by Minda Webber
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Asher shrugged philosophically. "Who can say? But I'll wager a monkey that I will come out the victor."
"As always, Asher, your vanity overcomes your common sense."
Asher snarled, his fangs glistening. Ian tensed, waiting for the attack, his life flashing before his eyes in a series of colorful images of love, laughter, and ultimately grief and unfulfilled responsibility.
Then Asher grabbed his cape, his eyes returning to their usual glacial blue. "I don't have time for this, Huntsley. Come. The night is calling me. It vanishes quickly and too soon will slip into dawn." Asher donned the heavy dark cloak. "Clair Frankenstein is a danger to me and my kind! Think what wholesale slaughter could happen to my people if humans became aware of our existence. Think what a bloodbath would occur if mortals knew of us. They would attack us, we would decimate them. How would your Clair feel if she were the one responsible?"
Ian shook his head. "She won't tell, even if she figures it all out—which is doubtful."
"The deuce you say. You're moonstruck, my chap. She's a Frankenstein. Of course she'll tell. She'll write about my species in some obscure scientific text. Of course, in this case, the more obscure the better." Asher opened the mausoleum door.
Ian held up his hand, motioning for Asher to stop. "I think you should be aware that her family is close friends with Durlock Homes."
Asher halted. "Bloody damn! That man's a bloodhound once he's on the scent. He never tires and he never stops!"
"Homes would take it amiss if anything happened to her," Ian went on as they exited the mausoleum. Asher was in the lead; no way would he have the vampire at his back.
Night surrounded them, its scent so strong that Ian could taste it. The silence was ominous as he awaited Asher's decision.
The vampire stood with head thrown back, bathing in the glow of the moon. Then, recalling himself, he finished their business. "I must admit I don't want Dr. Homes on my trail. He's almost as good at the hunt as one of my kind."
"Don't forget Clair's uncle and his monster," Ian added.
"Victor? The man's a bedlamite. Still, it seems Miss Frankenstein has a veritable dragoon of dragonhearts saving her neck. Literally."
"One more thing. Call it blood for thought. As of tonight, I've put Clair off your scent."
Asher appeared intrigued. "How?"
"By giving her other quarry to pursue. You might call it a false trail. A very false trail."
"You underestimate your petite chère. She's made of sharper stuff. I doubt you've solved my problem."
Ian clenched his fists. "Asher… stay away from her."
The vampire raised an elegant hand. "No need to get your hackles up. You've given me a great deal to reflect upon," he countered as they came to the edge of the cemetery. "By the way, how did you discover my new sleeping quarters?"
By the tensing of Asher's shoulders, Ian knew the question wasn't casual. He answered truthfully, "I tracked you."
"Well, don't ever do it again!" Asher commanded, his expression deadly. "Though I should have known. You Huntsleys were always masters of the hunt, yourselves. Too bad we hunt different prey. It would have been a challenge to see whose skill was superior." And so saying, Asher vanished into the mist.
Bell, Cookbook, and Candle
Once again, Clair's mountain-climbing ability served her well. She scaled the Duke of Ghent's walls like a mountain goat, just as crafty as a fox, she had avoided the guardians of the gate and those surrounding the duke's palatial mansion. It was, in fact, the great expanse of the place that increased Clair's chances of not being seen.
As usual, Clair had been her pragmatic, resourceful self, memorizing the layout of the duke's home. Methodically, she started her search in the lower rooms, investigating the library, the morning room, and the duke's study. Finding nothing of interest, with the exception of one black cat curled up in a ball, she continued toward the kitchen.
She made her way silently, needing to be wariest of all now, for the kitchens of the wealthy were usually filled with busy workers, working diligently with flour on their aprons. Clair tilted her head to listen to the sounds of chanting coming from the closed kitchen door.
"Eureka!" She thought in triumph. Finally she would catch a culprit red-handed, or at least holding a book of spells.
Quietly, she pushed the kitchen door open, praying it wouldn't squeak. Once again, luck was with her; she noiselessly made her way through. Inching her way forward, she crouched behind a large green cupboard. Peeping around it, she saw that the kitchen had been modernized with all the newest in cookware, including a yellow brick Dutch oven set majestically in the center of the back wall. The heat from it warmed the room, making for a cozy nest.
To Clair's surprise, there was only one person in the kitchen. He was standing with his back to her, near a stove. Two fat black cats lounged lazily nearby, one at the man's feet and the other beside the oven. Clair instantly recognized him as the duke. The man's hair was silver, his clothing was elegant, and he wore well an air of command. He was dressed in soot-colored satin breeches with a smoking jacket of a deep ruby hue. A pair of dark ruby house slippers completed the ensemble.
Clair was disappointed in his dress. He wasn't wearing what Ian had called "warlock robes." She pondered a moment and then decided that the duke probably couldn't run around in his occult costume without rousing the suspicions of his servants.
The duke, stirring something in a large black kettle on the stove, remained unaware of her. Unfortunately he had stopped chanting.
Gathering her courage, Clair crept forward until she was leaning around the duke. The spellbook she'd been so determined to view was in reality a cookbook. "Where's the eye of newt?" she muttered to herself.
"Drat!" she added. A troubled frown crossed her features. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire."
Startled, the duke dropped the ladle he'd been holding. "Who in the blue blazes are you?" he asked.
Trying for a composed look, Clair politely answered, "I am Clair Frankenstein."
The name raised one of the duke's imperious eyebrows. Taking a quizzing glass out of his jacket pocket, he looked Clair up and down. Then, pointing to a small round table in the corner of the kitchen, he motioned her to sit. "Aren't you the Frankenstein who used that new-fangled recording device to capture pigs rooting around a cemetery?"
Bloody hell, Clair thought, borrowing one of Ian's favorite curses. It seemed her fifteen minutes of infamy were lasting a bit longer than fifteen minutes. "I was going to record ghosts, Your Grace."
"Intentions, intentions. It looks as if you ended up with a pig in a poke."
Clair raised her eyes to the ceiling. How she hated such humor at her expense. She would never live down those little oinkers. The initial flashbacks from the porcine incident had people pointing and giggling at her—or worse, oinking at her. One clever gent had even sent her a roast pig with a dozen violets. That had been the breaking point. Clair had quit eating pork—a feat not easily done, since the Frankenstein cook made the most delicious bacon and eggs.
The duke took in the bright flush on her face. He smiled. "What are you doing haunting my kitchen?"
"Would you believe I was hungry?"
Shaking his head, the man picked up his soup ladle and began dishing stewlike substance into two bowls. He placed one in front of Clair.
Suspiciously, she sniffed. It smelled delicious. "Is it poison or bat wings?"
"Heavens no, child. Chicken wings in red wine stew." He placed the second bowl to the right of Clair. "Would you care for a glass of chianti to go with it?"
Clair nodded warily, waiting for an explosion or a demand for further explanation as to why she had sneaked into his house. It wasn't long in coming.
"Now, tell me what all this balderdash is about." His voice was stern with centuries of breeding as he poured a rather generous amount of wine into a very tall glass. "And don't try to bamboozle me, my dear."
She kn
ew a command when she heard it. Sensing honesty was the best policy, she replied with the truth. "I thought you were a practitioner of the black arts."
"Good grief, no!" he said, flabbergasted. "I am a practitioner of the culinary arts. To be honest, I haven't blackened anything in the kitchen since I was a wee lad."
Drat! Drat and double drat! She had done it again, made a fool of herself, always rushing in where even angels feared to tread and falling flat on her face. How could she have made such a mistake again? Wait a minute! This fiasco was courtesy of one sneaky, odious toad of a baron. The realization narrowed her eyes. It was her caring, helpful Ian who had started her on this primrose path, leaving her to face the folly. She was a lone rat on a fast-sinking ship. She would kill him with her bare hands, she envisioned. Or boil him in oil, then tie him to the mast and burn him for treachery.
"Won't you try my stew, my dear?" The duke asked. "It's one of my new recipes," he added as he motioned to the cookbook on the counter.
Politely, Clair took a bite. It was as good as it smelled. She was a bona fide idiot and this duke was a bona fide chef. "It's delicious. Amazing, Your Grace."
He took several sips of his wine, obviously pleased. "Some wine?" he asked again.
"Yes, thank you." Maybe she could get bosky and forget this whole misguided adventure. Or, Clair mused, maybe she would lop off Ian's nose with a carving knife. That would be a funny sight.
Mulling over her options, she recognized that if she had only had a brain and Ian only had a heart, she wouldn't have stumbled into this kitchen. Indignantly she brushed back a lock of her golden hair and tucked it behind her ear. "Your Grace, I am a bit confused."
"I can see that. I take it this is another of your pigs in a poke."
"Your Grace, I do beg pardon, but I am really getting tired of everyone bringing up that misadventure."
He chuckled. "I can well believe it. Now, let me introduce myself properly. I am Julian Maurice Oswalt. But my friends call me Ozzie," he remarked as he leaned over and patted the fatter of his two black cats. "You, I think, may call me Ozzie." The cat purred loudly, eliciting another chuckle from the duke, who pointed a finger at the contented puss.
"This is Aurora, mother to that one over there," he informed Clair, inclining his head toward the smaller of the two cats, who lay snoozing peacefully at the foot of the stove. "That is Samantha. Both are bewitching felines."
"They are pretty," Clair agreed. "And, in a way, they are partly responsible for why I'm here tonight."
Ozzie raised an eyebrow. "You're a cat burglar?" he asked. Then he winked.
She laughed. "Of course not. I'm here because I thought you were a warlock."
Ozzie chortled. "I see. I know people think it odd that I only keep black cats, but as a boy my dearly departed mother gave me one. These are her great granddaughters. The cat's, of course. Not my mother."
"I didn't know dukes could be so sentimental," Clair said.
"We do take our sentimental journeys—all in the dark, of course. Yes, sentiments and passions are frowned upon for a duke, as is cooking. What would the ton say if they knew I was my own chef?" he asked sadly.
"They'd want to stew you in your own sauce, I would imagine."
"Correct, Miss Frankenstein."
"Call me Clair," she offered. She quite liked this eccentric duke. "I must say you are a bit of a surprise. In all fairness, you should have called for your guards to cart me off to the fleet for this cursed business. But you didn't. Why is that?"
"You are a Frankenstein, and having a long acquaintance with your family, I have learned to expect the unexpected from you. You know, you look a great deal like your aunt Mary did when she was your age. She was quite the coquette in her day, and the loveliest woman I ever beheld." Ozzie smiled nostalgically. "Now, tell me the whole story of this new project. I have a desire to be entertained."
So Clair did just that, starting at the beginning and leaving nothing out. The duke sat quietly, sipping his wine. He was indeed an inspired listener, filling her wineglass and bowl whenever needed but rarely commenting. After she finished, he gave some suggestions on how to go about finding the werewolves and vampires. But he cautioned her to be careful, reminding her how upset Aunt Mary would be if she got herself in danger. He agreed that Ian should be boiled in oil. He also agreed that men, with himself being the exception, were black-hearted knaves. Finally, he sent his warmest regards to Clair's aunts, most especially Mary; then Ozzie, the wonderful cooking wizard, sent Clair on her merry way, reminding her that there was no place like home.
Less than hour later Clair was seated on the pale gold and blue floral settee, her bare feet nestled in the thick plush Turkish carpet of her aunt's bedchamber. Shadows flickered on the walls from the rise and fall of the flickering flames of the fire in the large blue-marbled hearth, and seethingly Clair explained the night's comedy of errors. After her explanations, she was even more incensed.
"Odious toad! Philistine! Cowardly cad! I can't believe his nerve! His absolute gall! What does he think me? Stupid, I'll wager. Ian is the veriest pillock!" Clair roared.
"Now, now, dear, the baron doesn't think you a nod-cock. He's just underestimated your bulldog tenacity," Lady Mary soothed, patting her niece's arm.
"Flattery," Clair muttered.
"But true. All Frankensteins have bulldog determination. It's an inherited quality, you know."
"Now I'm a bulldog?"
"Better than an ass, my dear," Lady Mary said. She poured some jasmine tea into a delicate porcelain cup.
Clair shook her head. "Ian is the ass. An unmitigated jackass of a man!"
"It's in men's natures," Lady Mary confirmed sincerely. "Even more unfortunately, they often bray and kick."
"Ian's a beast!" Clair continued bitterly.
"Most men are. Have a cup of tea, dear. It will calm your nerves," her aunt advised as she handed over the cup and nudged a plate of teacakes across the small mahogany foot table.
"He's a monster," Clair ranted, scrambling for other names to call her betrayer.
"Don't be silly, dear," Mary admonished, taking a sip of tea. "He's nothing like Frederick."
Clair rolled her eyes. "Ian Huntsley is going to be sorry. I'll make him eat his words. He betrayed me. You just wait and see."
On her way home from Ozzie's, she had conducted an absolutely brilliant plan. She called it Plan B, The Sting. Ian was going to get pricked by jealousy, drown in his own perfidious nectar. Clair would pollinate the Earl of Wolverton with honeyed words, buzz around him, and cloud the issue of her research. Being the queen bee, she would not get stung and she'd be able to scout out London's nest of supernatural predators. Yes, her Plan B was a masterpiece of Machiavellian planning. The idiot drone—that would be Ian—didn't stand a chance.
"I don't believe I like that look in your eyes," Mary said. "It generally bodes trouble."
"Mainly for Ian. He is such a… such a… man!" Clair had run out of insults.
"And thank heavens for that," her aunt said, patting Clair's arm again. "Where would we be without the silly creatures?"
"In paradise."
"And very, very lost there, I'm afraid. Now eat your scone and drink your tea. You'll feel much better."
Clair sighed. Her aunt's recipe for curing tragedy was stuffing one's face until one felt much like one of her taxidermy subjects. But Clair wasn't ready to eat her way out of her pique. "I would have been utterly mortified at mistaking His Grace for a warlock, except he was such a great sport. And an amazing cook," she added as an afterthought.
"Yes, Julian was always a kind heart," her aunt reminisced, expression melancholy.
Taking in her aunt's demeanor, Clair speculated there must have once been something between them. "He told me to call him Ozzie, and he asked much about you," she said.
"Ozzie, indeed. Such an undignified name for such a fine figure of a man."
"He's rather old. I'd say at least in his early fifties," Clair said, pr
obing for a reaction. She got one.
"The face may age, but the heart does not. In here," Lady Mary replied, pointing to her chest, "in here, we're all still beautiful young debutantes in our first season."
Hmm, Clair mused. Live some, learn some. There was more here than met the eye, she decided. "I take it you knew His Grace well at one time?"
"My dear, you are prying."
Clair laughed heartily. "That too must run in the family. I do believe I inherited that particular trait from you, Auntie."
Her aunt blushed.
Clair continued her questioning. "Do tell. Was Ozzie one of your gentleman callers?"
Lady Mary smoothed her creamy lace nightgown, her expression one of woe. "I knew him when I was a debutante."
"How well?"
"Little scamp! We courted for a while. Alas, it didn't work out. He was quite the catch of the town, top-of-the-trees in his heyday."
"What happened?" Clair was beginning to be concerned by the wistful look in her aunt's eye.
"He was caught in a compromising situation with another young girl who was making her come-out that season. They were married a week later."
Clair was shocked. "Ozzie has too much honor to compromise an innocent, I would think," she said.
"Yes, he does and he did. The young girl and her mother engineered the compromise. Julian was trapped."
Clair was upset to discover this secret anguish of her aunt. All these years, and she'd never known Mary had once been deeply in love. And apparently she still was. "Is that why you never married?"
"I never found anyone to compare. No matter the passing of the days or years, the memory of Julian still clove to me of wondrous days of long ago." Lady Mary stared off into the distance for a moment; then, recalling herself, she said to her niece, "It's another characteristic of our ancestry. It seems most of us Frankensteins only love once and always too well."
Tears sparkling in her eyes, Clair hugged her dear aunt tightly, wishing she could ease this heart long broken. "I am so sorry. I never knew."