The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

by Minda Webber

  "Quite," Ian agreed, taking a sip of tea. It was spicy. He commended himself on his excellent ability not to howl with laughter at her downcast face and outrageous statements. She was a mixture of refreshing innocence, bulldog determination, and the most outrageous habit of saying whatever came into her mind.

  Still, he needed to grab hold of himself. Enough admiring of this madcap female, he had information to ferret out!

  Observing that her butler had left the room, Ian went on the attack. "Miss Frankenstein, can you tell me why you thought I was a vampire?"

  She glanced up from stirring cream into her tea. "Well, of course, Baron Huntsley."

  Ian waited with bated breath. This was one of the main reasons he had dropped by the Frankenstein house on Pelham Square, aside from getting another chance to view the delectable Miss Frankenstein.

  Clair took a sip of her tea, then spoke. "My investigations revealed that you were known to be seen only at night. You have an allergy to silver, you only wear gold jewelry on your person, and you…" She hesitated, seeming embarrassed.

  "Yes?" he prodded.

  "You… umm. You are reported to be a remarkable lover. In fact, a few of the women say they… umm." Clair paused, her cheeks pink. Ian thought the color became her immensely. "You are a lothario of the first order. Women say that they swoon from pleasure when you make love to them. These interviews, I felt, supported my hypothesis."

  "And your hypothesis would be… ?" he prodded, enjoying her discomfiture. He was a man for all seasons—well read, well fed, well bred and well bedded. He was a virile man who exuded confidence and sexuality, the latter ensuring legions of willing women gracing his bed. He was a man whom other men looked up to and whom women found irresistible.

  "That you were draining their blood as you made love to them. That they fainted from loss of blood, not your great talent at inspiring all-consuming passion."

  She is an open book, Ian thought as he viewed the expressions passing rapidly across Clair's fair face. He was amused to note that they ranged from thoughtful to studious to awestruck to embarrassed—then to thoughtful interest.

  "So that was your hypothesis. Now what do you think, now that you see me here this morning—in the flesh, so to speak?" He couldn't resist the tiny jab.

  Clair glanced at the floor, not wanting to meet his eyes. "Well, I guess it is possible that your lovemaking is so wild and abandoned that these women do lose consciousness. Although without scientific proof…" She trailed off, apparently lost in some conundrum of scientific bent, her mind clearly in a state of perpetual motion.

  Unwittingly she spoke her thoughts out loud. "I wonder if a scientific study would be possible? Although one would most likely have to be a master on the subject to judge it accurately."

  Ian choked on his tea. "I would be happy to apply as your lab rat," he said, grinning wolfishly. His nostrils twitched slightly as he breathed in her scent. Clair Frankenstein made him hunger in a fundamental way. She made him want to snatch her up and carry her off like a primitive man would, to teach her the meaning of the passion that was buried beneath her logical mind. Yes, he concluded, still waters did run deep. And with Clair Frankenstein, you might just drown if you didn't watch your step.

  Clair's eyes grew round at the thought of the baron as her specimen. Oh, the charts and angles she would have to inspect, and the body of scientific evidence—the very large, very manly body of Baron Huntsley…! The techniques she could use would be invigorating and insightful and… She shifted in her chair, feeling an uncomfortable heat between her legs.

  The research would not only be highly informative, she feared, but highly enflaming as well. Too enflaming, she mused, remembering the kiss of the previous night. She was treading in dangerous waters. She was becoming wild, uninhibited, wicked, wanton. Not a scientist. Who knew what she might do next? She might end up reading that scandalous Henry Fielding novel or dancing naked around her bedroom. She might start saying "legs" in public instead of "limbs."

  Although Lady Delia had often remarked that Clair didn't have a romantic bone in her body, Clair knew herself better. Sometimes, late at night, she would dream of that one man who was made specially for her, like a gift for her birthday. He would love her mind, her body, and her pilgrim soul. He was a man who would cherish her and yet let her be her true self. He was a man to inspire her curiosity and enflame her senses. And when she went into his arms, it would be like coming home.

  Licking her lips slightly, she faced facts. She was a closet romantic in an era when well-bred young ladies had two options: they either waited on the shelf for Prince Charming to ride up and take them down—even if they were almost twenty-five years of age—or they leapt off the shelf and made their own life. Of course, Clair's great-aunt Abby in her more lucid moments was fond of saying that the leapfrog ladies ended up getting warts and too many little tadpoles, since they weren't often content to sit on one lily pad but had to hop around the whole pond.

  "I thank you for your sincere application, but I fear I am studying supernatural creatures, not super-sexual escapades."

  This time, the laugh did escape Ian. Here was a sad romp. "So again I ask, why me? I would have thought that it would be next to impossible to be a vampire and the holder of an ancestral title. It would be too dashed difficult to remain undetected."

  "Balderdash. Years ago, perhaps. But no longer," Clair argued. "My uncle Tieck actually wrote the very first vampire novel ever published in England. He was fortunate in finding a real, live vampire. Some years later he befriended the vampire of whom he wrote. They became cronies, until the vampire's death five years ago in a raging fire."

  Ian nodded. Yes, that would do it. Fire worked as well on a vampire as a stake through the heart.

  Noting Ian's nod, Clair continued with her explanation. "The vampire was a French count and a melancholy fellow, for every quarter century he would have to leave his estates and travel to far-off lands for another quarter century. He would leave so that people wouldn't notice that he didn't age. He stayed away so people would forget how he looked. After a few decades or more, he would come back, pretending to be a son or a cousin, and that would explain the family resemblance."

  "Yes, that is precisely what I meant when I spoke about vampires and titles," Ian remarked. "And I certainly have not done this twenty-five-year thing. I have been in and out of London since I was in my early twenties."

  Clair held up a hand. "Precisely. You've come and gone. Also, most of the aristocracy goes to schools like Eton. You stayed at your estate in Wales, unseen. Then, like Athena, you sprang forth as an adult."

  "Easily explained. My ancestry is Welsh and English. My mother wished me to stay home to go to school. My father obliged her," Ian said. Yet a bleak look came into his eyes. "My father died when I was fourteen, leaving me to grow up extremely fast. I had a barony to run. Unlike other young bucks, I had my duty to my estates and my heritage as well as my mother and my sister to take care of. Didn't your research reveal these things?"

  Ian schooled his expression. He had wandered lost in a vast world, struggling at a young age to understand who he was, what he was, and what he was to become, to preserve his heritage. Although his youth had been lost, a bitter cup to drink, the burdens he suffered had made him who he was today. And that was something he wouldn't trade for all the tea in China.

  Observing the way his face tightened, Clair knew there was much more to Ian Huntsley than met the eye. He reminded her of a great fortress, invulnerable and extremely well guarded.

  "My findings revealed that until five years ago, you had a townhouse here in London which was so rarely used that it was considered a ghost house. Prior to these past five years, your forays into town were almost nonexistent."

  "Yes. And now you know why. My father's death kept me tied up for many years."

  Clair winced inwardly. "I thought you were your father. I thought the so-called son, Ian Huntsley, was actually a paid servant, while you were in real
ity Blaidd Huntsley. Then you, Blaidd, 'died,' and you sent the servant away to America so you could assume the role of Ian Huntsley."

  Ian snorted, both amused and indignant at such elaborate imaginings. "What a ruse that would be. But your timing is off, and though I bear a strong family resemblance to my father, we are not the same. His nose was much longer than mine and his cheekbones much more pronounced. Anyone knowing either of us would never take us as the same person. Your theory falls flat on its face."

  Lowering her head and studying Ian, Clair nodded. Then she confided, "Differences in appearance can now be manufactured. Recall, I told you about the French vampire count and my uncle Tieck? Well, Uncle Tieck introduced the count to Uncle Victor, who discovered a way to reconstruct parts of the face. For instance, to shorten a nose, raise a hairline, or add a cleft to a chin. You do know vampires heal quickly?"

  "I daresay it wasn't in my storehouse of knowledge," Ian responded dryly. "But do go on. I haven't been so entertained in years." He added the last so sincerely that Clair could not take offense.

  "Well, do you know how vampires react to silver?"

  "I do believe that I heard somewhere that it burns their skin, rather like acid," Ian replied cautiously. He knew exactly what silver did to a vampire, and it wasn't a pretty sight.

  Clair nodded enthusiastically. Ian was as intelligent as he was darkly handsome. "Yes. Vampires are extremely sensitive to silver. It can actually kill them in large and prolonged doses. But it is perfect for certain surgeries, if the dose is minuscule. Since vampires heal too quickly for any type of facial surgery to be permanent, my Uncle Victor developed a technique called silver surgery. He implants tiny particles of silver—not enough to damage a vampire or kill him, of course—in whatever facial area he is reconstructing. That way, a shortened nose stays shortened, unable to grow back to its original length due to the implants. Thus a vampire could return to his ancestral home immediately after surgery."

  "And I fit this profile," Ian remarked, understanding so much more than he had. "I suppose, in a strange way, your theory makes sense. You thought I was a vampire pretending to be my human father, who later pretended to be me, myself."

  "In a word, yes."

  "That is so insane that it is absolutely brilliant."

  She nodded her thanks, her pretty cheeks pinkening at the praise.

  Tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair, Ian couldn't seem to relieve his worry. "This subject you've chosen, the undead, is a grave one. Not to mention dangerous. Why pick this particular subject? There are other important scientific spheres to study. Why the Nosferatu?"

  "All Frankensteins study what is difficult. And all Frankensteins are published. Our great name is revered in the hallowed halls of academia. I can do no less but try to follow in my forebears' footsteps. I am who I am. After working with my uncle for a number of years and seeing his interest in animating flesh, I admit to having become quite interested in the dead and the living dead. Hence any interest in the vampire."

  Ian didn't like her answer. It didn't fit with his plans. "But it could be extremely dangerous to research that particular subject. Besides, there are no such things as vampires."

  "You are kind to warn me. I know the dangers of my research. Even Uncle Victor tried to put his foot down."

  "I see that it did little good," Ian noted gruffly.

  "How could it, with Frederick's foot right beside his?" she teased. "Uncle Victor may be many things, but a hypocrite he is not. So instead of hindering me, he gave me my first sharpened stick."

  "Stake," Ian corrected, wishing he could get his hands on old uncle Victor.

  Clair nodded. "He also told me about the garlic and holy water."

  "Yes… the garlic." Ian sighed, reached into the coat of his pocket, then held out his hand. It was filled with garlic. "You forgot this last night."

  Clair took the cloves, laying them on the table. "You must think me a complete nodcock. First, I break into your home, although for a good purpose. I accost you with garlic, then with a stake. Then, to top it all off, I accuse you of being a vampire and flee, dropping garlic in my wake."

  She shook her head, sending her tawny curls flying. "Is that why you dropped by today? You wanted to return my garlic? We do have more in the kitchen, you know. Still, I thank you."

  She hated to admit it to herself, but she was rather disappointed to note that the baron had only been interested in her left-behind spices.

  Ian took her small hand in his. "No, Miss Frankenstein, I do not think you are a nodcock. I think you are an original. And besides returning your property, I wanted to see you again and invite you to go riding in the park with me this afternoon."

  It took less than two seconds for Clair to decide. She had much to do today with her studies, especially since Baron Huntsley had turned out not to be the leader of the London nest. And he was a mere mortal. Still, he was a fascinating man and only the second man she had ever kissed. An hour or two shouldn't hurt her project. "That would be lovely."

  Not as lovely as you, he mused. "At four, my lady." Then Ian left the room, his long strides taking him down the hallway.

  On the way out, a commotion by the stairway caught his attention. Three ladies dressed all in black were marching in what looked like a funeral possession down the corridor. It was a scene straight out of Macbeth, with old crones murmuring chants. Two more ladies joined the procession. The fourth was small and plump with the same tawny hair as Clair, but with a hint of silver at her temples. The fifth was very tall and very thin. Even though she wore a black veil, Ian could tell she was crying copiously.

  The plump lady held the veiled woman's arm, trying to gently comfort her, while the first three women fluttered about the room in high anxiety. Before Ian had the chance to retreat, the plump lady glanced up at him. She had a quiet serenity, a graceful beauty that time's march would not mar. He judged her to be somewhere in her forties. She also had Clair's eyes. It had to be Clair's aunt Mary.

  He spoke quietly. "I am sorry. I am intruding at a bad time. I take it you are leaving for a funeral?"

  Clair's aunt gracefully raised her hand and pointed to a small brown coffin. "This is the funeral. We are doing the march. Clair was busy, or else we would have had her playing Mozart's Funeral March. She is quite talented on the piano," the woman boasted. She knew exactly who had come to call, and her little matchmaking heart was beating a furious rhythm.

  Ian stared at the tiny coffin, trying to decide what on earth would fit in it, but in this asylum, anything was possible.

  "You must be Baron Huntsley. I am Clair's aunt, Lady Mary Frankenstein. And this is Mrs. Heston." Mary nodded toward the gaunt, grief-stricken woman.

  "I am pleased to make your acquaintance and only sorry it is at such a trying time," Ian said politely, glancing again at the tiny coffin. Beside Mary, Mrs. Heston had suddenly snatched the tiny casket, hugging it to herself. Her shrieks filled the hallway.

  "Polly, my sweet dear Polly! How can I go on?" The old lady's voice broke as Mary enfolded her in her arms.

  "There, there, Mrs. Heston. It will be all right. Just think, Polly is in heaven and probably has loads of those crackers she likes so well."

  Appearing in the hallway, Clair took Ian's arm, gently pulling him away. As they walked to the door, he glanced back once. "I didn't mean to intrude upon a funeral. Who is Polly? Is she a relative of yours?"

  Brooks, his face solemn, glanced down the hall at the last of the procession as he opened the front door for them. He said nothing.

  "She's a parrot," Clair explained.

  "A parrot?" Ian asked, confused, as he took his hat and gloves from Brooks. The butler was bearing up quite stoically in this cuckoo's nest he occupied.

  One of the old ladies was adjusting her large black ostrich fan hat, covering both her ears. Another was crying into a black handkerchief, hiding her eyes. Still a third covered her mouth, hiding her sobbing.

  "A parrot?" Ian asked again, tr
ying to wade through the confusion of Frankenstein logic.

  "Yes."

  "Uh… did you know this parrot well?"

  "Never saw her before in my life. Although I did hear she had paranoid tendencies. Afraid of people stealing her crackers, you know."

  Ian shook his head, a strange expression filling his green eyes. "Then why is the funeral at your home?"

  Clair smiled as the baran stood in the doorway, hat in hand. "Aunt Mary does pet funerals. That is her specialty. Last week we had a funeral for Charleston the monkey."

  Ian bowed at once and left, escaping into the cool light of lucid day. Pet funerals! He had heard it all now. He grimaced. He was on the planet Frankenstein, and it was a madhouse.

  To Be, or Not to Be, a Frankenstein

  Later that afternoon, Clair studied the tall, brooding figure of Baron Huntsley. He was a commanding presence, tooling his flashy green high-perch phaeton toward Hyde Park. The horses' hooves made a smart rapping on the cobblestones. They arrived a little before the fashionable hour—the fashionable hour being a time for promenading every type of conceivable carriage with teams of matching horses all decked out in their Sunday best, and the occupants of every carriage dressed in finery, wanting to see and be seen as they made slow progress along the countrylike lanes.

  The brisk wind whipping about, Clair adjusted her bonnet, glad that Baron Huntsley had picked her up early. She enjoyed having the man to herself. He was such an intriguing specimen, even if he wasn't a vampire.

  This afternoon, the baron was dressed in the height of fashion, in a tailored riding coat of dark gray superfine which only enhanced his very broad shoulders and slender waist. With a hungry glint in her eyes, Clair observed how he filled his doeskin breeches to perfection. He was very muscular, and the breeches were very tight.

  Clair bit her lip, beginning to feel like a Peeping Tom or a trollop. She had never noticed things like this before the darkly intriguing baron. Normally breeches were breeches and men were men, unless those men were werewolves or vampires. But the baron made her sit up and take notice. He made her feel distinctly feminine.