“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 . . .”

She was tempted to answer in Alice-speak, something memorized from childhood. But was he baiting her? Exeter often accused her of being immature, but in actuality, it was he who was uncomfortable with the notion of her maturity. She slid a sultry smile his way. “As long as it’s not poison, wot?”

Emboldened by several sips of brandy, Mia turned to Jersey. “And what more can you tell us of this—bookshop proprietor, Mr. Eden Phillpott?”

Jersey puffed slowly on his cigar. “Valentine and I were escorted into a small room in the back of the shop. He sat in a large chair with his legs crossed—part human with the head of a lion.”

Mia stared. “Like the Egyptian goddess, Hathor, or . . . male equivalent?”

Jersey cracked a lopsided grin. “He wore a tweed shooting jacket with elbow patches and smoked French cigarettes, lighting one from the butt of the other.”

Mia leaned forward. “You mentioned his teachings—knowledge that must be imparted to my body. How might this be accomplished?” She looked from one man to the other. “I take it that someone—must instruct me, personally?”

Exeter set his brandy down. “How are you feeling this evening?” Gently, he took hold of her arm, placing his thumb on her wrist. Hooking a finger into his waistcoat pocket, he slipped out his watch. Mia waited for him to finish taking her pulse. He asked the same set of questions every evening.

“Somewhat agitated, I suppose.” She exhaled, a bit loudly. “There is this—I don’t know how describe it. It feels like tension. And sensations of hot and cold—as if something is building inside me.”

“Your pulse is up, slightly, from last night.” Exeter released her wrist. “No headache?”

She shook her head no, then yes. “There is a dull pressure in the back of the skull. Nothing painful, as yet.”

Exeter settled into the wing chair opposite. “Mia, there is a doctor on Harley Street. In fact there are several physicians who treat women’s hysteria with a massage therapy. I thought we might consider—”

Mia cut in. “But, what if something went badly wrong—a shift in the middle of treatment?”

He sighed. “That is one of the complications.”

Mia’s cheeks flamed with heat. “This is all so humiliating.” She slid her gaze from Jersey to Exeter. “Why couldn’t you do this therapy?”

When Exeter hesitated, Jersey snuffed out his cigar. “Someone has to relieve her, Jason. If you won’t do it, I will.”

Exeter’s frown darkened into something truly menacing. “You will do no such thing.” The two men stared each other down.

Finally, Jersey broke the deadlock. “Mr. Phillpott kindly provided us with instructions—a version of this very technique has changed things dramatically for me. I believe it will work for you, as well, Mia.”

“And yet, we actually know very little about this therapy,” Exeter’s argument was more of a warning.

Jersey stood and stretched. “I’m off to play a cutthroat game of backgammon with Valentine.” On his way out of the study, he tossed a conspiratorial wink at her just to irritate Exeter. “Ask him for Valentine’s notes.”

Mia smiled. Everything about this brave and stoic Nightshade had always seemed a bit dark and tormented. But lately he was less morose—as if a great burden had been lifted. “Good night, Jersey.”