The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein (11 page)

“You don’t seem frightened for her in the least,” Ian objected.

“Of course not, dear boy. I sleep much better at night knowing she now has you to watch over her while she is pursuing her field research into vampires and werewolves.”

Before Ian could do anything more than wipe the astonished expression off his face, Lady Mary bounced off in her merry way. Bloody hell! The dratted woman thought he was a babysitter.

Crossing his arms on his chest, Ian glared, daring anyone to approach him. Enough was enough. Nothing else was going to disturb him tonight. But as often happened, his best-laid plans ended abruptly.

The grand door to the salon was flung open. A tall, stately, elegant, and yet pompous woman entered the room with Clair by her side. The aging dame was dressed in an Elizabethan-period gown of fading green brocade, complete with tall white ruffles around the neck. A gold jeweled crown was set atop her silver hair. She stopped before Ian, a regality in her manner. Eyebrows arched, she gave Clair a pointed look.

“My great-aunt, Lady Abby Frankenstein,” Clair said anxiously, searching Ian’s face for a reflection of his thoughts.

Clair had suffered many insults regarding her great-aunt Abby’s eccentric behavior, each one a tiny nail in the coffin of her reputation. She didn’t believe Ian was a shallow man, but experience had taught her the virtue of being cautious where her family was concerned.

A loud cough to her right side brought Clair back from her worries. Glancing at the stern expression on her great aunt’s face, Clair quickly conceded, “Great-aunt Abby is also known as Queen Elizabeth of England.”

Ian bowed formally over Clair’s great aunt’s hand, a courtier’s smile on his face. He assumed an expression both polite and serious, an expression suitable for meeting one’s monarch.

Clair felt the tension in her muscles ease greatly. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her shoulders so tightly.

Another cough came, louder this time. Clair finished the introductions. “Elizabeth the First, Queen of England. The greatest queen of all time—even if someday there happens to be an Elizabeth the Second.”

“I concur,” Ian said, then smiled into the eyes of the older woman. Deep lines fanned outward from the edges, but did nothing to dim the audacious brightness in her gaze.

“I am charmed by the honor you do me,” he said quietly to Lady Abby.

The woman bowed her head regally and moved on to greet the other guests, a study in queenly demeanor. Ian stared after her.

“I take it Lady Abby has a slight problem with reality?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” Clair protested. “Aunt Abby is normal—except when she is having one of her episodes. This time she is Queen Elizabeth. I must admit Elizabeth is one of my favorites.”

“She has other people she impersonates?” Ian asked, fascinated in spite of himself. Not withstanding what Clair said, Lady Abby’s normalcy was a moot point. As far as he was concerned, the woman had more bats in the belfry than Westminster Abbey.

“Oh yes. She believes she is everyone from Caligula to Shakespeare.” Clair searched his face for some sign of revulsion. Happily, she found none.

Ian kept his expression blank, a habit long ingrained. He had been right. Victor Frankenstein wasn’t the only one a few cards short of a full deck in this family. No, it appeared Clair’s nut didn’t fall far from the old Frankenstein family tree, he mused sardonically.

Clair
sat gloating like Cheshire, her friend Jane’s well-fed cat, as she and the other women made polite chitchat and the men finished their brandy and cigars. As far as she was concerned, the dinner party had been a raging success—the one small exception being when Mr. Harre had gotten weepy at the sight of the turtle soup being served.

The talk had been lively, the meal superb, and Ian looked spectacular in his evening clothes. He was dressed wholly in black, with a white waistcoat embroidered with red thread that matched the red ruby pin in his fashionably tied cravat. The handsome devil quite took her breath away.

Ian had also acted with remarkable courtesy to both her aunts, not even lifting a brow when Great-aunt Abby had called out, “Off with their heads,” when the senior footman forgot to pour her more wine.

Clair couldn’t help but beam. Ian seemed to take in the eccentricities of her family with a remarkable calm, like a lone oak standing tall against the woodcutter dancing gleefully around its trunk. She felt almost sure that he was interested in her, which made her heart quicken and her insides feel as if tiny butterflies were alighting in her stomach. It was a truly exceptional sensation for a woman who had learned to compartmentalize her feelings, placing them in tiny boxes to be safely stored away, while she devoted her life to her career.

Breathing deeply, she savored both her feelings and confusion like the men did a fine port after dinner. It was amazing what an attractive beau could do for a woman’s outlook on life.

Noting her friend’s agitation, Arlene sat down next to Clair on the green-striped settee. “Clair, you look provokingly thoughtful. I bet I can guess what you’re contemplating so thoroughly.” Arlene grinned. “One very handsome baron?”

Clair sighed. “He is handsome, isn’t he? Probably the handsomest man in all of London… England… make that the whole British Empire!”

Arlene giggled. “I can’t believe it, but it appears you, my scientific brainiac, are smitten. This is quite the red-letter day.”

“Yes, I do believe I am. It’s like being bitten by bedbugs and not minding. I should be thinking about my vampire theories, but instead I’m thinking of how green Ian’s eyes are,” Clair confided conspiratorially.

Before she could say more, the salon was suddenly filled with the smells of cigar smoke and a faint trace of aged brandy as the men entered. Clair smiled affectionately as Professor Whutson approached. He was one of her favorites among her uncle’s cronies.

“What a fine meal, Clair. I am so glad I could attend.” Whutson patted his belly.

She hugged the older man. “So am I. We have missed you. But I know Dr. Homes has kept you quite busy,” Clair said sincerely. “Tell me, what is he involved with now?”

“Tobacco.”

“Tobacco?”

Whutson laughed at her expression. “Yes, Homes is busy testing different tobacco ash. The other day I opened the door and smelled thick smoke. I thought a fire had broken out, only to find Homes studying tobacco ash.”

Clair’s laughter pealed out like the tinkling of bells. Professor Whutson shared in her mirth, chuckling long and loudly.

“Homes has deduced that he can solve many mysteries if he can tell from where certain tobaccos originate.”

Clair’s smile faded as she grew intrigued, her mind instantly recognizing the possibilities. “Yes, of course! That is quite astute of him. I imagine tobacco is much like a fingerprint. If Homes can determine where villains buy their tobacco, I feel sure it would cut down on investigation times.”

“Quite, my dear.” Giving her a quick peck on the cheek, he motioned toward Lady Abby, who was setting up court. “I do so enjoy confounding Homes with these readings, for I always relate them carefully when I arrive home, and he is always astounded that your aunt is always correct.”

Clair laughed brightly. “You are a wily old fox.”

“If so, I am in good company,” he said cheerily. “Come, let’s enjoy another adventure of the tarot cards.”

The two joined the group around Lady Abby, who prepared to begin her readings. “Come, my subjects, it is now time for the cards.” So saying, she sat down in a tall Louis XVI chair and pulled out her tarot cards. “Who will be first?”

After no one answered, Lady Abby dramatically pointed a finger bedecked with rings at Mr. Poe, who had once again taken up his post by the stuffed raven, that ominous bird of yore. “You there, leave that bird alone and come here.”

Mr. Poe hurried to obey the royal request, seating himself in front of Lady Abby. “My lady.”

“Do I know you, sir? What tempest has tossed thee to my shore? Have we met before, perhaps at Windsor Castle? Did you make obeisance to me there?”

Poe shook his head, looking ill at ease.

Ian shook his head, amused that the man was embarrassed talking to a make-believe queen, but perfectly fine with being enamored of a dead, stuffed bird.

“Come now, sir. No need to be shy,” Lady Abby advised haughtily. “My, you are a beguiling little fellow.” Turning around to face Raleigh, she added ceremoniously, “Raleigh, we must give him an appointment at court.”

Mr. Raleigh nodded from across the room. “Yes, Bess. Perhaps I can put him on as Dresser of the Wardrobe.”

Lady Abby seemed satisfied. “A most worthy position. What say you, Sir Poe?”

Clair hid her grin. Mr. Poe looked like a fish out of water, but then Aunt Abby often had that effect on people. Her great-aunt was as delusional as they came during her episodes, a wonderful old lady full of spit and vinegar. Of course, she also had a heart as vast as the bluest of skies.

Mr. Edgar Allan Poe finally managed a weak nod as Abby adjusted her heavy gown and shuffled the cards.

The cards were drawn, yet remained facedown as the sounds of silence descended upon the room. The only exception was the ticking of the pendulum clock on the fireplace mantel, ticking away the hours of every human life.

Lady Abby glared ruthlessly at the offending clock. “To the tower… take it to the tower. Brooks! Brooks! Take it away, it offends us.”

The long-suffering butler hurried forward, a rare mutinous look on his face. Ian repressed a grin. If this were the Bounty, Lady Abby—alias Queen Bess or whoever the hell she was this week—would be walking the plank.

Brooks quickly bundled up the hapless clock and took it away, muttering under his breath. “They don’t pay me enough to endure this.”

“Now, Mr. Poe, pay attention to the cards,” Abby commanded as she turned three tarot cards over. “By the heavens that bend above us, you have drawn the Tower and the Chariot!” She shook her head. “But also the Moon, which is good.” She looked arrogantly at Mr. Poe. “You will have fame. The power of your words will evoke strong emotions and images. Perhaps you will know great fame, but it will come with a cost. A very great cost. Perhaps the cost of your heart. The road will not be easy.”

“My writings, they will sell?” Poe questioned eagerly.

Lady Abby studied him, seeing in his eyes the mark of a demon. Mr. Poe was a haunted man. “Yes. Hear the tolling of the bells. Iron bells.” But Lady Abby knew the price Mr. Poe paid would be high: his sanity and his life.

The man laughed with delighted abandon. “I was so afraid, so afraid. But I will become a great writer after all.”

“In time. All in God’s good time. But not all of this fame will come in your own time.”

“What do you mean?” Poe demanded. His laughter faded.

“Your greatest fame will be after your death,” Abby prophesied.

“But, but,” Poe stuttered, his expression confused and defeated. “My writings. My destiny is to be a great writer. An author of great renown.”

“You already are, sir. You need no man to tell you that your macabre words have a life of their own, and that they will be remembered for decades to come.” Lady Abby smiled regally, then indicated for him to rise. “Go now and head thy soul away from stealing shadows and birds.”

Poe stood, hesitating, afraid to anger the old lady, but his curiosity was unsatisfied.

“Begone, I say,” Lady Abby demanded boldly in a tone that would have done Elizabeth Tudor proud. Mr. Poe had no choice but to back away, a confused expression on his features.

“My lord.” Turning slightly in her chair, Lady Abby addressed Ian. “Now it is your turn.”

Ian felt apprehensive, but he sat down before the grand dame. He didn’t want his fortune read, knowing his own future far too well. Still, in this gathering of giants he couldn’t risk refusing and having questions asked.

“Now, Baron, draw three cards,” Abby instructed.

She nodded as she handed him the deck to shuffle. “Many men are mere puppets who come and go, formless men who do the bidding of others. But you are not such a one.”

Ian glanced up at the old lady, but he remained silent as he picked the three cards. He drew the Tower, the Hanged Man, and Death. Ian heard a few hushed murmurs of concern over the last card.

Lady Abby stared at Ian for a long while, her expression grave. “Your life has been magic, but also a tragic adventure. At times your journey in life has been obscure, other times lonely.”

He nodded.

“There is great change in your life, continual change. The Tower indicates this. Always there is change, but at the cost of destruction,” Lady Abby explained to everyone, studying Ian closely. “Strange how this change is such a constant thread throughout your life. You keep so many things hidden.”

Ian shifted uncomfortably. Lady Abby was touching on secrets that needed to remain hidden. “My life has been what it should be.”

Lady Abby shook her head. “No, my lord. Destiny causes you to chase the wind and the moon. You struggle to accept what is written upon the wind. Some spell shall bind you.”

Behind him, Ian could sense Clair moving closer. Her curiosity seemed almost a living thing.

Lady Abby pointed to the next card. “The Hanged Man indicates that you are undecided about a situation. You do not know how to act, therefore you choose not to act at all. That will not do. You must act in order to preserve your destiny.”

“And what am I undecided upon?”

Lady Abby only smiled a mysterious smile and shook her head. “Ride boldly down the valley of shadow. Ride boldly.” She pointed to the last card. “The card of Death.”

“That’s something I don’t fear.”

Lady Abby looked deep into his eyes. “No, you are not afraid, but death is stalking you, you know. He rides a big black horse, and he is legion to immortals.”

Clair gasped, moving to stand by Ian’s side, her concern a palpable thing.

“He stalks us all,” Ian said quietly.

“But methinks he chases you harder than most. You have outwitted him so far, but be wary, my lord. Death rides a dark horse and he rides it fast. And as the Norsemen used to say, he rides also the night wind.” She inclined her head. The tarot reading was finished.