after America and Valentine. “Be sure to ask Mr. Potter if he might have a copy of the original quarry map—as I recall, there are several unauthorized entrances.” She tried a smile, something to warm the scowl on Exeter’s face.
“Mia, I’d rather you didn’t . . .”
A low iron fence encircled the below-stairs office. “Didn’t what?” She hesitated at the gate. Turning to Exeter, she arched a brow. “Why would you object to a visit with Mrs. Parker? She’s a friend of yours, is she not?”
Chapter Four
MIA FELT THE COOL DISAPPROVAL of Exeter’s gaze all the way down the stairs to the below-street shop America and Phaeton rented from Mrs. Parker. She tilted her head back to read the writing on the plaque above the door knocker.
Moonstone Investigations
The mental image of her guardian’s icy stare melted away as she opened the door and viewed the space that had recently been refurbished. The walls were papered in a subtle paisley of warm caramel tones, and the furniture, though not ornate, was quietly professional. Two upholstered wing chairs were angled toward a desk that had recently been polished to a gleaming luster. “I quite love the smell of beeswax.” Mia sniffed. “My word, this is, so”—she searched for the right words—“very professional. I would guess it to be the office of a solicitor, if I hadn’t read the sign on the door.”
America beamed. “Phaeton insisted we not look like a couple of gypsies out to hoodwink a frightened client who has just seen an apparition.”
Mia examined a smaller secretary positioned under a high-set window. A Franklin Typewriter perched upright on a small desk no larger than a vanity, and beside the typewriter, a gleaming wood box. A brass armature cradled a handle with a speaking cone at one end and a listening cone at the other. “And this is the telephone I’ve heard so much about,” she exclaimed. “May I?”
America showed her how to hold the receiver and crank the handle. “One short ring for the exchange.” Mia’s eyes grew wide as she listened intently. “The gentleman is asking for a name?”
“Tell him you wish to speak with someone at the order desk of Fortnum and Mason,” America whispered with a grin.
Mia nodded, speaking somewhat stiltedly. “I should like to speak with the gentleman at the order desk at Fortnum and Mason, if you would, please.”
While she waited for the call to go through, they discussed their favorite Fortnum’s hampers—something to take on the train with them tomorrow. Mia’s eyes suddenly grew wide. “Yes, hello? Is this Fortnum and Mason?” She smiled. “My name is Anatolia Chadwick, calling on behalf of Doctor Jason Exeter, Twenty-two Half Moon Street, Mayfair.” Mia nodded her head again.
America grinned. “You must speak!”
Mia returned the grin. “Yes, yes . . . that is correct. I’d like to order the Park Lane hamper—the one with the smoked salmon and the cheese . . . yes, the one with the Scotch eggs . . . lovely.” Mia winked at both women standing close by. “And a tin of cinder toffees, please . . . dipped in chocolate.” Mia’s head bobbed. “That will be all . . . first thing in the morning—twenty-two Half Moon Street.” She smiled broadly at the group, which now included a very attractive woman who had entered the office through a rear door. “Yes—thank you, sir.”
Mia set the receiver handle down gently. “My word, that was . . . so . . . simple.” Wide-eyed, she turned to the ladies surrounding her. “I want one.”
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
