The first thing Ian noticed as Brooks led him into the Frankensteins' Blue Salon was that there was not a speck of blue to be seen. The second thing he noted was that the walls appeared decorated in a fur-and-feathers motif. The theme continued through every space available, including the four floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, which were filled with stuffed animals and birds.
A colorful macaw was perched on a tall gold stand in one corner of the room. In another corner, a magnificent tiger of gold and brown lay in repose. An owl was suspended from the ceiling in midflight. Crouched on all fours atop a gilt end table was a fat tabby cat with two lime green lizards frozen at his feet. One wall was completely covered with every kind of head imaginable, from a twelve-point buck to a grinning ferret. It was a virtual den of taxidermy, and it gave new meaning to the phrase, The night has a thousand eyes.
Ian raised an eyebrow, centuries of aristocratic breeding explicit in the motion.
The much put-upon but very proper Brooks explained stoically, "Lady Mary is quite proud of her hobby. In fact, it is rather a sideline of hers."
Ian raised both eyebrows. "Taxidermy?"
"Many people, rather than bury their pets, prefer to have them stuffed. That way, they have their loved ones with them forever." With a straight face, Brooks turned to the group of people standing at the fireplace and announced loudly, "The Baron Huntsley."
The small group turned toward Ian. He took in their faces, though some of them were hidden by shadow. He felt a crackling, creative energy which seemed to roll through the room. It gave him a queer start.
Bustling forward in a gown of flowered blue silk, Lady Mary made him welcome. "How glad we are that you could make our dinner party. Come meet the others," she requested sweetly.
The first of the men to whom Ian was introduced was a Mr. Harre, who was visiting from the Isle of Man. His pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and he sniffled constantly. Lady Mary confided to Ian that Mr. Harre's pet turtle had recently died. He had come to her for the funeral, which was set for tomorrow. The tortoise was to have a full burial at sea. Feeling sorry for the grief-stricken Mr. Harre, Lady Mary had generously invited him to tonight's dinner.
The next man Ian met made a stark impression. The young man had dark, brooding eyes and a grave and stern decorum that made Mr. Edgar Allan Poe seem a decade older than he really was and steeped in perpetual sorrow. With reluctance, Mr. Poe turned from his study of a beguiling raven on a perch. Both men observed the formalities.
Next Ian was introduced to a Mrs. Annabel Garwood, a woman of Lady Mary's age who was dressed in a bright yellow brocade gown with purple trimmings and a yellow turban set atop her flaming red hair. The turban had a speckled band which secured it in place.
Her daughter, Miss Arlene Garwood, made known as Clair's closest friend, was dressed in a less garish fashion than her mother. Unfortunately, she had inherited the carroty red hair color. The rather plain young woman, however, did have eyes a remarkable shade of green. Intelligent jade eyes, Ian determined after careful study.
But it was the next introduction that most captured his attention.
"Professor Whutson is an old acquaintance of the family," Lady Mary remarked, smiling warmly at the jolly middle-aged man. He was round of face with long grayish brown sideburns. "He and Clair are great friends, for they are always poking their noses in dusty old tomes or conducting some scientific study here and hence."
"Honored," Ian said formally. He had met Professor Whutson before. At the time, however, he had been in disguise—a disguise so total that no one except his own mother would have recognized him.
"Professor Whutson is interested in solving all sorts of whodunits and such. He is quite brilliant," Lady Mary professed proudly.
"No, no, my dear Mary. It is Dr. Homes who is the brain behind the brawn. His conclusions are genius, and his methods of reductive reasoning are truly remarkable. My friend Homes takes the most daunting and difficult of criminal cases and solves them with amazing aplomb. I am only a novice compared to one such as he," Whutson protested modestly.
"You work with Durlock Homes?" Ian knew two and two was four, but he didn't like the answer and he didn't like coincidence. Ian knew that Durlock Homes had a sterling reputation. Homes was a mastermind at solving puzzles and problems of any kind. He had met the redoubtable tuba-playing crime-solver when Dr. Homes was on the case of the Sine of Five. Homes had pursued the solution relentlessly, wearing himself down until he fell ill. He hadn't stopped until he solved the riddle.
Ian wanted to howl with frustration, distrusting and disliking the connection between Clair and Homes. If Homes were helping Clair with her research, then heads would fly… literally. United, Clair and Homes would undoubtedly uncover some secrets of the supernatural world. Blood would be shed, and Ian was afraid most of it would be Clair's and Homes's.
"Yes. We consult together on cases—or rather I provide a sounding board for Homes's theories," Professor Whutson replied.
"Nonsense. Quit hiding your light under a bushel. You are of great importance. Dr. Homes told me so himself when I saw him in July," Lady Mary scolded. "You always did take too little credit for yourself," she added as she patted Professor Whutson on the arm. She continued, "Homes may be a genius, but you have common sense, and that is worth more than I can say about most men of scientific bent. They all too often don't possess a whit. Most scientists and scholars I know are like little boys playing with matches. They do so regret it dreadfully when they get burned but are hell-bent on making their fires," she confided.
"You do me too much credit." Whutson waved off Lady Mary's comments, a slight flush on his rotund face.
"Fiddlesticks. You know my brother Victor is as bright as any scientist inside his lab, but if events fall outside his laboratory and his experiments, he is like a half-blind bull blundering through a china shop. While the resultant events might be fascinating to watch, the effects can be shattering," Lady Mary finished.
Whutson and Ian both chuckled, and the professor acknowledged it was true. Brooks's announcement of a Mr. Dudley Raleigh interrupted the congenial exchange.
Mr. Raleigh had a washed-out look. His skin was like fine, wrinkled parchment, giving him the impression of a man used up and spent by a life of folly. Again Lady Mary made introductions, relaying that Mr. Raleigh was an old beau of Lady Abby's from before her marriage and widowhood.
Ian was left standing with Professor Whutson as his hostess scurried off to converse with Mr. Raleigh. It was a fortunate event for Ian, leaving him to pursue his inquiry into just how much the good doctor knew about Clair's supernatural research.
"I take it you have known the Frankensteins a long time?" he began casually.
"Since Clair was in diapers and Lady Mary was a young beauty," Professor Whutson replied. "I met Victor when we were both enrolled at the University of Vienna."
"Then you've had the pleasure of watching Miss Clair grow into adulthood."
Professor Whutson's smile was kind. "Yes, she has always been a great delight. Always scampering in and out of her uncle's laboratory, putting her dolls among the beakers and Bunsen burners. Clair was a fearless child, filled with mischief, playing hide-and-seek in the cemetery when her uncle Victor was on one of his grave-robbing expeditions."
Professor Whutson reminisced fondly as if such missions were an everyday occurrence and the career of choice. Ian blinked, having the strangest feeling of descending into a kaleidoscope of Frankenstein follies—a most odd fall indeed.
"She used to wear her uncle and me out with her unending questions. 'What makes butterflies die so soon after they metamorphose?' 'Why do the stars live so far away and where do they go when they go to sleep?' 'How many vampires does it take to close a coffin?'" He chuckled. "She was always a whirlwind, a true credit to the Frankenstein name."
The last made Ian stand straighten So, he thought, it appeared Clair's interest in the preternatural was of childhood origin.
"Yes, Miss Frankenstein is quite an amazing student in the more mystic-type studies," Ian probed. His focus sharpened; yet outwardly he remained the perfect picture of a bored gentleman. If Professor Whutson was ignorant of Clair's recent work, Ian didn't want to alert him.
"Quite," Professor Whutson replied.
"Do you confer with her on her studies?"
"Clair confers with no one. She sticks that pretty little nose of hers to the ground like a good bloodhound and goes after the scent. I can tell you that she's caused a gray hair or two on her uncle Victor's head." The doctor chuckled affectionately.
Longing to breathe a sigh of relief, Ian merely smiled. Now he knew which enemies were at the gate, since Watson and Holmes were clueless about Clair's current quest. "How does Miss Frankenstein come up with her hypotheses? Does anyone help her?"
"No. She does that too by herself. Amazing brain that girl has. Probably the most forward of backward-problem-solving I have had the privilege to witness. She learned to walk before she could crawl, learned her alphabet from Z to A, and solves a mystery beginning with the end and working in reverse to the beginning. Truly amazing."
Which explains, Ian thought smugly to himself, the case of mistaken identity.
A new man entered the room, a tall mustachioed fellow, and Whutson gave a start. "There's that incorrigible Arthur again. He's always following Homes and me around, pestering us and asking the most personal details about our casework, then getting everything wrong. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."
And with that the professor excused himself, leaving Ian to study the room and its odd assortment of guests. Ian noticed that Poe fellow standing alone by the fireplace, where dying embers wrought their ghosts upon the floor. He seemed lost, a man in a dream within a dream. Ian walked over to join him.
"Mr. Poe?"
Edgar glanced up at Ian, nodding, his face sphinxlike. "Baron Huntsley," he said quietly, his attention returning to the raven.
Ian cocked his head, studying Poe. It appeared as if he were receiving some psychic revelation. It was as if Mr. Poe was peering into the darkness of his soul, pondering things no mortal man had before thought.
"Nevermore," Mr. Poe whispered.
"Pardon?" Ian asked, perplexed by the comment and by the odd thin man standing before him.
"Nothing."
"You seem alone with your thoughts." Ian grimaced in disgust. He had smelled the cloying scent of opium before. If Edgar wasn't an addict yet, he was well on his way. Which was a shame, Ian thought. Opiates and liquor might first stir a creative fire, but in the end the addiction extinguished the flames, leaving talent in the ashes.
"No. Not alone." Poe motioned to the raven. "Do you know that I believe this bird is a prophet, a thing of evil? Bird or devil, I know not which."
"I rather thought the bird was dead and, though not buried, most certainly stuffed," Ian remarked.
"He speaks to me, quotes to me."
"Shakespeare?" Ian inquired, deciding to humor him.
"Milton. Paradise Lost," Poe answered solemnly.
"I see," Ian said and he did. It all made perfect sense. The bird was quoting a man who had lost paradise on earth to another who had lost his marbles in the Frankensteins' Blue Salon. Abruptly Ian took his leave. Poe remained locked in mortal combat with the stuffed raven.
Lady Mary intercepted him scant moments later, remarking upon her niece. "Clair should be down soon. She is helping Lady Abby dress. Lady Abby is Clair's great-aunt."
"I look forward to enjoying Miss Frankenstein's company. Her recent studies have quite captured my attention."
"Yes, when one is part of the study, it tends to capture one's fancies." Lady Mary winked at him.
"So you knew of Miss Frankenstein's suspicions?"
"There's not much that gets past me. I've known what Clair was working upon for quite some time. Not to mention that I attended the tarot card reading. It was all most frightening, a truly remarkable event." Lady Mary tapped her fan thoughtfully against her chin. "Such a shame, in a sense. Clair was so sure you were one of those undead things. It would have made her day if you had been the leader the of the pack."
"It could have made her dead," Ian argued sternly. "As her aunt, don't you feel a need to stop this particular road of inquiry?"
Mary patted his arm. "Dear boy, trying to stop Clair is like trying to halt a particularly nasty electrical storm."
Ian frowned. He really wanted to dislike the round little woman, but he couldn't. Her warmth was infectious. Damn, just like her niece.
"You Frankensteins are obsessed with those storms. Using them in your experiments, likening yourselves to… But being electric and unpredictable doesn't keep Clair safe."
Lady Mary smiled slyly. Her Plan A, To Catch a Baron, was falling marvelously into place. She almost felt like a master thief at the ease with which she had so far maneuvered the handsome baron. It was like taking candy from a mere babe. "You're worried about my niece."
"Yes. Miss Frankenstein should be attending balls, not hunting vampires. She should be painting watercolors or embroidering like other young ladies of her class, not running around at all hours of the night peeping into coffins."
Lady Mary seemed to ponder for a moment. "Clair is a cerebral being, often living only in her mind. And you know what they say, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear." She stopped, her brow wrinkling. "Although, if anyone could do it, Victor could." Seeing Ian's strange expression, Lady Mary patted his arm. "I digress. You are worried about my niece. I can say honestly that most of her studies into the otherworldly have been fairly harmless—like those pigs in the cemetery or the devil in the belfry."
"Devil!" His heart froze. Devils were such hotheaded little creatures with nasty tempers, always sticking their little pitchforks here and there. Ian had often thought their temperaments were probably a result of the ugly little horns on their head poking into their brains, along with spending much of their lives breathing sulfur and brimstone. That would tend to make anyone a trifle testy.
Lady Mary pooh-poohed him. "Stop looking like you're going to bite me, my lord. It was merely a case of mistaken identity. This devil was only an alias for the old vicar of Scratch Parish. He was a bit touched in the head, you know."
Ian wanted to ask if the old vicar was a family relation. "I see. Another case of mistaken identity," he said instead. "There seems to be a bit of that going around."
"Well, one could see it like that."
"Yes, one could. However, we were speaking of Clair and her new, very dangerous studies. I can say, with all due respect, that Clair is no match for a vampire."
Lady Mary only smiled more brightly. She would wear her blue velvet ostrich-feathered hat with the pearl inlays to the wedding.
"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.