The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein (14 page)

He trembled with anger. Clair was rushing in where only fools would tread—which, come to think of it, described her perfectly. She was a bluestocking kook. And yet, to his grave misgivings, he was crazy about her. Now his queer bird was going to try and dissect Neil Asher, the Earl of Wolverton. The man would chew her up and spit her out without a twinge of conscience. Asher had no soul and hadn’t for a very long time. He was infamous for both lechery and just retribution, a man both revered and reviled. And for bloody damn good reason.

“I am not making an enemy out of him, only a supernatural predator!” she explained.

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted with that distinction,” Ian said. “I can hardly wait for the end of this farce!”

“You pig!” Clair snapped. “I’m not wrong this time. I am absolutely, positively sure. Beyond a reasonable doubt, any doubt. The earl is a bone-crunching, marrow-munching fiend of a werewolf. And I shall prove it!”

“Damn, Clair. Keep your voice down. Do you want him to hear?” Ian warned. He lifted her chin to meet his burning gaze. “How in bloody hell did you come upon this remarkable lack of deductive reasoning? What dubious fodder did you glean from the rumor mills?” He was enraged. She was treading in deep water and he, Ian Huntsley, was forced to drown her or save her pretty neck. “Clair, I’m waiting for my answer.”

Glancing up at Ian with a rueful smile on her face, she explained. “It was staring me in the face all along. Indeed, I feel rather foolish about it. It was rather elementary. He is the Earl of Wolverton. I just assumed that was too easy.”

His patience at an end, Ian snapped. His eyes a furious shade of green, he grunted, “What does the Earl of Wolverton being the Earl of Wolverton have to do with werewolves?”

Clair looked at him as though he were a loaf short of a baker’s dozen. “Pay attention, Ian. Wolverton. Wolf. Werewolf. Good grief! His coat of arms has a wolf on it. I must have been blind. Wolverton is the werewolf of the vampire nest.” Her eyes gleamed with smug satisfaction. “I reasoned it out last night.”

“The Earl of Dover has a dragon crest. You don’t see him out and about breathing fire and eating innocent maidens,” Ian snarled. Then, recalling some of the old earl’s proclivities, he wanted to kick himself. Bad example. The Earl of Dover did eat maidens—the fairer, the better. “I take it you have more than his coat of arms and family name to condemn the man to his furry fate?”

Nodding, Clair began to tick off the points on her fingertips. “Number one, he’s never seen on the night of the full moon, which makes perfect sense since werewolves can only transform into their animal form on full moons, regardless of provocation or predilection. You know they absolutely have no choice in the matter but to go from man or woman to wolf form.”

Yes, Ian knew, but he hadn’t realized Clair was aware. “Go on,” he urged gravely, concerned. Asher would not take this lying down, and neither would several other groups he knew.

“Secondly, I was informed by several jewelers that the earl can’t wear silver—he has a terrible allergy to it. Thirdly, Wolverton is very fit and handsome. Shapeshifters generally are fit. I deduce it’s from all that running about on nights with full moons and the energy it takes to metamorphose,” Clair explained, a speculative look in her eye. She continued to study the figure of the alluring earl.

Ian’s scowl darkened further as she talked. “Go on,” he forced out, gritting his teeth. This woman was dangerous, deranged… and driving him wild with her soft, pink lips.

“Number four, several waiters have revealed that the earl only eats his steak rare.”

“The man should be hanged!” Ian gasped.

“That’s not all,” she hissed. Better people than Ian had mocked her. For a man as bright as he, Ian could be such a dimwit. He just wasn’t getting the whole wolf-man picture.

“I am all agog. Do tell,” he said.

“Fifthly, the Earl of Wolverton has animal magnetism. I calculate it must be a werewolf thing— pheromones and all, you know. His lovemaking is reputed to be even superior to your own.” There, that should shut him up, she speculated. From her limited experience and what limited gossip she and Arlene had heard, men were worrywarts about their bedroom skills.

“The man should be worshiped as a god,” Ian growled sarcastically, jealousy flooding him. He would show her magnetism. He could be an animal anytime she wanted.

“Don’t be flippant,” she snapped. Drat! Ian was still being an addlepated twit. For someone so strong and intelligent, he reminded her of a ten-year-old. And he wasn’t paying attention. He couldn’t see the werewolf in the forest for the trees.

“Sixthly, Wolverton owns wolfhounds.”

Exasperated, Ian ran his hands through his thick hair. “So do I! So does my cousin Galen and so do a hundred other men. What has this got to do with the price of tea in China?”

The bloody woman was an enigma with windmills in her head, stirring up all kind of ill breezes that would undoubtedly blow his careful world away.

Vexed, Clair complained, “Ian, keep up with me here.”

“I’m trying, Clair. I’m trying.” Trying not to strangle you, he thought waspishly. Clair Frankenstein made him madder than any other person alive, dead, or undead.

“I have done a study.”

Ian glowered. How he was beginning to hate those five little words. They were words which spelled Ian’s descent into the madhouse—or, he reasoned sardonically, he could just move in with the Frankensteins.

“The wolfhounds’ footprints hide the werewolf prints. Anyone tracking a werewolf would see that there are wolfhounds in the vicinity and, seeing the werewolf prints, would believe that they are those of the wolfhound,” she explained happily.

Ha! Ian thought. The bloody fool woman acted as if she had found the Rosetta Stone. He arched a brow, begging her to explain, wishing she would become a mute in sudden retribution for irritating him and delving into matters otherworldly. He wished to no avail. Plan A, The Seduction of Clair Frankenstein, was no longer proceeding as planned. He couldn’t even distract her from her quest with a romantic tryst in a garden with the smell of roses and gardenias filling the air and the mystique of the glowing moon. His attempts were a dismal failure.

“However, I do know how to find the truth,” she continued.

“I expected no less,” Ian muttered.

Excitedly, she explained the solution to the problem of wolfish prints. “You see, you follow the wolf’s footprints or wolfhound prints until they turn into those of a man—or vice versa.”

She was so proud of her new hypothesis that her plump white breasts were quivering. The view of the valley of his dreams caught Ian mentally unaware, and a pulse of desire surged in the vicinity of his nether regions. “Neil Asher is not a werewolf in any form or fashion,” he groaned.

Now Clair’s breasts quivered with anger. Ian stared, transfixed at the delectable morsels. In the back of his mind, he wondered why he was overcome by stupidity every single time her chest came onto display.

He shook his head ruefully. It would take a better man than himself to ignore these sudden near-violent urgings enveloping him. Yet he was a fool with a capital F to be thinking of rutting with Clair when the Earl of Wolverton was less than a garden away.

Peering through the hedges, Ian was suddenly afraid that he was not the only one with ravishment on his mind. Ian noted the play of moonlight across Lady Montcrief’s bare breasts. Asher was feasting on them with insatiable delight.

Quickly, he grabbed Clair’s arm. But she was spellbound and tried to pull away, entranced with the scene.

Ian stifled a groan. He knew exactly what Asher would do if the earl learned he had been center stage in a lewd display. It would not be a pretty sight. “Come on, Clair. Now!”

“Just a minute. He’s at her neck again, ignoring those rather impressive breasts. He’s apparently a neck man. If I didn’t know he was a werewolf, I could be persuaded to believe he was a vampire.”

“Bloody hell, Clair! I thought you were interested in science, not voyeurism.” Ian jerked her towards him, debating whether to toss her over his shoulder and haul her off like a bag of sailor’s laundry.

“Ian. Please wait a minute. I want to see the animal magnetism part.”

“Asher is not a shapeshifter! I promise you,” Ian snarled. “Or a vampire,” he added for good measure.

“Gammon you say! I know he is and I want to see,” Clair argued. She tugged on her arm, which Ian was holding in a viselike grip.

That’s it! Ian thought, maddened. He had run tame long enough. Without finesse or gentleness he dragged Clair out of the garden, paying no heed to her protests and less than ladylike curses. But as he dragged the little spitfire along, he worried that Asher knew they had been in his garden spying.

Once they set foot on the terrace, Clair hit him in the groin, causing him to double over in agony. The woman might be short, but she packed a punch.

“Cad!” she complained coldly as she turned away from his pained expression. Then she entered the ballroom alone, muttering to herself, “The truth at all costs!”

Ian narrowed his gaze and slowly straightened, aching. He said with a sigh, “It appears the cost is all mine!”

Miffed
with Ian, Clair left him standing alone by a large faux-marble column. Her thoughts were in chaos. She was surprised her punch had affected Ian as it had. Perhaps he wasn’t as strong as she thought. Of course, she had meant to punch him in the stomach, but he was so much taller than she was.

She was slightly sorry that she had punched him. But the man did make her lose her temper like no one else. He also made her feel beautiful, and her blood hummed whenever he was near. The attractive baron made her want to sing with joy, if only she could sing without everyone wincing.

In one way it was nattering to have Ian worry about her well-being. It showed that he cared enough about her to be concerned. Nevertheless, she was incensed that he didn’t grasp the importance of her objectives or her work. She was no weak-kneed, faint-at-the-drop-of-a-garlic-clove female. How could Ian not recognize this? It was as if he, despite being a male member of the human race, could not be reasoned with. Or maybe because of it. He was too emotional about the whole situation.

“How dare he take me off my werewolf watch!” Clair grumbled.

With womanly wisdom, she decided to let him stew in his own remorse and guilt for treating her as less than the dedicated scientist she was. To teach him a lesson, she flirted shamelessly with those gentlemen of society who did not walk swiftly away when they saw her coming.

“Miss Frankenstein,” a familiar voice said cordially behind her.

Turning, Clair found herself facing her friend Jane’s brother. Brandon was not quite six feet tall, with light brown hair and greenish gray eyes. He had freckles and a long thin nose. He was not a handsome man, but he was not unattractive either.

Brandon Van Helsing was one of the Van Helsings, the world’s foremost hunters of vampires. The family had been hunting the fiends since before Charles the Second was crowned. Normally Clair would have known nothing about the real occupation of the Van Helsings, since knowledge of their secret vampire-slaying society was on a need-to-know basis and shrouded in great secrecy. However, Uncle Victor had been admitted more or less reluctantly into the secret society upon the development of Frederick. Fortunately her uncle had confided in her, swearing her to secrecy about the scourge of bloodsucker society, which left Clair and Jane free to discuss various theories and questions regarding the otherworldly.

“Brandon, it’s a delight to see you! Is Jane here in London with you by any chance?” Clair asked, peering about for a glimpse of her short, plump friend.

Brandon shook his head regretfully. “No. Father still insists Jane stay out of London, ever since the regrettable incident.”

Clair frowned, recalling Jane’s regrettable incident. It was when Jane fumbled a vampire staking for the second time, an unheard-of thing in Van Helsing history. But really it was not so remarkable when one considered that the sight of blood made her nauseous and dirt made her sneeze. Mausoleums and caskets were just filled with all kinds of smelly dirt, Clair thought morosely. Major Van Helsing, Jane’s father, was a dictatorial tyrant. Jane deserved better than being entombed in the country for the past two and a half years for the slight mistake of fleeing the scene of a failed fiend-slaying.

“When will Major Van Helsing let sleeping dogs lie?” Or even sleeping vampires? Clair asked herself silently.

Brandon shrugged, his eyes dark with repressed indignation at his father’s treatment of his sister. “However, Jane isn’t at the country estate. Our aunt in Holland took a serious fall. Jane has gone over to keep her company and help nurse her back to health.”

“When will she return?”

“Two to three months,” Brandon answered.

Clair nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps a change of scenery will do her good.”

Brandon nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

“And you, Brandon? What are you about these days?”

“This and that,” he replied mysteriously.

Clair shook her head. “You Van Helsings are always so secretive. All that cloak-and-stake stuff.”

Brandon swiftly surveyed the nearby members of the ton, but they all seemed totally consumed in their own conversations, paying no attention to him or Clair. “Watch yourself, Miss Frankenstein. The walls have ears.”

“True,” she agreed, thinking of the Blue Salon.

“So, what are you up to now? No more ghosts in the cemetery?” he teased.

“Watch it, yourself,” Clair warned. “You know how I feel about porcine humor.”

Brandon snorted.

“Besides, I am involved in a new undertaking of quite significant value.”

“Something to do with the Scientific Discovery of the Decade Award,” Brandon stated.

“Yes,” Clair replied, surprised.

“I saw Jane in the country not long after you wrote to her. She told me that you were trying for the award. But she didn’t mention the subject material.”