The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein (8 page)

Clair beamed. She could hardly wait to tell her dear friend Arlene, and to write Jane Van Helsing with her inspiring news. She did so later that night:

Dear Jane,

Despite the infamous pig incident at the cemetery, which no one has let me forget, I am continuing toward my goal of achieving the prestigious Scientific Discovery of the Decade Award. My supernatural studies that we have previously discussed led me to believe that Baron Ian Huntsley was a vampire. Unfortunately—but fortunately for me—I made a slight miscalculation.

Yes, the rumors of Baron Huntsley’s undeath were greatly exaggerated. He is not dead, and in fact is quite handsome. However, I shall prevail. I have leads on another vampire subject, who this time I just know is a vampire. Soon I will watch him feed. As your father, Major Van Helsing, always says, “A vampire tooth in hand is worth two in your neck.”

I hope all is well with you, and I look forward to your return from the country. Take good care of yourself and I shall let you know how my research turns out. More on Baron Huntsley to come. Be sure to tell Major Van Helsing, if he asks, that Baron Huntsley IS NOT A VAMPIRE. I wouldn’t want the baron to be mistakenly staked, especially if the mistake were made by me in the form of mistaken identity. There’s too much at stake. Did I tell you that the baron took me riding in his carriage this afternoon? He really is quite handsome for a man I believed to be a bloodsucker pretending to be human.

With sincere affection,

Clair Frankenstein

The
huge chandeliers glittered like diamonds, casting a soft glow over the brightly colored assemblage. The women were dressed in their most vivid colors, flitting about the room like butterflies in the wind. The men, not to be outdone in attire, also glided this way and that, leading their partners in dance. On the edges of the ballroom floor, members of the ton—the upper, upper crust of British society—stood talking and waiting for scandal to erupt.

Ian took it all in stride, searching for Clair as he entered the throng. She had mentioned the day before on their ride home from the park that she would be attending this, the Faltisek Ball, the next night.

As he strode past a large marble column, Ian was halted with a touch on the arm by the Honorable Christopher Wilder. “Huntsley, good to see you,” the blond, curly-haired man commented, his brown eyes narrowed.

Ian nodded warily. Christopher Wilder was a force unto himself. His affections were all reputedly feigned, his eyes cruel, his debauches legend. “Wilder,” Ian acknowledged coolly.

“I heard you were escorting the younger Frankenstein female yesterday.”

Ian scowled, recognizing that the only thing in London more pathetic than the ton’s affinity for gossip was its limited attention span and even more limited ability to tell truth from fiction. “This concerns you how?” he growled.

Wilder’s smile was anything but friendly. “What maggot’s in your head? It was only an innocent comment. I had just remarked upon it because she’s not your usual fare.”

The man glanced over to where Ian saw Clair holding court with two elderly gentleman, one slender and silver-haired, the other balding and plump of both pocket and figure. Ian also noted that Clair was dressed in a dark green gown, so dark it almost appeared black, over a tawny golden slip. Tiny puffed sleeves decorated in gold were attached to a décolletage which showed off bare shoulders and much of her pale breasts. Too much of her breasts for a public place, Ian noted darkly.

Watching Ian watch Clair, Wilder commented slyly, “Although she is a delicious piece of womanhood.”

“I’ve killed men for less,” Ian snapped, his fists clenched, his eyes flashing green fire.

“My, my, how territorial you’ve become, and in so short a time. Cupid’s arrow must be sharp indeed.”

Bowing, Wilder turned and blended back into the rapacious crowd, a sneer twisting his lips.

A scowl marred Ian’s austere features. He didn’t want Clair conversing with just anyone, not with that neckline cut practically down to her navel. Peevishly, he began making his way through the thickening crowd to where she conversed with the two men, a false smile plastered on her face.

Clair didn’t much care for places where the general conversation was insipid and uninspired; she still remembered her years as a debutante, where the most common focal point of conversations had been the chance of rain. She had been a radical, turning the talk to explanations of condensation and transpiration in the rain cycle. She had added the carbon cycles as well. The memory caused her to grin. Yes, she had been a true rebel, so much so that the younger men of the ton remembered to this day, and were even now leaving her alone. The pig incident of eight months before hadn’t helped much either. She was now a social pariah to most of the ton.

Viscount Evans interrupted her musings. “My dear Miss Frankenstein, is it true what they say about the monster?”

The viscount reminded her of a fat owl, Clair decided, cocking her head and regarding him intently. But he was certainly not wise. She was irritated by his reference to her cousin as “the monster.” “His name is Frederick,” she chided gently.

Lord Price and Viscount Evans both raised their brows. Still, Clair continued trying to explain the unexplainable. “We do not think of him as a monster. He is much like any man, with a tad more stuffing than most.”

Clair couldn’t resist glancing at Viscount Evans’s paunchy waistline.

“But that is just the point, my dear,” Lord Price laughed.

The laugh caused goosebumps on her arms. Clair had always wondered how such a thin, harmless man could have such a haunting laugh. But, then, Lord Vince Price’s laugh was rather his signature, in a town where signatures were worth their weight in gold, if one could be designated a nonpareil or an original.

“He is not just a man. Why, I heard that he is rather… well endowed in some aspects,” Viscount Evans finished with a speculative leer to his eye.

Clair blushed, knowing exactly to what he was referring. It was true that Frederick was rather massive in all areas. And knowing Uncle Victor, it was possible, just possible, that a nip and snip here and there… She blushed even brighter as she remembered the rumored affair with the Countess of Deville, and that her own favorite stallion Pegasus had become a gelding after the great electrical storm of 1819 and Frederick’s creation.

“By the deuce, Evans!” Lord Price admonished. “What a rum-cursed thing to say to this lovely young lady. You forget yourself.”

“Indeed you do,” Ian broke in with a clipped, icy tone, which matched his frigid countenance. “Miss Frankenstein is a lady in the strictest sense.”

Viscount Evans’s face was pale. He stammered, “I-I meant no disrespect. I know Miss Frankenstein is… a lady of the… ut-utmost quality, but she is also a lady of science. Ladies of scientific study enjoy a bit m-more freedom in both speech and thinking.”

Ian stepped closer to Clair, partially blocking her.

But Clair knew the truth when she heard it; Evans had meant no harm. She had been given much free rein while growing up, in a day and age where other young ladies were put on pedestals and left there to mold. She lived in a time when to have a brain was manly, and absurd for a woman. Yet Clair not only used her intelligence, she spoke earnestly and brightly about subjects upon which many men were less than informed. Older men found that fascinating. Younger ones found her daunting, while women found her peculiar.

Gracefully, Clair placed a restraining arm on Ian’s wrist. “I know the viscount meant no offense. He and I have discussed matters of scientific import before. He has an inquiring mind.” Then she added for Ian’s ears only, “I sometimes fear it overrules his tongue and brain.”

Ian narrowed his gaze on Viscount Evans. “I don’t think this particular question has much to do with science, but more to do with a morbid curiosity of the titillating.”

The viscount bowed to Clair. “Again, I… I beg pardon,” he squeaked. The viscount knew better than to pull the tail of a tiger. Baron Huntsley was infamous for being dangerous and easily provoked.

“I accept your gracious apology.” Clair didn’t particularly care for the viscount, but every once in a great while he did contribute something to her knowledge of the natural world. Upon her absolution, he scurried away, Lord Price following in his wake, both men glancing nervously over their shoulders.

Ian leaned over and whispered, “I must admit he has aroused my curiosity as well.”

Clair glanced up, a question in her eyes.

“Is Frederick hung like a stallion?” Ian’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

“And to think I thought you were a knight in shining armor riding to my rescue.” She tapped him soundly on the arm with her fan. “You are a scoundrel.”

“Alas, my lady, my steed is as black as my deeds.”

“And I see you have left both your armor and your lance at home.”

Ian snorted. If the little innocent only realized what she did to him. His lance was fair to bursting with need and he had hardly left it at home. He had been in torment from the moment he noticed Clair’s display of her rather abundant charms. Charms which he and every gentleman in the kingdom were getting a chance to gawk at.

“Is your aunt Mary here tonight?” he asked, his tone curt.

Clair nodded, trying to reason out why he was suddenly in a bad mood. He was a most curious man. He fascinated her thoroughly, more so than any man she had ever met. He was certainly of a different mettle, a man among boys, making her insides go all shivery and liquid. Her reaction was a dilemma to be systematically evaluated. She hoped the process took years.

Thoughtful, Clair subconsciously bit her lip, a nervous habit she’d had since she was small. She was suddenly wondering how she had ever managed to hide her licentious nature for twenty-five years, especially from herself. She was becoming a wanton. Who would have ever guessed that underneath her guise of devoted scientist, she’d harbored such a penchant for lurid matters of the flesh? Especially when they were not matters for the microscope in her uncle Victor’s lab.

Distracted from his thoughts, Ian was mesmerized by Clair’s cleavage, so amply displayed in her form-fitting bodice. She must be freezing, he thought sourly. He had visions of warming her, carting her off to have his wicked way. He had visions of other men seeing what should not be seen by eyes other than his own. “Does your aunt approve of this gown?”

Clair glanced down at herself, embarrassed and stung. She had dressed carefully, hoping Ian would notice and think her one of the loveliest ladies at the ball. In fact, the only reason she had come to this dratted ball was to see him. And he had the nerve to complain? “You don’t like my gown?”

Before Ian could answer, Lady Mary Frankenstein approached, almost bouncing along, curls jiggling atop her head. She was decked out in a deep blue gown with silver trimming on the sleeves and bodice. A striking set of sapphires hung around her neck.

“Baron Huntsley, how nice to see you again,” Lady Mary said, her smile warm as she held up her hand for Ian to kiss. “How handsome you look tonight.” Shooting a quick glance at her niece, she added, “Clair, don’t you agree?”

“Most assuredly,” Clair responded, thinking Ian did look divine. His starched cravat was tied neatly, and he was dressed all in black, his elegant evening clothes fitting him like a glove. Fitting him exceptionally well everywhere, showing off his broad shoulders and strong thighs. Suddenly she had the most urgent need to run her hands up and down the baron’s rock-solid legs. She wanted to feel those muscular appendages for herself.

Quickly she glanced away, hoping her aunt hadn’t noticed her ogling the baron and her rapid descent down the road to perdition. Milton was right. Paradise would indeed be lost if all gentlemen looked like Ian in their evening clothes.

Watching the interaction of the two young people, Lady Mary’s eyes twinkled with mirth. She was not one to let the grass grow under her feet. She knew when two people were physically attracted to one another, and it was glaringly obvious that her niece and the baron’s desires were screaming like harridans to be indulged. She smiled a secret smile. Another baron in the family was just what the Frankenstein family needed. She would wear blue to the wedding—nothing too fancy, but of elegant design. Perhaps Belgian lace would decorate her décolletage, with a tiny smattering of seed pearls.

“I was wondering, my lord, if you would care to dine with us tomorrow night. Nothing formal, just some family friends,” Lady Mary said coyly.

“What an intriguing suggestion,” Ian managed to say with a straight face. The old bat was playing matchmaker, he would bet a monkey. He grinned. He was too old to be ensnared by such a flimsy plot, but he wasn’t too old to enjoy the challenge of skimming its edges. Besides, it fit perfectly well with his Plan A, The Seduction of Clair Frankenstein. “I would be delighted.”

Before Lady Mary could say more, Lady Delia Channey, in a pink confection of a gown, maneuvered her way into their midst, her eyes devouring Ian. “Lady Mary, Miss Frankenstein, how nice to see you here,” she commented, her voice breathy as she turned her big brown eyes on the Baron.

Clair grimaced. Lady Delia reminded of her a toothy shark, just waiting in the depths to rise up and snatch whatever she wanted. Unfortunately for Clair, Ian was a prime catch in the marriage mart. Still, manners demanded she introduce the little schemer—but that didn’t mean Clair had to like it.

Stiffly, she made the introductions, her eyes narrowing as Lady Delia batted her eyelashes at Ian. Before she could stop herself, Clair blurted, “Lady Delia, do you have something in your eye? Perhaps I can help?”

Ian coughed into his hand to cover a snicker. It appeared that Clair was jealous! A good sign for his Plan A.

Ian coughed again as Lady Delia gave Clair a look that would have melted iron. “I am fine, Clair. And you? I have not seen you in many weeks. I take it you have been doing your usual manly deliberations in and outside of your dusty lab?” Her voice was sugar-sweet, her fan batting in a mating signal at Ian.