“And might there be a reward”—in no hurry, the troll rested his chin on a mitten-like paw—“for the effort?”

“Compensation is not a problem. Name your price, sir.” Exeter coughed up a lungful of limestone dust.

“I have no use for money,” the troll harrumphed.

“I see.” Exeter wrenched his neck to get a better look at the wooly mammoth. “You did mention a reward—might we strike a trade, then? My release for—”

“Arcane knowledge.” A large, hairy face dropped down in front of him—nose to nose, only upside down.

“Right.” Exeter inched as far away as his confinement would allow. He racked his brain for an offer. “I am acquainted with a gentleman by the name of Mr. Eden Phillpotts, proprietor of the Antiquarian Bookshop, 77 Charing Cross Road. London.”

The troll lifted the rest of his hulking frame over the top of the rock pile and took a seat on a slab of limestone. “And might this proprietor—have a knowledge of spells?”

The furry-faced character removed a pipe and pouch of tobacco from a velvet smoking jacket. Exeter noted the elaborate tangle of embroidery covering the shawl collar and cuffs. Rather tony for a troll. “So . . .” A side of his mouth twitched upward. “You are a prince who was turned into a creature of the catacombs by an evil sorceress.”

The troglodyte struck a match and puffed, thoughtfully. “Hardly a gripping hypothesis, yet astonishingly accurate in some respects.” The acrid stink of sulfur was quickly replaced by the pleasant scent of pipe tobacco.

For a moment, Exeter thought he might be balmy from lack of oxygen. “Or, if you’d rather—I have an extensive private collection—in the library of secrets—the shelves are chock-a-block with spells, as well as counterspells. You are welcome at Roos House on the Thames anytime you happen to be in London . . . in the late nineteenth century.”

The troll took a few more meditative puffs. “Counter . . . spells?”

Exeter nodded. “Indeed. For every conjuration there is often an equal and opposite incantation, or haven’t you heard?” For a beast under an enchantment, the troll seemed woefully unacquainted with spells. Unless this strange character was acting the dunce. As exhausting as this circular conversation was, he almost smiled. “Newton’s laws of spells, actually.”

Exeter. The baby is coming.

Chapter Twenty

MIA BANGED ON THE HEAVY IRON DOOR. “We have a young woman in here who is in labor. Open up this minute.” Her fist came away covered in red dust, the rusty residue of a door that had to have medieval origins.

“Mia . . . dear . . . you know nothing of birthing.” Phaeton’s white-knuckle grip on his cell bars gave him away. He was losing his composure.

“Exeter does.” She banged on the door again. It was rather touching to witness the unflappable Phaeton Black lose his equanimity. It might even be amusing, were it not for the fact that America was about to give birth. Perhaps to a very special child.

She turned to pound again when a small panel slid back. The grating noise made her skin crawl. Formal attire—including a white bow tie. Prospero ducked to see through the opening. He appeared to be dressed for an evening at the opera, or perhaps a ball.

“Why do you disturb me so?” He asked the question in a rhetorical manner, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. It might almost be charming if it were not for the fact that her friend was in labor.

“Release us,” Mia pleaded. “I need to get America to the hospital—we are in the Outremer, are we not? Exeter mentioned they deliver babies in hospitals.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” His words and tone were clipped, resolute.

“You can have the damned stone—I’ll ask for whatever you want—just get her to a doctor.” Phaeton shook the bars of the cell so hard they actually rattled.

“Oh, dear,” America moaned. “I’m leaking!” Water formed a puddle underneath the bench America lay on.

Her water has broken. Exeter interjected. The contractions will begin to come at closer intervals, now. His thoughts helped her immeasurably. Whatever happened, she would not be alone—a doctor would guide her, but oh Lord, could she do this?

“I have a meeting across town—in your time.” The wizard’s words jerked her back to the small opening in the door. He was not nearly as frightening dressed in a tuxedo and silk opera hat, but the dark menacing look had returned. A look that spoke of mistrust, anger, any number of unspeakable terrors. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere.” As cavalier as Prospero appeared, his gaze continued to flick past her to America.

Mia looked him up and down. “Conspiring to make more of those ungodly miserable creatures?” She bit her lip, wishing her cheeky mouth was a bit less sharp. Still, she met his gaze and did not falter. “What if I offer a trade? Me, for blankets and pillows, towels, soap and water . . .” She rattled off a list of supplies as fast as Exeter enumerated the items in her head.

Prospero squinted. “I already have you.”

“Granted, you have captured me and could take me by force, but honestly, aren’t you bored flailing that cat-o’-nine-tails about? I could offer genuine affection. We could start with something sensuous. I could oil some anal beads . . .” Silently, she thanked Exeter’s small but exotic pornography collection. “Would that pleasure you? Or you might allow me to caress the scars on your back.” She swallowed. “Whichever . . . would please you most.” It was her first and only erotic flirtation, and a bit awkward at that.

Mia held her breath and waited. She caught a glimpse of Prospero’s stunned face as the metal grate slammed shut. She turned to her friends, and exhaled a sigh of defeat. Phaeton winked at her. “Bloody, brilliant, Mia. Give him a moment.”

She straightened. “Do you think so?”

“He’s a bit of an odd duck, very emotional at times.” Phaeton shrugged. “Any sentiment hardens quickly, so beware, he’s . . . ruttish.”

Mia knelt in front of America’s large bump and massaged lightly with her fingertips. She spoke in a harsh whisper to both Phaeton and America. “The Nightshades have a plan, which I suspect is going to play out fairly quickly. Let us hope for the best.”

America started to wail a bit and gasp for air, as a contraction clenched her belly. Oh, Exeter, what shall I do?

Stay calm and reassure her.

“Everything is going perfectly, America. Your water has broken.” Trying for cheerful, she managed a tight-lipped smile. Hard to not be terrified under the circumstances. America in labor and Exeter buried under a several tons of rubble. He claimed he was safe for now, having cocooned himself in potent energy, but how long would he be able to hold back the crushing weight of stone? Mia could only imagine the exhaustion he must be experiencing.

She chewed on a raw bottom lip and stopped herself. She must not unduly worry America and Phaeton. They had a baby on the way under the most stressful circumstances imaginable. She would not tax them further.

Grating and creaking noises caused them all to look up. The pair of odd creatures from the cabaret, Dee and Tweez, respectively, carried in blankets, pillows, and towels, along with a large basin of hot water and a cake of soap. Prospero stood in the doorway looking formidable—dashing as well as ferocious. And he was holding a medical kit.

Mia squinted. “How did you get hold of Exeter’s bag?”

He set the satchel down next to her. “I used my wizarding ways.” His sly grin and narrowed gaze lingered for a moment. A shiver traveled through her—his essence—an exotic, subtle kind of magic that felt . . . Mia caught her breath. He studied her reaction with interest. “I collected one of your evening gowns and a few unmentionables.” He nodded to the folded pile beside the kit.

She was being drawn to him. No doubt a spell of some kind, just like in the shower. She steeled herself and was aided by the interruption of another contraction.

Phaeton strained to hold America through the bars. “I’m here, darling.”

“Don’t you dare darling me,” America gasped as the contraction grew stronger. “You did this to me.”

Undaunted by Prospero’s wide stance and dark glare, Mia pleaded with the wizard. “Please let him out. He should be by her side—hold the baby, once she arrives.”

“Phaeton stays where he is. You can move her closer to the cell, if you wish.” Prospero directed the two bulbous-headed droolers to unlock the cuffs on America’s wrists. He then lifted America up in his arms. “What are you waiting for? Move the bench.” The smallish creatures pushed the heavy wooden seat against the cell bars and Mia covered it with a blanket and sheet, quickly propping several pillows at one end. Prospero set her down gently and turned for the door. “I won’t be long.”

Mia placed America’s hand in Phaeton’s. “Squeeze.”

A sudden feeling of abandonment came over her—not that this man was much comfort, but he was a wizard. He could make things happen. “Wait. Who are you meeting with?” She was well aware of the audacity of her question. “In case I need to get ahold of you.”

He stopped abruptly. “. . . Eight rue de Talleyrand. I have an engagement with a Mr. Julian Ping.” He pivoted back to her slowly. “Know him?”

Mia shot upright and stared. She neither confirmed nor denied any knowledge of Ping, but even so she suspected he saw through her silence. A wry, thin smile tugged at the ends of Prospero’s mouth. He glanced at America, who was beginning to puff again. “Miss Jones, I leave you in capable hands.” He nodded to his henchmen. “Make every effort to provide Miss Chadwick with whatever she needs.” The moment the iron door slammed shut, Mia dressed in a hurry.