Clair sat gloating like Cheshire, her friend Jane's well-fed cat, as she and the other women made polite chitchat and the men finished their brandy and cigars. As far as she was concerned, the dinner party had been a raging success—the one small exception being when Mr. Harre had gotten weepy at the sight of the turtle soup being served.
The talk had been lively, the meal superb, and Ian looked spectacular in his evening clothes. He was dressed wholly in black, with a white waistcoat embroidered with red thread that matched the red ruby pin in his fashionably tied cravat. The handsome devil quite took her breath away.
Ian had also acted with remarkable courtesy to both her aunts, not even lifting a brow when Great-aunt Abby had called out, "Off with their heads," when the senior footman forgot to pour her more wine.
Clair couldn't help but beam. Ian seemed to take in the eccentricities of her family with a remarkable calm, like a lone oak standing tall against the woodcutter dancing gleefully around its trunk. She felt almost sure that he was interested in her, which made her heart quicken and her insides feel as if tiny butterflies were alighting in her stomach. It was a truly exceptional sensation for a woman who had learned to compartmentalize her feelings, placing them in tiny boxes to be safely stored away, while she devoted her life to her career.
Breathing deeply, she savored both her feelings and confusion like the men did a fine port after dinner. It was amazing what an attractive beau could do for a woman's outlook on life.
Noting her friend's agitation, Arlene sat down next to Clair on the green-striped settee. "Clair, you look provokingly thoughtful. I bet I can guess what you're contemplating so thoroughly." Arlene grinned. "One very handsome baron?"
Clair sighed. "He is handsome, isn't he? Probably the handsomest man in all of London… England… make that the whole British Empire!"
Arlene giggled. "I can't believe it, but it appears you, my scientific brainiac, are smitten. This is quite the red-letter day."
"Yes, I do believe I am. It's like being bitten by bedbugs and not minding. I should be thinking about my vampire theories, but instead I'm thinking of how green Ian's eyes are," Clair confided conspiratorially.
Before she could say more, the salon was suddenly filled with the smells of cigar smoke and a faint trace of aged brandy as the men entered. Clair smiled affectionately as Professor Whutson approached. He was one of her favorites among her uncle's cronies.
"What a fine meal, Clair. I am so glad I could attend." Whutson patted his belly.
She hugged the older man. "So am I. We have missed you. But I know Dr. Homes has kept you quite busy," Clair said sincerely. "Tell me, what is he involved with now?"
"Tobacco."
"Tobacco?"
Whutson laughed at her expression. "Yes, Homes is busy testing different tobacco ash. The other day I opened the door and smelled thick smoke. I thought a fire had broken out, only to find Homes studying tobacco ash."
Clair's laughter pealed out like the tinkling of bells. Professor Whutson shared in her mirth, chuckling long and loudly.
"Homes has deduced that he can solve many mysteries if he can tell from where certain tobaccos originate."
Clair's smile faded as she grew intrigued, her mind instantly recognizing the possibilities. "Yes, of course! That is quite astute of him. I imagine tobacco is much like a fingerprint. If Homes can determine where villains buy their tobacco, I feel sure it would cut down on investigation times."
"Quite, my dear." Giving her a quick peck on the cheek, he motioned toward Lady Abby, who was setting up court. "I do so enjoy confounding Homes with these readings, for I always relate them carefully when I arrive home, and he is always astounded that your aunt is always correct."
Clair laughed brightly. "You are a wily old fox."
"If so, I am in good company," he said cheerily. "Come, let's enjoy another adventure of the tarot cards."
The two joined the group around Lady Abby, who prepared to begin her readings. "Come, my subjects, it is now time for the cards." So saying, she sat down in a tall Louis XVI chair and pulled out her tarot cards. "Who will be first?"
After no one answered, Lady Abby dramatically pointed a finger bedecked with rings at Mr. Poe, who had once again taken up his post by the stuffed raven, that ominous bird of yore. "You there, leave that bird alone and come here."
Mr. Poe hurried to obey the royal request, seating himself in front of Lady Abby. "My lady."
"Do I know you, sir? What tempest has tossed thee to my shore? Have we met before, perhaps at Windsor Castle? Did you make obeisance to me there?"
Poe shook his head, looking ill at ease.
Ian shook his head, amused that the man was embarrassed talking to a make-believe queen, but perfectly fine with being enamored of a dead, stuffed bird.
"Come now, sir. No need to be shy," Lady Abby advised haughtily. "My, you are a beguiling little fellow." Turning around to face Raleigh, she added ceremoniously, "Raleigh, we must give him an appointment at court."
Mr. Raleigh nodded from across the room. "Yes, Bess. Perhaps I can put him on as Dresser of the Wardrobe."
Lady Abby seemed satisfied. "A most worthy position. What say you, Sir Poe?"
Clair hid her grin. Mr. Poe looked like a fish out of water, but then Aunt Abby often had that effect on people. Her great-aunt was as delusional as they came during her episodes, a wonderful old lady full of spit and vinegar. Of course, she also had a heart as vast as the bluest of skies.
Mr. Edgar Allan Poe finally managed a weak nod as Abby adjusted her heavy gown and shuffled the cards.
The cards were drawn, yet remained facedown as the sounds of silence descended upon the room. The only exception was the ticking of the pendulum clock on the fireplace mantel, ticking away the hours of every human life.
Lady Abby glared ruthlessly at the offending clock. "To the tower… take it to the tower. Brooks! Brooks! Take it away, it offends us."
The long-suffering butler hurried forward, a rare mutinous look on his face. Ian repressed a grin. If this were the Bounty, Lady Abby—alias Queen Bess or whoever the hell she was this week—would be walking the plank.
Brooks quickly bundled up the hapless clock and took it away, muttering under his breath. "They don't pay me enough to endure this."
"Now, Mr. Poe, pay attention to the cards," Abby commanded as she turned three tarot cards over. "By the heavens that bend above us, you have drawn the Tower and the Chariot!" She shook her head. "But also the Moon, which is good." She looked arrogantly at Mr. Poe. "You will have fame. The power of your words will evoke strong emotions and images. Perhaps you will know great fame, but it will come with a cost. A very great cost. Perhaps the cost of your heart. The road will not be easy."
"My writings, they will sell?" Poe questioned eagerly.
Lady Abby studied him, seeing in his eyes the mark of a demon. Mr. Poe was a haunted man. "Yes. Hear the tolling of the bells. Iron bells." But Lady Abby knew the price Mr. Poe paid would be high: his sanity and his life.
The man laughed with delighted abandon. "I was so afraid, so afraid. But I will become a great writer after all."
"In time. All in God's good time. But not all of this fame will come in your own time."
"What do you mean?" Poe demanded. His laughter faded.
"Your greatest fame will be after your death," Abby prophesied.
"But, but," Poe stuttered, his expression confused and defeated. "My writings. My destiny is to be a great writer. An author of great renown."
"You already are, sir. You need no man to tell you that your macabre words have a life of their own, and that they will be remembered for decades to come." Lady Abby smiled regally, then indicated for him to rise. "Go now and head thy soul away from stealing shadows and birds."
Poe stood, hesitating, afraid to anger the old lady, but his curiosity was unsatisfied.
"Begone, I say," Lady Abby demanded boldly in a tone that would have done Elizabeth Tudor proud. Mr. Poe had no choice but to back away, a confused expression on his features.
"My lord." Turning slightly in her chair, Lady Abby addressed Ian. "Now it is your turn."
Ian felt apprehensive, but he sat down before the grand dame. He didn't want his fortune read, knowing his own future far too well. Still, in this gathering of giants he couldn't risk refusing and having questions asked.
"Now, Baron, draw three cards," Abby instructed.
She nodded as she handed him the deck to shuffle. "Many men are mere puppets who come and go, formless men who do the bidding of others. But you are not such a one."
Ian glanced up at the old lady, but he remained silent as he picked the three cards. He drew the Tower, the Hanged Man, and Death. Ian heard a few hushed murmurs of concern over the last card.
Lady Abby stared at Ian for a long while, her expression grave. "Your life has been magic, but also a tragic adventure. At times your journey in life has been obscure, other times lonely."
He nodded.
"There is great change in your life, continual change. The Tower indicates this. Always there is change, but at the cost of destruction," Lady Abby explained to everyone, studying Ian closely. "Strange how this change is such a constant thread throughout your life. You keep so many things hidden."
Ian shifted uncomfortably. Lady Abby was touching on secrets that needed to remain hidden. "My life has been what it should be."
Lady Abby shook her head. "No, my lord. Destiny causes you to chase the wind and the moon. You struggle to accept what is written upon the wind. Some spell shall bind you."
Behind him, Ian could sense Clair moving closer. Her curiosity seemed almost a living thing.
Lady Abby pointed to the next card. "The Hanged Man indicates that you are undecided about a situation. You do not know how to act, therefore you choose not to act at all. That will not do. You must act in order to preserve your destiny."
"And what am I undecided upon?"
Lady Abby only smiled a mysterious smile and shook her head. "Ride boldly down the valley of shadow. Ride boldly." She pointed to the last card. "The card of Death."
"That's something I don't fear."
Lady Abby looked deep into his eyes. "No, you are not afraid, but death is stalking you, you know. He rides a big black horse, and he is legion to immortals."
Clair gasped, moving to stand by Ian's side, her concern a palpable thing.
"He stalks us all," Ian said quietly.
"But methinks he chases you harder than most. You have outwitted him so far, but be wary, my lord. Death rides a dark horse and he rides it fast. And as the Norsemen used to say, he rides also the night wind." She inclined her head. The tarot reading was finished.
Ian took Lady Abby's hand, giving it a courtier's kiss, then stood as she motioned at Mrs. Garwood to take a seat.
Clair guided him to a corner in the room where they could stand without being overheard. "I am sorry about the reading, Ian, it was really quite grim."
Ian smiled down at her. "Clair, I don't believe in such things."
She put her hand on his arm, beseeching him with her eyes. "But you should. My great-aunt may be a bit of a character, but she is quite good at her cards. She warns you to be careful. Please do so."
Ian grinned. "Her cards told you that I was a vampire," he reminded her.
"Her cards told me that there was something otherworldly about you."
"You see how wrong she can be?"
Clair shrugged. "Everyone is entitled to a mistake or two."
Ian chuckled. "Well, that one was a doozy."
"Don't you ever make mistakes?"
"Not since I was in leading strings."
Her gray eyes twinkling like the evening sky, she teased, "I see I can add modesty to your list of admirable traits."
Ian could feel the strong pull of attraction. Luckily, it appeared to be mutual. Yes, he thought, he was well satisfied with the progress of his Plan A, The Seduction of Clair Frankenstein. The affair was proceeding as planned. Clair was becoming enamored of him. Soon he would have her concerned only with his kisses, have her walking about with her head in the clouds and not on the walking dead.
A loud, "Humph!" interrupted their exchange. Clair and Ian quickly glanced around to find Lady Abby standing and holding out her dress, upon which a large wine stain was spreading.
"Out, damned spot! Out I say!" Lady Abby quoted dramatically.
Ian whispered, "Isn't that Shakespeare?"
Clair nodded. "She gets her characters confused sometimes. Well, there's no help for it. I need to take her to the maid so she can get changed. I'll be back momentarily."
"I wait with bated breath."
Clair arched an eyebrow and left.
Instead of joining the others, Ian decided he needed a few moments of peace, letting the conversations swirl around him. He could hear Professor Whutson commenting to Mr. Raleigh on another of the Homes cases. Lady Mary was enthusiastically showing Mr. Poe her taxidermy specimens.
Brooks broke Ian's concentration as the butler entered the room carrying a note on a silver platter. The servant glanced around, then exited.
On gut instinct Ian followed, and Brooks led him to a back room near the kitchen where Clair was just leaving. The butler handed her the note while Ian hid in the shadows of the stairwell.
"Aha!" Clair exclaimed.
"Oh no, Miss Clair, not again." Brooks clutched a hand to his chest, a mournful expression on his homely face.
"Oh, Brooks, you are such a worrier."
"With more than good reason. Now what have you gotten yourself into?" the butler asked cautiously.
"Brooks," Clair sighed, giving the man's shoulder a fond pat. "The game is at hand."
"Miss Clair, you really worry me when you start imitating that Durlock fellow." His voice was filled with reproach.
"My dear fellow, if it were up to you, I would still be in the nursery."
"Yes, you would. Safe and sound, and not out gallivanting around the cemeteries and in people's crypts. It's not fitting for a genteel lady like yourself."
"Dear, dear Brooks, you know better than most that a Frankenstein can't quit once on the trail of a scientific breakthrough. The truth at all costs."
"Don't quote the family motto to me again. If I have heard it once, I have heard it a thousand times, and that's the plain truth! That little motto could get you dead and buried. Or even worse," he scolded like an old maid, "it could get you two big holes in your neck. How would you like that? How would your aunts like that? You know Lady Abby can't stand the cold and how my arthritis acts up in the damp night air."
"What has that got to do with anything?"
"If you become one of those undead fiends, where do you think we will have to go to visit you? The cemetery, that's where!"
"Now, Brooks, I will be fine." Affectionately, Clair again patted his shoulder. "I will be leaving a little after eleven."
Suddenly, she frowned. She could get in quite a predicament over this purloined letter, which would lead her to the secret assignation, if Ian got a devil in his head. Well, there was no hope for it; she would have to hurry Ian on his way home.
"Leaving where at that hour?" Brooks chided, his feathers ruffled like a feisty bantam rooster.
"To the Honorable Christopher Wilder's house." Clair said the last over her shoulder as she scurried away.
Ian shook his head, remaining in the shadows and listening to Brooks's muttering: "Let's just hope the Honorable Christopher Wilder is an honorable man."
Ian grimaced. The Honorable Christopher Wilder was anything but honorable where women—ladies or whores—were concerned. Ian knew him fairly well from the clubs of ill repute scattered across London. Wilder was a renowned rake, a connoisseur of all that was fleshy, female, and curvy, the bawdier the better. He loved the chase, the capture, and the capitulation. Only, after the fact, Wilder got bored and roamed to new unplowed pastures.
Running a hand through his dark hair, Ian reevaluated things. Perhaps his Plan A needed a few revisions. He smiled deviously. If Clair Frankenstein planned to pay a surprise visit to the Wilder residence, she was in for a big surprise herself.