was excellent timing indeed. He tucked the box under his arm and turned to his . . . wife. “Shall we try to get some rest, Mia?”

Those same large eyes followed them, as Exeter escorted Mia through the parlor, down a short hallway, and into their room,

Being together, alone in a bedchamber, was beginning to feel . . . normal. Mia sank onto the settee and unbuttoned her shoes, while he moved to the windows. He released a sheer under drape and the effect was—just enough light.

“I don’t suppose you care to attend La Contessa’s soiree tonight?” Mia pulled up her skirts and wiggled her toes before tucking long limbs beneath her.

“I have every intention of crying off.” Moving across the room, his gaze narrowed. “Do you wish to attend?”

She moistened her lips and tilted her head. “No, but I believe you might be less averse to her invitation were it not for the likely attendance of Etienne Artois.”

He came to a glaring stop in front of her. “Why are you so fascinated by him?”

“Why are you?” She met his gaze for an angry moment, and then looked away with a sigh. Exeter placed the jewel case on top of the counterpane and took the seat beside her. Lifting her feet onto his lap, he massaged small toes through silk stockings. “Mmm.” She exhaled a soft moan. “I thought there might be a strategy in attending. Quiet the gossip.” Mia swept a few loose hairs into her topknot and refastened a hairpin. “Would you say Etienne Artois is dashing to look at?”