"Impatience is the hobgoblin of little minds," Jane reminded herself, scanning the crowded ballroom. As of yet, the Earl of Wolverton had not put in an appearance. This left Jane to ponder if the posthumous prince was out having a midnight snack while she was stuck pretending to be the Queen of the Nile. At the rate the night was going, she would have been better off having herself rolled up and delivered to the earl in a carpet, as the real Cleopatra had done with Julius Caesar. After all, Jane just wanted this whole unpleasant business over and done with as quickly as possible. Then she could go home and be privately sick.
"Humbug!" she groused. "Can't a vampire be counted on to cooperate just a tad? All he has to do is show up and be wooed. I'm the one who has to do the hard part—playing a wanton woman." It would not be an easy role for a lady who'd never even seen her brother's mistress.
Playing with the pocket of her gown, Jane continued to scan the ballroom. She noticed a tall man dressed in a knight's costume. His mask hid his face and hair, but the chilling blue of his eyes struck her strangely, with both menace and an air of foreboding. The knight was whispering to Lady Veronique—a French widow with few morals, or so it was said. The lady was wearing a half-mask of gold with a gypsy costume.
Jane shuddered, wondering who the black knight was, and at her strange reaction to him. But a few seconds later both he and Lady Veronique were gone, the black knight escorting the notorious French widow from the room, and Jane felt relieved that they were gone.
Again she scanned the room, and suddenly her face lit up in a smile. It appeared that Clair Frankenstein Huntsley had arrived in London a day earlier than expected!
In spite of her apprehension and dread of the messy task ahead, Jane knew that the new Mrs. Huntsley was bound to improve her humor. Clair was one of her few close friends, since friendships were hard to form and maintain as one of those mortals living on the boundaries of the supernatural world. It was a hard life when one couldn't tell others much about oneself, unless one's friends were also familiar with familiars, werewolves and vampires. Even now, from her bosom friend, Jane still had many secrets bound by Van Helsing blood oaths that couldn't be repeated to another living soul unless they too were vampire slayers.
Yes, without Clair, Jane's life would have been much lonelier. Fortunately for her, her friend had burst into her life like a raging thunderstorm. Blithely and in her very unique manner, Clair Frankenstein had mischievously opened Jane's eyes to the absurdity of English society and their part in it. From early childhood the two girls had shared laughter and—in later, more mature years—light despair at the various eccentricities of both their families. Clair didn't care that Jane wasn't a beauty of the two. Clair didn't care that Jane was a round peg trying to fit into a square hole. Clair didn't care that Jane had yet to live up to her family motto; A vampire a day is the Van Helsing way.
Of course, the girls were very different in some ways. Clair was a Frankenstein, and Frankensteins rarely cared about anything not directly related to their studies of supernatural monsters. Jane's family just staked them, make no mistake about it. Clair would say, "Every vampire tells a story." Jane would say, "Watch where you stand if you don't want to ruin your gown."
And now too, Clair Frankenstein was a Huntsley, since she had recently married Baron Harold Ian Huntsley, whom she called Harry whenever she was angry or very merry. Quite appropriate, the Harry bit, Jane mused, since Clair's husband was sometimes the hairiest thing in London.
Jane giggled, watching Clair converse with two gentlemen who were dressed as a sheik of Arabia and a Roman centurion. Clair herself wore a shepherdess costume, complete with crook.
Jane laughed louder, saying to herself, "Only Clair would be outrageous enough to dress as a shepherd when she is married to one of the biggest wolves around." But then, Clair had seen the sheep in wolf's clothing that was the baron's good nature and kind heart after he'd fallen in love. Jane had heard many a rumor that Baron Huntsley was one of the biggest rakes in London before he met Clair, but he'd fallen head over paws for her. Now his wolfish tendencies were reserved for full moons.
As Jane strolled toward Clair, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of the green-eyed monster, jealousy. Less than a year ago her friend had been involved in one of her usual supernatural research projects, trying to prove scientifically the presence of vampires and werewolves in London. Clair had not known with any certainty if monsters were lurking in the city's graveyards and doorways, but had set about proving it. And Clair's comedy-of-errors experiments had yielded results she hadn't expected: marriage to the man of her dreams. Well, to the werewolf of her dreams. And Jane was jealous of her friend's happiness.
It was lucky, for Jane and Clair's friendship that the Van Helsings only hunted vampires and occasionally, demons. Werewolves and other hairy shape-shifting creatures were off-limits. Not one of Jane's antecedents had ever harmed a shape-shifter—not with the skeletons in the Van Helsing closet. A fact her mortal-purist father discouraged having disclosed was that the great monster-hunting Van Helsings had werelionesses for both a great-grandmother and a great-aunt. This ancestry Jane took great pride in. Just as she was proud that neither of her feline relatives had ever run tame, and that they lived their lives exactly as they wanted, walking on the wild side of life with their mates.
As Jane approached Clair and the two gentlemen, she craned her neck trying to spy Frederick, the Frankenstein monster. Freddie was Clair's adopted cousin, and he loved masquerade balls. He always dressed up in the most outlandish costumes. Since he was well over six feet tall, he always stuck out like a sore thumb, and was about as attractive.
Glancing about her, Jane could see several of the usual Frederick impersonators, with their green face paint and shoes the size of Derbyshire, but not the real thing. A pity. Jane enjoyed Frederick's polite, childlike manners, and was never afraid of being alone with him. Even if he did have a face that would launch a thousand ships—all running away from him, of course. But, then, his mismatched looks weren't his fault. No, that blame lay at Dr. Victor Frankenstein's feet, since he was the one who'd created Frederick out of odd body parts. The doctor really should have been more selective in his selection of a nose and chin for his monster, and not so caught up in the reanimation of dead flesh that he overlooked looks in favor of graveyard-robbing expediency. Or so Jane had thought on one or two occasions.
As she approached her close friend, Jane noted how beautiful Clair looked tonight, what with her shining golden hair and large gray eyes. "Clair, you arrived early! I thought you wouldn't be in Town until tomorrow," she said.
Clair bent her head, her tawny curls bouncing. She studied Jane's costume, listening to the voice and finally smiling as pleased recognition lit her eyes. "Jane Van—"
Jane interrupted before her friend could finish, looking at the two gentlemen standing nearby. "Paine. That's right, Clair. Jane Paine." Pulling her friend aside, she whispered dolefully, "Father is having me use my mother's maiden name for the time being."
Clair Huntsley, nee Frankenstein, arched a brow but kept her expression stoic. "Major Van Helsing is at it again, with some harum-scarum scheme, isn't he?" she asked. "A stratagem most assuredly designed to deliver some poor unsuspecting dead man walking right into a permanent coffin?" Poor Jane, she thought, born a Van Helsing when she fainted at the drop of blood. The situation was so bloody unfair.
Her friend shrugged philosophically. "You know how eccentric he is, and how thoroughly dedicated to his vampire-slaying duty."
"Eccentric?" Clair almost snorted. "My family is eccentric. Your father and cousins are unhinged—like Frederick's wrist gets at times. Always running around in their black capes, muttering rubbish, carrying huge black bags, planning some mysterious cloak-and-dagger business stuff…" Clair laughed wryly. "And don't forget your cousin's fetish for crypts." How Jane, with her love of birds and her artistic temperament, had ever come from that deranged clan was a question she had asked more than once. Jane, who was made up of fairy dreams and hopes as light as gossamer wings, and who was just as fragile—she was definitely a bird of a different feather.
Seeing her friend's tense expression, Clair decided to change the subject. She smiled, holding out both hands, genuinely glad to see Jane. "Ian decided to return to Town a bit early. I meant to get in touch, and was going to call on you tomorrow if you weren't here tonight at the Stewart Ball. Now I feel like some wooly-headed female. Come, let's talk."
Actually, Clair had meant to send Jane a note saying she had arrived in London at noon. However, her adorable husband had had other ideas, distracting her with his wolfish appetites. And what a fine distraction it had been, Clair mused dreamily—love in the afternoon with a hot-blooded husband who took her to the wild side.
Waving goodbye to the sheik and centurion, Clair took Jane's arm and strolled her toward the punch bowls. "You look grand tonight and quite mysterious," she remarked, pleased. In her green Egyptian creation, Jane seemed right in line with Clair's great-aunt Abby's tarot-card prediction.
Only last night, Clair had asked her great-aunt if her friend Asher, the Earl of Wolverton, was destined to find true love. In the back of Clair's mind, Jane had popped up as a possible bride for the vampire, who himself had a few months ago popped up from his coffin and into Clair's life like a vainglorious jack-in-the-box. Since that time, Asher had saved her beloved husband's life as well as Clair's own, creating a lasting bond between them all.
Clair had been delighted when her great-aunt predicted, "A queen in green will be the means. He lives by night, his bride-to-be by daylight. She hunts his kind, but love she will find."
Clair had seen the threads of the two lives spinning themselves together, and she had wanted to laugh aloud with glee. Life was oftentimes filled with ironies, and what sweet irony that a Van Helsing vampire hunter would be destined for the Master Vampire of all London. Oh, how the fates would laugh when Clair's newest plan—Plan Z, Against all Odds—was finished and done. She didn't care one whit that the objects of her plan were mortal enemies; she had never cared for bigotry, and wouldn't stand for it now.
"Clair?" Jane called curiously.
Clair started, then smiled looking sheepishly, adorable in her shepherdess costume. "Sorry, I was woolgathering," she said.
"How is the wedded state treating you? You've certainly got a sparkle in your eye tonight. Married life seems to agree with you," Jane remarked.
Clair grinned. She had speculated and suspected much about the things that went bump in the night before marriage. Now she knew exactly what that bumping was and how delicious it could be. Well, all's were that ends were, she thought saucily.
"Married life is intense, interesting and infinitely wonderful," she replied at last, chewing on her bottom lip. But that was the understatement of the year. Marriage to a werewolf was a course that never ran smoothly. From the first moment she awoke to watch her husband of less than a day transform from mortal to wolf, the fur had flown. All of it his. It would have been awe inspiring, if Clair hadn't been so furious to find out the truth.
Why hadn't he told her he was a werewolf, when she was knee-deep in scientific research into shape-shifters and vampires? After his startling but spectacular revelation, Clair had of course tried to yell at him in an intelligent manner—but it had been next to impossible with him howling at the moon and running around sniffing all the furniture.
"We've resolved all our differences admirably," she told her friend cheerfully. "I now have a full-time lab specimen to explore to my heart's content." And explore she had—on many very interesting, although not so scientific, occasions. The scientific method had been forgotten in the search for primal passion's release.
"I'm just wild about Harry Ian," she confided happily, glad her close friend was in London so that they could share confidences once again. "He is the most remarkable man I have ever met. A jack-of-all-trades, he is strong yet gentle, tender yet passionate, intelligent yet fun to be around. He makes every day a holiday." She loved him all sleek and muscled in his human form, and she loved him all furry-faced with his big white fangs. Her husband was like many beasts in one, especially in bed on nights close to the full moon, when he answered the call of the wild. To say their love life was passionate and wild was an understatement. "These days, my only complaint is waking up after a full moon to find fur or muddy footprints in our bed."
"Yes, well, sheets are sheets, even if they are silk. But love is love." Jane hugged her and smiled. "I am glad you are so well content with wedded bliss. You deserve as much."
"As do you," Clair responded.
Jane shrugged slightly. "Happiness isn't easily found when one's duty is slaying vampires," she complained.
Noting her friend's somber expression, Clair quickly changed the subject again. Glancing down, she remarked, "I do so admire your costume. And I imagine you are much cooler than I am in this costume."
Jane laughed self-consciously. "I know it is not in my usual style, but I decided to be adventuresome tonight."
Clair was surprised. This was too good to be true. "Are you perchance husband-hunting?" She knew just how deeply Jane had been hurt by two would-be suitors when both gentlemen defected. Having desired something and failed not once but twice, Jane would be beyond timid to try again.
Although she lived in her own little world, where reality changed day to day and monster to monster, Clair was astute enough to recognize that Jane was too aware of self-perceived flaws. She was not a beauty in the traditional sense of the world of 1828 London; Jane didn't have fair skin and hair, or eyes the color of the sky. Still, she was a wonderful person and needed to know it.
"Jane, you would make anyone a grand wife. Your soul speaks from your remarkable-colored eyes, and you have a very fine character and caring disposition. There is none better," Clair complimented.
"I'm certainly no beauty. We all know that," her friend replied morosely.
"Ha! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Look at Frederick. Many people find him hideous to look at, but I think he is a fine specimen of many men."
Jane Van Helsing looked at her friend and laughed. Clair was indeed good and kind. "Yes, Frederick is as fine a men as any. And I'm hunting all right," she added. Was that an understatement! Then, realizing what she'd said, Jane resisted kicking herself. The Earl of Wolverton, whom her friend had once mistakenly believed to be a werewolf, was Clair's confidant now. And Jane's blood oath prescribed saying any more about her mission.
Clair clapped her hands together. "I can't believe it! You always told me you would never get married. I'm so happy you decided to give matrimony another chance. It can truly be wonderful if you find the one you love." She looked delighted, scheming even.
Jane shook her head. Clair always saw the silver lining in every storm cloud. She was always hopeful. But the silver was often tucked away or absent. Jane's own hopes had long been dead on the vine, dying a withering death as she contemplated the long years ahead. Those years were decorated in bleak shades of gray, were shadow years, spent in darkness, her precious youth wasted in haunting cemetery after cemetery, always on the prowl for those monsters who feast on blood. She would spend her life reluctantly queasy at her stomach and casting up her accounts, fending off hairy little spiders and ruining fashionable gown after fashionable gown. All to be a Van Helsing.
"I was teasing about husband-hunting, Clair," she said when she noticed her friend's expression. "You know I am close to becoming an ape-leader at my advanced age of twenty-three. Besides, you must remember how my only season in Town went. It was a disaster of the first order." Jane needed to throw her friend off the trail; if Clair caught even a hint of the scent of intrigue, she might as well go home now, empty-handed except for a full flask of holy water.
"Your first season wasn't that terrible."
Jane gave a short bark of laughter with a hint of resignation mixed in. "Yes, it was. I was extremely plump, and my father insisted on those out-of-date sausage curls and gowns better suited for a dowager."
"Exactly. I always thought your father sabotaged your chances. Although I never understood why. But, then, Major Van Helsing is not a man easily understood—unless it is his love of the hunt," Clair remarked thoughtfully.
"Indeed! Truer words were never spoken. The major lives for that thrill. Foxes, birds and his prey of choice—the undead," Jane affirmed. "My father can ride the hounds to within an inch of his life and stake a vampire to the last inch of his."
Clair nodded thoughtfully, suddenly realizing the truth: The major probably wanted Jane to remain unmarried so that she could continue to hunt vampires and carry on the glory of the family name. Well, the major could just cry in his brandy 'til the cows came home. Marriage was heavenly bliss, and Jane was going to get married and so was Asher. To each other. Just, neither one of them knew about it yet.
Despite Jane's lineage, Clair knew very well that Jane would never be a danger to Asher. The girl was too softhearted. When Jane was nine, she had pulled the tail off a lizard. Clair had caught her trying to put the tail back on, woebegone and crying that she was sorry. She had only stopped weeping when Clair explained that lizards' tails grew back automatically—and sometimes their heads, if Uncle Victor was around. Later that same day, Clair and Jane had buried the tail, complete with eulogy. Clair had been quite proud of herself, using knowledge gained from her aunt Mary's work as a pet-funeral director and taxidermist to conduct the service.
Jane gave Clair a let-us-not-discuss-this-subject-further face, pursing her lips and furrowing her forehead. Clair did what all good friends do at one time or another and ignored her.
"Fiddle-faddle. Rome wasn't built in a day, and love doesn't grow on trees." Although it might hang from them, she mused wryly. "If you'll recall, I was a wallflower for many seasons. I didn't think there was anyone for me. I thought I would die an old maid aunt. Although… Uncle Victor did promise that he would create a husband for me if I hadn't found one by the time I was thirty," Clair admitted.
Jane couldn't help but shudder at the image.
Clair laughed. "I know! As much as I love my adopted cousin, Frederick, I wouldn't want to be married to so many different men, even if they were all sewn together. Needless to say, it wasn't one of my uncle's better ideas."
Jane agreed.
"Anyway, Jane, I am twenty-five years old and only recently fell in love and married."
"Clair, you would have had more than an offer or two if your head hadn't been up in the clouds. What with your supernatural studies and your bluestocking conversation, you ran most poor gents off."
Clair smiled shrewdly. "It's a good thing I did, or I would have missed my Ian. Speaking of him," she said, glancing around the ballroom, "where, oh where, has my little were gone? Where, oh where, can he be?" Perhaps her husband was in the gardens, getting a breath of fresh air since the full moon was still two nights away. She shivered, anticipating the nights to come. Call it moon glow, being moonstruck or moon-mad, but Ian was an animal in the bedchamber, taking her to unheard of heights of pure pleasure. Every night was a howl.
Since her friend was ignoring her wishes, Jane took it upon herself to change the subject. "Speaking of Frederick, I don't see him here tonight," she said, slyly peeking through the crowd in hopes of seeing that polished Peer of the Realm, the Earl of Wolverton.
"No, he's still with Uncle Victor in Germany. They're researching mushrooms. Something to do with seeing forty-foot pachyderms and twenty-foot daffodils after eating them."
Personally, to Jane, most of Dr. Frankenstein's research sounded like a big white elephant. Who really cared either way—except maybe really large mice? Next, the dumbo would be trying to prove elephants could fly. But Jane smiled faintly at Clair and nodded her head in what she hoped was an approving manner.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something happening. Turning slightly, Jane spotted him: Neil Asher, the Earl of Wolverton, alias the Prince of Darkness, alias Dracul. He was entering the ballroom.
Jane couldn't help but notice him at once, his vital, youthful energy seeming to pulsate in the air. He had an Old World charm; but, then, upon reflection, Jane remembered that he was from the oldest world there was. In mortal years the earl, Dracul, appeared to be in his mid-thirties. But appearances were deceiving, especially when dealing with vampires, who were the unholy guardians of the fountain of youth. Neil Asher, the Earl of Wolverton, was likely older than Methuselah.
Clair's attention was still absorbed in scanning the ballroom and looking for her wayward werewolf spouse, but Jane heard two young ladies remark behind her, "What a handsome devil that Earl of Wolverton is, quite the man-about-town."
As Jane studiously regarded the earl, she agreed, appreciating his devil-may-care attitude and swagger. Asher, it appeared, was never discomposed—or decomposed, she was happy to note—facing the world with great decorum. Yes, the haughty undead earl was known for not giving a fig for anyone's good opinion. But then he had a whole fig tree of regard for himself.
The women's remarks continued, and Jane eavesdropped shamelessly. "I hear the earl can't abide anything less than perfection in his life. Everything he owns is of the first scratch."
Just like Old Scratch, the Devil himself, Jane mused, noting the earl's costume. The vampire also had a devilish glint in his eye, adding to his diabolical charm. Jane found herself amused. The earl was a vampire pretending to be a man pretending to be Lucifer himself, the King of Demons.
Yes, the Earl of Wolverton dressed all in black, just as the Devil did, which meant the two probably had more than a passing acquaintance. The earl's black jacket fit him perfectly, outlining his massive shoulders and broad chest. His long legs were encased in tight black breeches, and his mask hid only his eyes and the top of his aristocratic nose, leaving the rest of his perfect countenance for inspection. His burnished chestnut hair showed gold and copper under the light of the Venetian chandeliers and glinted along with the two golden horns set atop his head. He was truly temptation on the hoof, since he affected her Van Helsing sense and sensibilities.
She sighed. It was a shame that he was a vampire. It was even more of a shame that she was a plain Jane, vampire-hunting Van Helsing and could never attract a man of Neil Asher's ilk. The earl was a connoisseur of all things bright and beauteous, all things lush and lucre-ful. Asher couldn't abide anything less than perfection in his well ordered, beautiful and hedonistic life. That shouldn't surprise her. That was a long-standing character trait of the forces of Darkness. And of men in general.
Once again, the two young ladies behind Jane made comments. "I hear Asher delights in all things great, though rarely small. Especially in the bosom area."
The other woman gasped in shock. "Charlotte, how could you know that?"
The first young lady lowered her voice, making it hard for Jane to catch her words. "My brother told me. It's whispered among the demimonde of London."
Clair Huntsley finally spotted her husband, waved, then turned back to Jane, noting her friend was once again eavesdropping—a deplorable habit that Clair herself had proudly taught her. Observing Jane's distraction, Clair turned in the direction her friend was staring, watching the Earl of Wolverton's grand entrance. Jane was apparently captivated by the handsome vampire, which was very good for Plan Z. Clair wondered if Jane had guessed that the earl was one of the Nosferatu. She didn't think so. And Clair hadn't yet confided in her about it. She would leave that little detail for later.
Studying Asher's face, Clair frowned. "Asher is paler than usual." She remarked. She truly valued the man's friendship, in spite of his high-handed arrogance. She owed him a debt that would take a great deal to repay.
"Perhaps he's overextended himself," Jane commented thoughtfully. Being Dracul would put a drain on anyone's energy—all that debauching, drinking and despoiling virgins, she thought to herself.
"Perhaps," Clair conceded worriedly. She harbored a deep guilt over Asher's unrequited feelings for her. She knew she had hurt him deeply by not returning his affection. But how could she when Ian was the love of her life?
It didn't matter that reanimated dead flesh fascinated all Frankensteins. It didn't matter that Asher was an alluring, intelligent vampire, a shade made up of the cold touch of the grave, the call of night breezes and twilight hours. She hadn't fallen for him. Her love was Ian alone.
Asher was mystery, mist and predator. He was filled with ghosts of the wind, memories of royal courtiers with elaborate lace cuffs, finely dressed ladies in wigs and loose court morals. He was of a people long gone, people who had worn shiny armor, held swords lifted high as their battle cries filled the air. Honor and the bonds of blood had bound him then as they bound him now. Asher was centuries old and aging, though he looked forever young. But while for many years the urbane Asher was sharp of both tongue and teeth, lately his razor wit had borne a venomous twist that Clair disliked.
"I don't know," she hedged. "Asher's eyes seem rather more haunted than usual." They were stark, sad eyes, all laughter appearing to have fled into some murky darkness in the depths of his soul. That was why, in her typical Frankenstein fashion, Clair had decided to do something special for Asher to cheer him up. Something most wondrous, like finding him a wife: someone with a nice figure and wonderful silver-green eyes. Someone who was both compassionate and feisty when roused—a trait Asher would definitely need in a mate, especially with his own toplofty view of himself. And who could be feistier than a vampire hunter? Never mind that Asher wouldn't want a wife, and most assuredly not a vampire-slaying Van Helsing.
"Jane dear, Ian and I are having a house party at Ian's estate in Wales next weekend. I would so like you to come."
"I… I," Jane hedged. Her attention was on the earl. How could she melt such a handsome visage with holy water? But regret was a four-letter word—well, six—with which spinsters were quite familiar. She could certainly use a cup of cocoa right now to settle her nerves.
"I have invited a party of around twenty ladies and gentlemen, with guests such as Lord Graystroke and the Earl of Wolverton," Clair continued slyly, pleased to see her friend's face pinken.
Yes, she thought smugly, her matchmaking plan would be a smashing success. The old Frankenstein genes, which her aunt Mary Frankenstein swore included matchmaking, were pulsing within her. Just wait until she told Ian her plan! Clair chewed her lip. On second thought, she would keep mum about the new scheme. Ian still hadn't recuperated completely from the last one.
"A house party? How, um… nice." Jane nodded halfhearted, having a strong and strange urge to stick her head in the sand like her favorite ostrich, Orville, did when he got upset. She felt guilt crushing down on her chest. How could she accept Clair's honorable invitation, knowing that the earl's life was limited if her father's scheme unfolded as planned? Knowing that she intended to melt Clair's friend's face off tonight?
Rubbing her head, which had started to ache, Jane felt a dreadful coldness seep inside her. She was betraying Clair's friendship by harming this devastating earl. Yet, if he were Dracul, how could she not? But if he was the unprincipled Prince of Darkness, then why had he' saved Clair and her husband's lives, at risk to his own? Where were the debauchery and depravity in that demonic deed?
"Jane you haven't answered my question," Clair said as she noted her friend's tense stance and lack of attention.
"House… party… nice," Jane replied, trying to keep her face sphinxlike. Almost against her will, her eyes were drawn back to the dashing earl, who was flirting with a bevy of beauties.
Clair laughed. "Asher knows his worth, and he makes sure everyone else does too. Come, let me introduce you."
Jane shook her head. "I need to refresh myself in the ladies' room. Later, perhaps."
Clair studied Jane closely, noticing her extreme agitation. "Is this more than nerves at meeting such a devilishly handsome man?" she asked.
"Of course not!" Jane said, looking anywhere else.
Her friend was hiding something, Clair decided. "Of course not," she agreed, giving a warm smile. Jane had a secret, and she would find out what it was. After all, she was a Frankenstein and a Huntsley now—a practically invincible combination. Oh, to what heights she could aspire, and Ian would pick her up if she ever slipped and fell. "All right then, Jane. I will introduce you later. May I remind you that Asher's not an ogre?"
"No, just a devil," Jane replied. She well knew that Asher was no ogre. He was worse. He was the fang-faced vilest of villainous vampires, Count Dracul, who wasn't even a count at all, but an earl. The liar.
Clair arched a brow.
Jane smiled. "The Devil made me say it," she joked.
Clair laughed. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I see that my husband is motioning me over to him. But I will see you later on and make your introduction to Asher. I just know that when you get to know the Earl of Wolverton, you will find him… most intriguing. He can be a bit overweening at times, but after all, he is Asher. Besides, my dear friend, he is someone you will never forget. I'll stake my life on it."
Jane nodded and then quickly strolled away, whispering softly to herself, "No, Clair you are staking the earl's."