“Have you told him?”

“Not in so many words.” She resisted a frown. “He is aware of my admiration”—Mia lowered her gaze—“awkward as it is.”

Mrs. Parker ventured closer. Something in her eyes spoke of trepidation, but there was also a gentleness in her manner, as if she had expected this moment might come for some time. “Jason loves you dearly, Mia.”

“I’m sure you’re right—just not in the way I would hope to be loved.” Mia swallowed, “I was rather hoping you might help me in this matter. After all, you know all the things he most . . . enjoys.”

The moment she said the words, Mia understood the shocking boldness and impertinence of the request. The Madame stared for a moment. Then the moment turned into a very long moment. Frankly, Mia wondered if the woman was going to laugh or slap her hard across the face. She braced for either one and received neither.

“Shall we join America and Valentine for a spot of tea?” Mrs. Parker slipped an arm through hers. “You must realize, Mia, that whatever transpires between Jason and I is a private matter. But I might suggest to you something I have learned about men, over the years.”

Mia exhaled a breath, brightening somewhat. “That being?”

“Most of them, the strong virile ones anyway, like to do the chasing—part of the hunt I suppose, it gets them wanting . . . needing more.”

Mia nodded. “Yes, of course. I have been too obvious. I must learn how to beguile him.”

Mrs. Parker slanted an amused gaze her way. “Jason is a man of fine character—but I suspect you are a great temptation.”


Exeter rocked gently with the sway of the carriage and observed the agitated behavior of his ever vigilant, unflappable bodyguard. Tucked into a corner, Jersey Blood stretched out on the opposite bench seat of the coach and glared out the carriage window. The scowl deepened, however, when he fixed his gaze on Exeter.

“You’re going to have to face facts, sooner or later. Someone needs to administer some relief to Mia—she needs to learn to control that inner wildcat.”

Exeter returned Jersey’s glare with one of his own. “We’ll discuss the matter this evening with Mia. The proposed measures are quite extraordinary and frankly, somewhat deviant. She not only should be apprised of this unusual therapy but she must have a choice in the matter.”

“We are about to embark on a mission that is not without its dangers.” Jersey persisted. “This is a way for her to quickly gain control over the shifting.”

Exeter narrowed a menacing gaze at the Nightshade. “As I said, we’ll take this up after supper.” He had hoped for a method less carnal for Mia. But even the ancient codices had alluded to the control and release of sexual pleasure as a way to manage aberrant transformations.

He inhaled a few deep breaths and fingered the rolled-up map on his knees. Using his own method of mind control, he moved his thoughts to something less perturbing. Their trip to the Drunken Lizard had turned out to be timely as well as fortuitous. They had easily found the cartographer, Potter, in the pub. An angular hollow-cheeked man, with pointed ears that protruded between locks of hair, making him seem all the more . . . elvish. After several pints, Exeter convinced the spindly bloke to sell him his map of the proposed Paris underground. Leastwise, that was what the map’s legend purported. In actuality, the map also included the labyrinth of interconnected limestone quarry tunnels—better known as the Paris catacombs.

“There are a number of ways down into the catacombs from the colleges and there are likely many more.” Potter was on his third or fourth pint and still seemed perfectly alert—not a bleary eye or a slur out of the man. So when he suggested they move to the rear of the pub, they all followed him into a small private dining area and watched the mapmaker consume yet another glass.

“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.”