Jillian Stone - The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter

Green Park, London

“I NEVER THOUGHT I’D LIVE TO SEE Phaeton Black pushing a perambulator about in the park,” Exeter goaded. With the panther by his side, he and Mia ambled along with Phaeton and America.

“I cannot believe it myself.” Phaeton leaned over the baby carriage and cooed. “Pay your godfather no mind, Luna.” The beaming papa looked up at Exeter. “She’s got her mother’s almond-shaped eyes—did you see them?”

America smiled. “Her father’s grin, as well—I saw a hint of it just this morning. And there was mischief in her eyes.”

“Let us hope some good comes of it.” Exeter teased, giving a nod to the two Nightshades behind them.

Jersey Blood and Valentine Smith strolled arm in arm, some distance away. Until they had Prospero safely locked away, precautions were to be taken with regards to Luna, in particular. No one knew exactly what this child born of the moon and stars meant, as yet, but they weren’t taking any chances.

Since they had returned to London, there had been several troublesome episodes at Oakley headquarters in the Outremer. The larger rooms designed to house the wizard had proved less than stable. Oakley had called Exeter over to consult on ways to incarcerate the dangerous, wily Prospero.

“We’ll meet in St. George’s Churchyard.” Phaeton snapped him out of his troubled thoughts. The Blacks and entourage split off at a fork in the pathway heading for Shaftesbury Avenue.

“Bright and early, then!” America called to both of them.

Exeter answered Mia’s wave. “At the stroke of ten, Thursday morning.” He turned them north, toward Piccadilly, where they came upon a new neighbor, a Mrs. Agnes Lassiter. She was heiress to a merchant fleet, and her personal worth was reported to be in the millions. Exeter greeted the woman as she made her way over to get a closer look at the large black cat walking beside him.

“Is he a Panthera parda or onca? ” Wide eyes stared at the exotic animal. “I’m somewhat of a philofelist—cat-lover.”

“ She is a parda, from the southern region of Africa.”

The fascinated woman nodded. “Look, in just the right light you can see the spots hidden by the excess black pigment—melanin—the effect is similar to that of printed silk, is it not?” Leaning closer the woman hesitated. “Might I touch her?”

“She is quite tame, but I do not advise petting.” Exeter smiled.

The woman straightened with a sigh. “Such a beautiful pussy.”

“That she is, Mrs. Lassiter.” Exeter tipped his hat.

“The pheasant is delightful—very succulent.” Mia chewed quietly. She managed to suppress a growl, but not the glare that shot across the dinner table. It had been exactly twelve days, three hours, and forty-nine minutes since their return to London. She knew this because it had been exactly that long since Exeter had visited her bedchamber or touched her intimately. She had brought up his indifference during the soup course, and he had positioned his lack of affection as a necessary disengagement.

“Paris was lovely, Mia, but—”

“I’d rather not listen to any more buts.”

“You deserve to experience the world, meet people, fall in love.”

“Have my heart broken.” She barely choked down whatever tasteless morsel was on her fork.

“If that is what it takes to make you realize you have your whole life in front of you.” Exeter spoke quietly, but forcefully. “I only want for you what every young woman should have. Especially one as bold and beautiful as you are.” Exeter paused to pour them each another glass of claret. “Now, we need to see if you can go it alone. See if you can manage your shifts by using all the techniques I have taught you.”

She took a sip of claret and then another. “What sort of skills do you mean—exactly?”

Exeter sliced a bit of leg meat off the bone. “We shall continue this discussion after dinner. In my study.”

Mia exhaled an exasperated sigh before changing the subject. “Just think, in a few more days, Phaeton and America are finally to marry. And baby Luna will be christened—all in an afternoon.” She smiled. “Even though it galls me to say it, well done, Exeter.”

Since they were to be godparents, Exeter had gamely contrived to meet with the vicar, an amiable man by the name of Wicklow, to make arrangements. “A small wedding after the christening—what could be simpler? As long as Phaeton and America were in the chapel, I thought it expedient to add a ceremony.” Exeter chewed. “Mr. Wicklow agreed.”

He made merry eyes across the table. There was no doubt he felt the tension between them, and was trying to cajole her. “How are the reception plans coming along? Sorry for springing all this on you and then dashing off to Cambridge.”

“Invitations are printed and mailed. Champagne is ordered. We are to have a light supper around seven—with any luck we’ll have the whole motley crew out the door by midnight.”

Exeter tilted his head, curious. “You invited Mrs. Parker and the girls?”

“Of course. They are Phaeton and America’s friends—yours, as well.” She rested her fork and knife on the edge of her plate. “When I used the expression motley crew, I was referring to those unruly Nightshades, including Gaspar, who should be restored enough to attend.” Mia couldn’t help a devilish grin. “Though I suspect a few of Esmeralda Parker’s girls can be just as unruly.”

“I don’t believe our guest list has ever been this interesting,” Exeter sipped his claret. “I hand-delivered invitations to Oakley and Victor. They said they’d try to make it.”

Her brows elevated, then crashed together. “After everything Phaeton has gone through—what he has done for them?” Phaeton’s first act of Moonstone business was to restore Gaspar, as well as their world. “I should think they could do better than try.” A frown did not quite do justice to how she felt at the moment. “You’ve made several unplanned trips to the Outremer of late. Something has gone wrong, hasn’t it?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Exeter hesitated. She knew that look. He was holding back, in a protective way. Finally, he met her gaze. “The Moonstone has turned out to be—temperamental. It’s not just about Phaeton asking politely for powers with an open heart. Apparently . . .” He exhaled. “There are extenuating circumstances.”

Absently, she twirled her wineglass about by the stem. “More than once, Prospero made references to Oakley and Victor—he claimed they had painted him the villain.”

Exeter set his napkin beside his plate. “What else would you expect the man to say?”

“Just—be wary.” She met his gaze. “Things may not be what they seem.”

“I will keep that in mind, if it eases yours.”

She lifted her chin and plastered a smile on her face. “It does.”

Exeter studied her false grin, then changed the subject. “I understand you received an overseas cable today. Anything you’d care to discuss?”

She removed the telegraph wire from a pocket in her gown. “You might read it, first.”

She inhaled a quick breath as he opened the message. When Exeter had cooled toward her, she had felt confused, abandoned. She had also suffered a bad patch of tears and anger—until this wire arrived.

Exeter looked up from the missive. “You’ve been accepted to the Boston University School of Medicine.”

Mia knew without a doubt that she was beaming. “A women’s medical college in Boston. The first school in the world to formally educate female physicians.”

Exeter continued to stare, openmouthed. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I wish to practice medicine. Perhaps forge a specialty in women’s health. Seeing you with America, in the hotel—being your eyes and hands for Luna’s birth . . .” Since his shocked expression hadn’t changed, she continued to state her case. “How perfectly women are made to procreate, to nurture a child in our womb, bear the pain and the joy of childbirth.” Mia jumped up and leaned across the table. “It is my calling, Exeter—be happy for me.”