The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

by Minda Webber

  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.

  Imps of the Perverse

  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 approache
d. 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."