Clair was in a brown study. Despite her great expectations of her tale of two vampires in the city, she had ended up with an expected twist. It was a dickens of a dilemma. It seemed, she mused, that for a scientist who knew so much, as of late she often knew too little. She needed to reassess and reevaluate her work in order to learn how to proceed, although she knew she was right about the Earl of Wolverton being a werewolf.
Brooks's announcement of Baron Huntsley interrupted her thoughts. Clair hid her smile as she saw him walk into the room. He made her heart do a funny little pitter-patter. He looked as if he had gotten little to no sleep last night. Good, he could join the club.
Clair was still angry with him for abruptly dragging her out of the garden the night before, and for his quick departure from the ball without a word to her. He needed to get into the spirit of things—which spirits were vampires and werewolves. She wouldn't bend an inch. She would show Ian a thing or two—mainly that Frankensteins couldn't be intimidated or dragged willy-nilly from gardens.
As Ian entered the room, he noted Clair's posture and expression. Yes, she was still most definitely angry at him. The thought was irritating. She had no right to be peeved because he cared enough to try and stop her from getting Asher's back up. But she was a female, and their reasoning wasn't always reasonable, no matter how a man tried to interact with one.
Ian had come prepared to do penance. Seeing Clair sitting in the library, framed in bright sunlight from the huge bay window behind her, he caught his step, standing and staring at her. She was so very lovely and so very much alive, obviously enjoying life in all its complexity.
He smiled. Clair was a vision of everything that was spring, in a morning gown of mint green silk. She sat in a gilt-wood chair in front of her massive teak desk, across which books and yellowed papers were haphazardly piled. Ian hid a grin at the total chaos of her workspace, presuming there was somehow a method to her madness.
After several minutes of heavy persuasion, he finally got her to admit to having an encounter with the earl. His ugly suspicions of the night before were now unfortunately confirmed.
Ian sought damage control. "Don't invite him into your house or your life."
Clair stared in disbelief. Ian had done everything but draw her a picture on how the Earl of Wolverton could not be a werewolf or a vampire. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought Ian had been trying to pull the proverbial wool over her eyes. "You stated last night—and most emphatically, I might add—that the earl wasn't a werewolf or a vampire!"
Ian could almost see the steam coming from her ears. Defending himself, he cajoled, "I am almost positive that he's not either. However, just to be on the safe side please do as I ask. Don't let Asher enter here, and stay far away from him on the full moon. Even better, stay home all the time."
Clair fumed. She had been up most of the night worrying about the earl's mysterious comments warning her away from Ian. She knew Ian had the reputation as a rake of renown, yet since he had been wooing her, she was seeing a different side of his roguish tendencies, a side quite special. She had noted it recently, whenever Ian looked at her. Dare she call it love?
After hiding a yawn, Clair couldn't help but return Ian's smile. But what was she doing smiling? Her night had been filled with confusion. She had worried about how the earl found out about her interest in him as a werewolf. And how much exception would he take to the fact? If the earl was dangerous, just how much of a deep ditch had she dug for Ian and herself? At this rate of worry, she was going to have gray hair before she was thirty.
She began to worry that Ian was going to be killed because of her, and then she worried that if Ian was, would he ever forgive her? Then she worried if she could ever forgive him for dying. "It would appear that I have opened a Pandora's box," she said aloud to herself.
Ian crossed his arms, commenting gravely, "Clair, my love, you have no idea."
Clair stood, traversing the room to where Ian stood, placing her hands in his. Imploring him with her smoky gray eyes, she begged, "Please, Ian, tell me truthfully. Is the Earl of Wolverton the Wolf man of London?"
"No." He answered without a twinge of remorse. Lives hung in the balance. Bending, he bestowed a tender kiss upon Clair's brow, then slowly moved away to the shelter of the bookshelves—away from her fresh, clean scent and luscious body, away from temptation.
Clair scrutinized him thoroughly, her analytic brain observing every nuance. "I would hate to call you a liar. However, going back to our earlier conversation, you did warn me not to invite him in. Why is that?"
Ian shrugged, schooling his expression. "I'm jealous."
"In a pig's eye," she retorted.
"You told me you thought he was a handsome," Ian reminded her, closing the distance back to her side, unable to help himself. He loved being near her, her smell, her laughter, the way the shadows of the room highlighted her heart-shaped cheeks.
"Handsome is as handsome does. Asher scares me a little, reminds me of a lofty king spider casting out his web and spinning it in little melodramas."
Ian nodded gravely. "An apt description," he remarked, knowing he would have to go to Plan B, since Plan A had been sent down in flames. Plan B was of a crafty sort, a Machiavellian plan. Brilliant, even if he did say so himself. It was a plan designed to keep Clair tilting at windmills. It was sure to guarantee that she would be kept safely away from the supposed Big Bad Wolf, the earl. He would call it the McGuffin, in honor of his friend Sir Albert Hitchcock, who had devised it for the war ministry. It was a plan where the real object of interest was replaced by another object in order to distract and confuse.
Ian tenderly squeezed Clair's hands. "Clair, I have been thinking long and hard over your research. I know how important you think this project of yours is to your Frankensteinian destiny…"
Releasing his hands, she went to stand by the window, staring out at the vibrant landscape. "It isn't just my destiny or my dreams, it's every man's or every woman's. It seems to me that a man's work will live beyond him, while his dreams, without substance, are only dust in the wind. Does that make sense to you?"
Ian nodded solemnly. "Yes. And that's one of the reasons I stopped by today."
"Yes?"
"Well, the other day I was remembering what you told me about the warlock or warlocks in a vampire nest. So I decided to do a little research on my own. I think I know who your warlock is."
Her eyes shining brightly, Clair almost skipped back to where he stood. In spite of all of Ian's dubious feelings on her work, he had decided to help her! He was interested enough in her to be interested enough in what she cared about. He had actually spent time and effort in searching out the warlock of the London nest, a feat she had tried at and failed.
She grinned, her eyes sparkling with happiness. Ian was her unsung hero. Although, she wasn't dim enough not to know the reason behind Ian's picking out a warlock to research instead of encouraging her hunt of the werewolf. Where werewolves were long and sharp of tooth, warlocks weren't. One was danger with fangs, the other's danger lay only in ancient spells. It was as simple and as complex as he thought her in less peril from magic. Yes, Ian cared more for her than he admitted. "Who?"
"The Duke of Ghent."
"The Duke?" Clair repeated, surprised. "Are you sure? He seems like such a jolly old man. Aunt Mary knows him. And he's a duke."
"You believe Wolverton is a werewolf and he's an earl," Ian accused.
"True. I guess supernaturalism is an equal-opportunity employment."
Ian studied her, a reluctant grin on his face. He knew she was going away again into that dizzy maze of her mind. Patiently he waited, wanting to kiss her silly.
"Okay, why this particular duke?" she asked.
His grin grew. The trap was sprung. He would now lead Clair off in a different direction. And though he regretted his false directions, at least this path wouldn't plunge her to her death if she took a right turn.
"The duke is always mixing up spells and chanting while he cooks. He has a pentagram painted on his bedroom wall. He owns three black cats. Oh yes, and a black dog too," he ad-libbed, making most of it up as he went.
Ian knew he should feel guiltier. He knew he should probably be more concerned, but he really didn't see how Clair could break into the Duke of Ghent's home. The duke was known for his paranoia due to years in the war. All he owned, most especially himself, was heavily guarded. "The duke also dresses in those long warlock robes," he added, inspired.
"Warlock robes?" Clair hid her smile. Ian was so adorable trying to help her scientific quest. Of course, he didn't have a clue at all about the work an actual hypothesis actually required. He had gotten lucky on his first try and she was proud of him, like a mother hen watching her chick leave the nest. How she wanted to hug the handsome dolt! At this moment in time, she discerned, she had never felt closer to another human being. It was almost frightening, her desire to be held by him and to hold him, to comfort and caress him for all the days of her life. If only Ian were the marrying kind, she would set her cap for him in a London minute.
In a pig's eye, she thought in horror. Where had that last traitorous thought come from? She had decided long ago that she wasn't the marrying kind, either. She had her science to pursue. She had the prestigious Scientific Discovery of the Decade award to pursue. She had Ian to pursue. Drat! She needed her attention focused on things that howled at the moon, not this magnificent man in front of her. Still, if anyone could make her dream of wedded bliss, it was Ian, mere mortal though he was.
"You know, those garments that devil worshipers wear," he was saying.
"The cowls?" she asked, trying to suppress a grin but failing.
He scowled.
"I know. You're not a fashion expert on the occult."
"Clair, Clair. What am I going to do with you?" Ian took her into his arms.
"Kiss me?" she suggested.
Ian did as the lady requested, and their passion once again ignited. Unfortunately, before Ian could sample a taste of her forbidden virgin fruit, Lady Mary entered the library looking for her embroidery. Fortunately for his status of single white baron, the kiss had only just begun. He broke away in haste, a silly grin plastered on his lips. He fled to his carriage still wearing the expression, causing his footman Tiger, who had been holding the horses, to give him an odd look. Inside, a flustered Clair and a flushed but smiling Lady Mary watched his leavetaking. The library hummed with anticipation. Lady Mary was delighted. Her Plan A, To Catch A Baron, was going so smoothly that she wanted to pat herself on the back. She could just see Clair in her wedding finery. She would be a true sight to behold.
Glancing at her niece from the corner of her eyes, Mary observed the pink flush upon Clair's cheeks. Clair was in love with Ian; she just didn't know it yet. Yes, it would be a splendid match. The match of the century, and Mary would have been an integral part of the wedding of the two great families. She did so love a good wedding.
"The baron is really a most intriguing man, quite the catch of this season or any season," she remarked casually, carefully hiding her marital plot. She would see the baron all the way to the altar, or her name wasn't Mary Frankenstein.
Clair reseated herself at her desk, interpreting the speculative gleam in her aunt's eye. So that is the way the wind is blowing, she thought. She couldn't really blame her aunt, since some of those same thoughts of church bells and wedding cakes had been intruding upon her own dreams.
Studying her niece out of the corner of her eye, Lady Mary picked up her embroidery, chuckling. Raising her head from her notes, Clair glanced at her. "Something amusing?"
Her aunt smiled a secretive smile. "Nothing really. Oh! I did receive a letter from Victor today."
"Have they found Frederick?" Clair asked somberly, concerned for her adopted cousin, who was a like a big, big, big brother to her, even though his left arm and both ears were younger in origin.
Her aunt waved her hand in the air. "Yes. Nothing to be concerned about. Frederick came home, no worse the wear."
"Does Uncle Victor know what caused him to run away?"
"It appears that a group of young men were running around impersonating poor Frederick. They are all wearing those sixteen-foot-long clodhopper boots he wears and sporting bolts in their necks," Lady Mary explained patiently. "Frederick was quite upset about the whole impersonation thing at first. He thought they were making fun of him. Then Frederick learned they were imitating him because they admired him. You know, rather like all those young bucks in town imitate that Beau Brummell person."
"I'm glad Frederick is in fashion now. He's had a hard time of being different. How is Uncle?"
"My brother has calmed down somewhat since Frederick came into his own," Lady Mary explained. She smiled affectionately. "I was always fond of the giant tyke, myself."
"Yes. Frederick has always been like a big brother to me. Remember the time he held me up in the window so I could scout out the vicarage? And he saved my life a time or two," Clair reminisced. "Remember when the crazy old vicar tried to spear me with that pitchfork?"
Her aunt's face took on a greenish cast. "How could I forget? If Frederick hadn't routed the old devil, you'd have been seriously injured or burned."
"Dear Frederick, owner of my heart."
"No, sweet. That was Mr. Applebee's heart Victor used."
Both women laughed. Looking down at the notes she had jotted, Clair changed the subject. "By the way, Aunt Mary, what do you know of the Duke of Ghent?"
Her aunt's expression became distant. "Julian was very fresh in his salad days. He was quite the rogue. He lives much quieter now. I know he has a fondness for cats, black in particular, and is always going to see that play Abby drags me to—McDougal?"
"McBeth," Clair corrected. She went on to partially explain the conversation between Ian and herself, although she left out the part accusing the Duke of Ghent, not wishing to worry her aunt with fear for her safety.
Clair then relayed the warning about never inviting the Earl of Wolverton inside their home, albeit suspiciously. Ian knew more than he was saying about the mysterious Asher. In fact, Ian was being as mysterious as the earl. Which was not surprising. But now, instead of one mystery to solve with the wolfish earl, Clair also had to puzzle out the baron's excuse for hiding what he knew. It appeared everyone was hiding something. Aunt Mary, Ian, the Earl and the Duke of Ghent—only Frederick was an open book.
Clair sighed. When had life gotten so complex? She had to find the weres, but where were they? Did Ian know where the weres were and who was a werewhat? If so, then why was Ian remaining silent on the subject? She signed again, wishing she could ask, "Will the real vampires and werewolves please stand up?"
"But dear," Lady Mary said, "if the Earl of Wolverton comes to call, we must invite him in."
"Ian advised us against it," Clair warned.
"But that would be badly done," her aunt chided.
"Better than well done and eaten," Clair remarked, closing the book she had been referencing. "Now, what is for dinner?"
"We are starting with stuffed grape leaves and a Caesar salad, followed by roast mutton with olive tapanade, and wine, of course," Lady Mary replied, setting her embroidery down.
"Ah, yes. I had forgotten. Aunt Abby is Julius Caesar this week."
"Which is fine by me. I am too old to curtsy all the time. I find it quite tedious on the knees," Lady Mary remarked tardy. "Abby is upstairs right now telling the maids the die is cast and making plans to invade Egypt."
Clair shook her head. "I know. Yesterday she told me that if I was serious about Ian, she would bribe him with the city of Alexandria as a wedding present."
"Well, what young lady could ask for more as a dowry? Not to mention the prestige of having Julius Caesar as a wedding guest. Just think how jealous Cleopatra would be!"
"Et tu, Brute?" Clair asked laughingly. But all in all, it seemed just another typical day in the house of Frankenstein.
After dinner, she wrote another letter to her friend, remedying the recent lack of updates:
Dear Jane,
I spoke to Brandon last night and he informed me you left for Holland a few days ago. I am sending this to the Van Helsing country estate with orders that it be forwarded to you at your aunts house in Holland. You must tell me all about your adventures there, and are the wooden shoes comfortable?
Ian, that handsome clever man who is not a vampire, is helping me advance my goals regarding the supernatural world. Well, he's not actually helping, but rather is following me around. I believe he may be smitten. I, in return, find him quite remarkable—for a mere human. I must admit he has consumed a bit too much of my thoughts and time, time which would be better spent with my research.
Since last I wrote, I found out that the Honorable Christopher Wilder is not so honorable. I caught him in a compromising position with a noble lady of less than noble reputation. He is also not a vampire. It was quite distressing: the undressing and the fact that neither the lady nor Wilder were sucking each others blood—other things perhaps, but not blood. Oops! Sorry. I know how you feel about the b-word. Anyway, Wilder is not a vampire. Which is most discouraging, but I know my duty to the Frankenstein family name and motto. I will prevail.
Fortunately, I have two new leads. My latest theory is that I have uncovered the werewolf of the vampire nest. I believe it is the Earl of Wolverton. How silly not to have recognized it before. Ian insists I am wrong. Did I mention how strong he is? Ian, not the earl. Of course, as a werewolf, he would also be strong. The earl, not Ian.
Ian believes that the Duke of Ghent is the warlock of the nest. Did I mention that Ian is helping me with my research and he is extremely intelligent for a mere mortal who is not a scientist? Ian, not the Duke of Ghent.
As for other news, we received word that Frederick has come home again. We were all greatly relieved, though confused. There had been several Frederick spottings across the countryside, which turned out to be Frederick impersonators and not my dear adopted cousin. But he is home now, safe and sound, all six foot eight inches of him.
With fondest regards,
Clair
P.S. Great-aunt Abby came into my room whilst I was sealing this letter. She sends her regards and says to tell you not to miss the English sailing against the Spanish Armada this week. (She has been Queen Elizabeth quite a bit in the past two weeks.)