The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

by Minda Webber

  "It's spilt milk now, Clair, and has been for some time."

  "I don't know. He asked specifically about you tonight, and more than once. Besides, hasn't his wife been dead for over a year now?"

  Mary nodded. "That may be, but Julian would never approach me. His honor would hold him back. He knew how badly he hurt me."

  Regarding her aunt's downcast features, Clair smiled. "I hope you don't mind, then, because I invited Ozzie to dinner in a few days." She hadn't, but that point could easily be remedied with a quick note on the morrow. Clair grinned. It appeared she had inherited another Frankenstein characteristic: the matchmaker gene.

  Friday the Thirteenth

  Of course it was the Friday the thirteenth, Ian groused. His luck had gone from bad to worse as the day progressed, beginning when he awoke to find his valet had fallen down the stairs dead drunk. This left Ian with no recourse but to polish his own riding boots. To make matters more difficult, there was not a drop of champagne in the house to put a spiffy sheen on the Hessians, since Ian's valet had finished off the last four bottles in the wee hours of the morning.

  Next Ian had discovered the upstairs maid was pregnant, and that the footman responsible was suspiciously on leave visiting his deceased grandmother.

  Following that, Ian sat down to breakfast to discover that the cook had burned his kippers. A few inquiries confirmed his suspicions. His valet had had a partner in crime in finishing off the champagne.

  With domestic matters so grim, Ian had wisely decided it would be prudent to take a ride in the park. Unfortunately, on the way his roan horse had thrown a shoe, clipping a little old lady's shin. The early morning hours had ended with Ian being beaten over the shoulder with a reticule.

  As luck would have it, his cousin Galen had been riding by and witnessed the whole affair. Ian knew well that there would be chortles throughout the Highlands when Galen went back and told the sordid tale to his brothers. All in all, Ian conceded dismally, it had not been one of his finer mornings.

  But then came the icing on the cake to this unluckiest of days. Clair threw his dozen roses—he'd been trying to apologize for telling that smidgen of a white lie about the Duke of Ghent in order to protect her—smack dab in his face. Ian now sported a half dozen scratches on his cheeks from the thorns. His day's luck was staying true to form.

  Lady Mary witnessed the bristling Clair and her amazing throwing arm. She then watched as Clair stormed off in a cloud of ill humor. The gentle lady tried to explain to Ian that her niece had a smidgen of temper, but then was interrupted by Lady Abby, who entered the room in one of her bizarre costumes, complete with Roman toga and grape leaves for a crown.

  Before Ian could say "Jack Frost" he was sitting in the Blue Salon listening to Abby's plans to march on Rome. He was also having a tarot card reading, for all the good it did him. The three times Ian drew cards, he drew blanks, white cards in the tarot deck. Enough was enough. Tucking his tail between his legs, Ian beat a strategic retreat home to lick his wounds and doctor his scratches.

  Which led him to now, when he was standing alone at the rout hosted by the Rogers family, wondering dismally how his Plan B had failed so miserably and hoping desperately to see Clair. He knew she was angry with him for his deceit, and he'd expected that, but he really hadn't expected her to be so furious she wouldn't let him explain. And to be honest, he really hadn't expected her to be able to break into the duke's domicile. He had been spectacularly wrong on both accounts.

  Gloomily, he leaned against the wall. He spotted Clair flirting with a pink of the ton. As always, she was ravishing. Her hair was pulled high on her head in a Grecian knot, with floating tendrils around her shoulders, and it shone brightly in the light of a dozen candles.

  She was wearing a gown of silver-blue satin interspersed with creamy lace. The lace circled the dress's hemline and puffed sleeves, and edged the deeply scooped neckline, which more than showcased Clair's splendid bosom. Ian wanted to worship at the shrine of those magnificent breasts. Bloody hell, he cursed to himself. The way his luck was running, he would be more likely to suckle a pig's tits than Clair's.

  Scowling, he noted how the young buck with Clair was trying to stare down her dress. He was going to kill the stripling, and definitely planned a word with Lady Mary on her niece's risque choice of gowns.

  Feeling Ian's gaze upon her, Clair looked up. She donned a mask of cool disdain and pointedly ignored him. But with lashes lowered, she observed him discreetly.

  She hid a gleeful smile, silently congratulating herself on her luck. How delightful that Ian was staring at her, and from the expression on his face, he was no happy gentleman.

  Yes, this was her lucky day. She had finally found the exact color of green ribbon to match her poke bonnet, which she had been searching for the past two months, and she had won ten quid while playing whist with Great-aunt Abby. She never won playing cards against her great-aunt; Clair reasoned it was because the woman spent so much time with tarot cards.

  Risking another peek at Ian, who was staring at her grimly, Clair raised her chin in the air a notch higher. Yes, she mused, this was her lucky day. Ian was miserable—which he should be, the conniving, callous cad. He was a cad who had betrayed her, made her look a fool. He wasn't fit to kiss the toe of her shoe. He wasn't fit for human company. How dare he tromp on her precious dreams? How dare he make a mockery of her research? How dare he judge her aspirations to be less worthy than a man's, and then play her false? The bounder! He probably didn't share a single hope in her chest.

  Brandon Van Helsing interrupted her silent ranklings. "Clair, how pretty you look tonight! Like a budding rose, picked fresh," he flattered.

  Clair smiled. "My thanks, Brandon. And you look quite the man about town yourself," she praised, noting that his dark gold jacket went well with his dark brown hair. "I have written to Jane recently and am awaiting her reply."

  Brandon nodded. "I hope all is well with my younger sister."

  "Yes. I hope she quite enjoys her visit to Holland, although nursing the injured can be less than exciting. Still, I'm sure Jane will come back with some marvelous sketches of birds." Clair noticed a slight tightening of Brandon's jaw, knowing birdwatching was proscribed among the career-oriented Van Helsings, with their black capes, black bags, and cemetery fetishes. How dear Jane with her love of birds and artistic temperament had ever come from that deranged clan was a question Clair had asked herself more than once. Jane was truly a bird of a different feather.

  "True. She has quite the talent for taking an object and making it appear to come alive on paper," Brandon remarked, thinking how his sister's bird-watching tendencies greatly disturbed their father, who would much rather Jane turn her bird-watching into vampire bat-hunting. "I will be visiting with Jane in a few days, for I am leaving for the Continent on the morrow," he stated.

  Clair cocked her head, studying him. The man was on the hunt. What vampires was he tracking? "Business, or making the grand tour?"

  "The tour," Brandon said, with only a slight hesitation.

  Clair knew it for a lie. Rather than making the grand tour, as many of the sons of the aristocracy did—visiting museums, music halls, brothels and gaming halls—Clair would bet a quid that Brandon's tour would include cemeteries and mausoleums. "I see you take after a certain baron here tonight."

  "Pardon?" Brandon asked, perplexed.

  "Oh it's nothing," Clair remarked sweetly. Men could look a lady in the eye and tell such big fat lies. She wondered if it was inborn to the male nature or if they attended some class on telling fibs.

  Before Brandon could respond, Claire's bosom friend Arlene Garwood joined the group. Pleasant hellos were exchanged; then Brandon took his leave. Clair gave express instructions for him to tell his sister that she was missed.

  As soon as Van Helsing left, Arlene commented on Ian's and Clair's locations—far apart. "So you two haven't reconciled yet?" she asked. She kept glancing back and forth from Clair to Ian; she had
heard the whole sordid tale of Ian's treachery when Clair arrived on her doorstep at the unheard-of hour of nine in the morning. "After all, he did try to explain. And he gave you those lovely roses."

  "Hmmpf." Clair snorted, unmindful of decorum. "No. And I won't reconcile with him. Not yet. There's more here than meets the eye. I'll wager a monkey that Ian is keeping secrets from me. And if he thinks that his gift of roses was enough, old Baron Charming has another think coming. I'm going to show him no mercy."

  "Oh no, Clair. You have that gleam in your eye. That same gleam that almost got us drowned when searching for mermaids when we were young. That same gleam that got us locked in the attic for half a day when you decided the rats there were really ghosts. What are you up to this time?"

  "Nothing yet," she remarked as she dragged Arlene behind a group of large potted ferns. "Now Ian can't see us."

  "Clair," Arlene warned, shaking her head. "Not another one of your plans. Don't do anything you'll regret. You hold strong affection for the baron and he, I sense, for you."

  Clair pursed her lips, steering the conversation away from her plotting. It was a brilliant plan, as plans went, but knowing Arlene as well as she did, she knew her good friend would try and talk her out of it. She wrinkled her forehead in frustration. Arlene never appeared to notice how truly inspired Clair's plans were. Still, Arlene was a good, loyal friend, even if she was a tad slow at some things.

  "You know, I believe Great-aunt Abby is right about men. She said that they always bring indigestion and insomnia into a lady's life while they are courting, while she waits for the gentleman to call. Then, after, they bring on crying jags and plate-throwing. I would be better off without Ian Huntsley darkening my doorstep." But even as Clair said the words of pique, her inner voice was crying out, "No!"

  "Great-aunt Abby has a point. But think how bloody boring life would be without them," Arlene half-teased.

  Clair sighed. Arlene was right. Her life had been really quite fine before Ian entered the picture with his debonair good looks, but Clair was still afraid that if he left, everything would be a shadow of its former self. Somehow the wretch had wriggled and squirmed his way into her heart. The worm! He really was a bad apple and deserved her Plan B, The Sting, even if Plan B included Asher, the proverbial fruit of the poisoned tree.

  But beggars couldn't be choosers. She knew she had little choice but to pretend to have a tendresse for the Earl of Wolverton. She hoped it would drive Ian crazy with jealousy, and pay him back for his villainous lie. Her brilliant plan also would give her time alone with the earl to gather information. It was an inspired campaign, Plan B. And Clair was highly anxious to put it into play.

  "You haven't seen the Earl of Wolverton here tonight have you?" she asked her friend slyly. "I've been searching for him, but nothing so far."

  Arlene paled. "So that's your intention?" she gasped. "Gads, Clair. It will get you maimed or dead or even worse. You'll end up all furry once a month." She shuddered. "If that happens, I have to admit it will put a crimp in our friendship. Mother will never allow me around wolves, even if one of them happens to be my best friend."

  Clair rolled her eyes. "Do calm yourself, Arlene. I am only going to flirt with the earl a little and make Ian jealous," she explained as she pushed Arlene forward and away from the ferns. "Come on, let's see if I can find out if the earl has arrived."

  Out in the main room, Ian impatiently shifted his feet, his eyes never leaving the area where Clair had disappeared. He scowled. Besides ignoring him, the little imp was hiding. Yes, today was a very unlucky day, he ruminated darkly. Very unlucky indeed. It was in this sour mood that his cousin found him.

  "You look deuced down in the mouth, laddie," Galen professed. He joined Ian in holding up the wall. "I take it you're not still moping about the old lady beating you. Although, for a noted Corinthian such as yourself, I guess it would be a trifle humiliating." He grinned at Ian's expression and added, "You could always have popped her cork."

  "Go away," Ian snapped.

  "No can do. Misery loves company."

  "I am fine by myself," Ian retorted stiffly.

  "Aye, I can see that," his cousin said sarcastically. He glanced around the room. "You stand here in a black funk, your expression so forbidding that no one but me will dare come near you."

  He gestured at several ladies standing nearby with hopeful expressions. "They are just waiting for a smile to come and lift that woebegone expression off your ugly mug."

  Ian snorted derisively. "Just what I want—more women. I have enough trouble with the one."

  "Ah. The light dawns. You are having a Clair problem, I take it. What has the lass done now—besides hiding in wardrobe closets, chasing vampires, stalking supposed werewolves, and driving you clear around the bend?"

  "What else? The woman wishes me to the Devil."

  Galen studied him then dryly commented, "A feat you have accomplished at least a dozen times if I recall." Pulling on his cravat, he added, "Damn, if you don't always find your way back."

  "Very amusing." Ian ignored his cousin. His attention focused on Clair, for he saw her emerge from behind some ferns and flutter her eyelashes at some young fop. His jaw tightened. He knew Clair never fluttered her eyelashes. At least not at him. "Why on earth do we need women anyway?" he asked.

  Galen glanced over at Clair. "To bed them, silly. Not to mention the continuation of the species."

  "She won't let me within ten feet of her," Ian complained sourly.

  "They also smell quite nice. I believe Clair smells of something fresh. Pinecones in winter, maybe," Galen suggested.

  Ian glowered at him. "What are you doing sniffing about her?"

  "Really, coz, take hold of yourself. Clair is a fine figure of a lass, but she is too much Frankenstein for me. If I ever do decide to take a leg-shackle, it would be someone more biddable, someone who would cater to my every need, who would sit quietly at home and raise my bairns. Not a Clair-type at all. I want someone a little less of a romp and, most importantly, devoid of a lineage peppered with lunatics."

  "I've said nothing of marriage. You know how I feel about that estate. Watching one's mother nearly grieve herself to death over one's father tends to make one extremely cautious. Besides, how would Clair ever fit in with our family?"

  Galen tested the waters. "She's a Frankenstein. She has that indomitable spirit." He was pretty sure his cousin was in so deep as to be drowning. He could see that Ian was in love with Clair Frankenstein. In some ways that was a good thing, in other ways it seemed very, very bad.

  Ian suddenly stiffened. Asher had entered the ballroom. Noticing his cousin's distraction, Galen turned towards the door.

  "I see Asher is doing the rounds. But why is he here? He despises routs."

  "Clair," Ian explained in a growl. "Bloody hell!" He watched Asher approach Clair, a dazzling false smile on the man's face. "I should have killed him when I had the chance!" he snarled.

  "My, coz, you do love to live dangerously." Galen thoughtfully watched the situation unfold while his cousin cursed.

  With his usual savoir faire, the Earl of Wolverton strolled toward Clair, a pretentious and predatory air about him. Upon reaching her and her friend Arlene, Asher bowed, seduction clearly on his devious mind.

  "Bloody hell!" was Ian's only comment. He watched with glittering eyes and a fierce expression.

  Yes, Galen decided. The fat was in the fire. Ian was clearly in love, and Asher, the seducer of many a fair maid, was interested in the same bit of woman.

  The Best-laid Plans of Monsters and Men

  "How you look, Miss Frankenstein. 'She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies,'" Asher quoted, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. "You are absolutely ravishing." Then, doing the pretty, he turned to compliment her friend. "And you, Miss Garwood, are delightful."

  Arlene blushed, enchanted despite her fear of the earl. He was such a libertine, with such a wicked reputation. That was en
ough to put a blush on any innocent maid, especially when said earl was also reputedly the Wolf man of London. Clair raised a delicate brow.

  Noting her poised coolness, Asher added, "Miss Frankenstein, I feel I owe you an apology for my less than gentlemanly remarks the other night."

  Mischievously Clair quipped, "The Earl of Wolverton is apologizing? I feel the earth on its axis spinning to a halt. I fear the Elgin marbles will crumble to dust. Ah, St. Peter must surely be turning over in his grave." Smiling, she patted his arm with her fan and gave him a come-hither look.

  Asher smiled wickedly, showing off his pearly white teeth. "Perchance are you flirting with me, Miss Frankenstein?"

  "I believe I am too wise to do such a bold and dangerous thing."

  Asher glanced around the ballroom. "Where is your champion?" he asked. Spying Ian, he added scornfully, "I see Huntsley is over there. He rather reminds me of a supporting column. Why, and he looks rather blue-deviled."

  "I would say he probably is. Traitors never fare well, you know," Clair remarked coolly.

  Asher chuckled, his expression smug. "Trouble in paradise so soon?"

  Clair hit him with her fan. "You, my lord, are too pert for your own good."

  "Let me show you how pert," he replied arrogantly. He took her arm, excusing them from Arlene, and said, "Come, my pretty." He led Clair to a window embrasure at the far end of the room. Pulling the curtains aside, he ushered her within.

  She went without protest, amazed her plan was going so smoothly. She had baited the trap, and the wolf was biting.

  Dropping the drapes back in place, Asher admired Clair's composure and beauty. "Alone at last," he said.

  She laughed. "With only two hundred guests, give or take a few, all a simple shriek away."

  "You are a charming minx," Asher teased, touched by how uniquely beautiful Clair Frankenstein was. She was relentlessly intelligent, with a burning desire to discover the unknown. She had a sharp wit that he admired, and her bloodline, though not quite as top-of-the-trees as he would have liked, was still acceptable. He barely even minded that she was a Frankenstein. Actually, having that monster in her family was a point in Clair's favor. If one already had a monster at home, why quibble at two?