The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (7 page)

E
XETER PACED THE LENGTH OF THE TRAIN PLATFORM
waiting for the most unpunctual of all the Nightshades, Tim Noggy. Even at this ungodly early hour, St. Pancras station was bustling. Exeter scanned the gallery for any sign of the rotund young man. Pale shafts of light passed through a canopy of steel beams and skylights, spotting the platform with light. He tucked several morning newspapers under his arm. All of them predicted rain.

Absently, he went over the day’s itinerary in his head. They would travel in close proximity to one another, but not together. He had seen his fellow travelers into two first-class compartments. The idea was to get to Paris quickly, drawing the least amount of attention to themselves as possible. Also, if one group ran into trouble, the other could either lend assistance or have a chance to escape.

Mia waved to him from inside their compartment. Exeter paused close by the window of the passenger carriage and dug for his pocket watch. Last night had been somewhat disquieting, highly erotic, and perhaps . . . the most enchanting night of his life.

A faint prickle of arousal ran through his manly parts just remembering. Mia had been wonderfully responsive sexually and had climaxed, something he was not altogether sure she would do. This had been her first intimate experience with a man, and a decidedly odd one at that, considering he had bound her hands and kept the first session as clinical as he possibly could.

In the harsh light of morning he had awoke to a humbling thought. His insistence on being so clinical had more to do with protecting himself than it had been about Mia.

He flipped open his watch. Seven fifty-five. “We leave on the stroke of eight, Mr. Noggy,” Exeter muttered to himself. He turned toward their compartment. Mia and America were sampling a tin of biscuits from the Fortnum’s hamper, delivered to the house just as they set off that morning. Mia had seen the delivery van and stopped the carriage. Bloody bold of her, and yet thoughtful to have a large basket made up for the journey.

His mouth twitched and he felt a twinge of pain from the mending cut on his lip. In the kitchen last night he had tugged her into his arms and she had kissed him, running a pink tongue along the underside of his upper lip. “Mmm, you taste just like a yuletide truffle, Doctor Exeter.”

“G’day, Mate!” The call traveled down the platform, jarring Exeter from his reverie. The large-framed Noggy huffed up beside him. Disheveled, as usual, behind schedule, always, and carrying no luggage.

“Oddly enough, there is a kind of predictability to your lateness, Mr. Noggy.” Exeter greeted him with a frown. Tim’s cheeks were flushed pink from exertion along with a few beads of ever-present perspiration. “Have you ever considered dropping a few stone? Your circulatory system would thank you for it.”

The look he received from Noggy could be described only as nonplussed. “You don’t approve of my triple-x, big and tall size, Doc?”

“Outremer gibberish, Mr. Noggy. I am concerned for your health.” Exeter asked about the obvious lack of luggage. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your valise.”

Tim swept back a tangle of wild hair and answered in his odd parlance of Outremer English. “I’m not coming with you—but, give me a day and a few more tweaks to the iDIP, and I’ll meet you there.”

He stared at the young inventor. “You’ve got the portal maker working . . .”

Tim’s grin was as wide as a crescent moon and as sly as a Cheshire cat. “Both ins and outs. Accurate to within inches of our map coordinates. Oakley helped install a new computer—the brains of the engine.” Tim was obviously enthused and nearly tripping over his words. “Just give me a day or two and we may be able to extract Phaeton from wherever he is. Just—
whoosh
! And he’s home again.”

Exeter clapped his mouth shut and stared. “How likely might this be?”

Tim’s eyes rolled upward as he considered his answer.

“Last call, all aboard for Dover Priory.” The conductor’s shout accompanied a low whistle and blast of steam as the train began to leave the station. Exeter checked up and down the deserted platform. “Quickly, Tim.”

The large young man fished in his pocket and produced a tubular device encrusted with toggle switches. “Here—take this.” He pushed the contraption into Exeter’s hand, as he jumped onto the first step of the passenger car. “It’s a new and improved portable transporter, programmed to send you all back home.” Tim trotting alongside the moving car. “Not Outremer London—1889 London.”

Mia lowered a window. “Are you both mad? We’re about to leave without you.”

Exeter opened the compartment door and climbed in. “Mr. Noggy will be joining us in a day or two.”

“Chocolate-covered cinder toffee?” Mia leaned out the window and dropped a few chunks of honeycombed toffee into the man’s palm. As Exeter settled down beside her, she waved. “
Au revoir,
Tim.”

Mia opened the tin. “Cinder toffee?” To please her, he bit into a piece as he unfolded his newspapers. “Why isn’t Tim joining us?” she asked.

Exeter snapped open his news sheet. “Because . . . it appears he may be joining us in Paris via the portal maker.” Exeter lowered his paper to speak to both young ladies. “Mr. Noggy believes we may be able to locate and extract Phaeton using the iDIP.”

America perked up. “Much safer in some ways. But do you believe he can do it?”

Exeter smiled. “That is why we continue on to Paris, undeterred.” America was skeptical. Frankly, he couldn’t blame her. Her distrust was natural, and rather shrewd. She and Phaeton had survived a myriad of trials recently—put to the test, so to speak, by a powerful entity known only as Prospero. Was this creature man or beast? Magician or scientist?

The trip to Dover started out pleasant enough. Somewhere past Chatham Station, the skies opened up, but the rainstorm proved mild and the young ladies excellent company. As they traversed the lush greenery of Kent, Exeter tried to relax. He was edgy, more so than usual, and he was quite sure his discomfiture was caused by the lovely young miss beside him. With each lurch or sway of the car, her shoulder brushed against him. And with each rub, the faint scent of carnation soap wafted in the air. Mia had simply become a torture to him. In fact, if he continued to have such lascivious thoughts about her he was going to be irritable the entire trip, and that would not do.

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 God, he’d have to fight them off her.