Exeter’s gaze moved around the table. “A trip to the Drunken Lizard may be in order. Pop in on a cartographer by the name of Potter. If I recall, the man spent several years digging around below ground in Paris, as a surveyor for the proposed Métro—an underground rail system. For the price of a pint or two . . .” Exeter quirked up both brows. “Shall we, ladies and gentlemen?”
Mia held on to her hat as the group emerged from the abandoned train station. A strong wind whipped off the Thames and through the looming construction girders that currently made up the Tower Bridge. Would the impressive overpass ever be completed?
America trotted up beside Exeter. “Would you mind dropping me off at Mrs. Parker’s? I’d like to make arrangements to close the office. Better now, before we leave, I should think. I’m nearing my last month and it’s to be expected that I would take a bit of time off.”
America smiled sheepishly. “Once we find Phaeton and our pea in the pod arrives, we can reopen Moonstone Investigations. Try to get back to normal—if such a thing is possible for us.”
A lopsided grin tipped the ends of Exeter’s mouth, telegraphing his skeptical amusement. “The pairing of a daughter of a Cajun witch raised by a sea captain and a gifted investigator of psychical disturbances.” He shook his head. “Such a couple could hardly enjoy a mundane life.” He helped America into the carriage and then turned to Mia. As luck would have it, he failed to notice the flush on her cheeks—thank God. Because she wasn’t about to answer his prying questions.
At the very mention of Mrs. Parker, Mia’s pulse had elevated. Over the years and especially these last few months, she had either overheard or been privy to conversations that paired Doctor Jason Exeter with Mrs. Esmeralda Parker, madame to a bawdy house of notorious reputation, and home to Phaeton Black’s below-street flat.
Something raw and envious roiled around in her gut, and by the time they turned onto Shaftesbury, she was nearly afire with curiosity about Madame Parker. Lost in a preoccupation of lurid thoughts, she listened absently to snippets of conversation, until she caught Exeter’s stern look. “You are and will continue to be the most sought after of any of us, America. Phaeton is obviously being held by someone—whether it is Prospero or some other unknown force . . .” Exeter frowned to emphasize a point. “You must listen and obey my orders at all times or I cannot protect you.”
Mia tilted forward in time to catch an upward flutter of eyelids from America. She well knew the feeling. Exeter could be insufferably protective at times.
In front of 21 Shaftesbury Court, America was soon out the carriage door, and Valentine followed after. At the last moment, Mia stepped out of the carriage. Exeter grabbed hold of her elbow as she descended.
“This is rather irregular, Mia; where might you be going?”
“I believe I’ll tag along here while you and Jersey have a pint or two at the Drunken Lizard.” Mia followed 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
No uncommon psychical disturbance refused,
no matter how perplexing.
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.”