The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

by Minda Webber

  Stiffly, she made the introductions, her eyes narrowing as Lady Delia batted her eyelashes at Ian. Before she could stop herself, Clair blurted, "Lady Delia, do you have something in your eye? Perhaps I can help?"

  Ian coughed into his hand to cover a snicker. It appeared that Clair was jealous! A good sign for his Plan A.

  Ian coughed again as Lady Delia gave Clair a look that would have melted iron. "I am fine, Clair. And you? I have not seen you in many weeks. I take it you have been doing your usual manly deliberations in and outside of your dusty lab?" Her voice was sugar-sweet, her fan batting in a mating signal at Ian.

  It was a classic Delia move, this opening gambit, the game being to embarrass Clair before a fresh audience. Clair responded coldly. "Yes. You know my work keeps me extremely busy."

  "I am always so impressed with your studies. But they are beyond me. I can't imagine researching what you do. I have always heard that science is a field for gentleman scholars, not delicate females. Why, I can't imagine little old me knowing what to do in those laboratory places." She spoke the word "laboratory" as if it were a den of iniquity.

  Yes, Clair surmised, Delia was in her prime. "I'm surprised to find that you even know the word 'scientific,'" she responded archly. Check! she thought proudly; she had countered with a bold move.

  "Oh dear," Delia mused. "I fear my association with you must be rubbing off. Whatever shall I do? I don't want to be a bluestocking like you who never lets anything keep her from her research. People talk about how unladylike it is. But then, everyone knows you are a lady." Her eyes were fixed on Clair, a slight smile on her lips as she finished, "At least I think they do. They did before that unfortunate pig incident."

  Damn! Checkmate. She was going to have to concede the game, Clair thought bitterly, a taste like ashes in her mouth. Clair blushed, both embarrassed and angry at the same time. How like Lady Delia to bring up that little unfortunate misunderstanding in front of Ian!

  "That was much ado about nothing." Her reply was firm, her bearing haughty. She would show Delia. She had been mocked by the best and the worst, Delia being both.

  Ian, amused, watched the battle raging between the two titans. What pig incident? He knew without being told that the tale would be a whopper.

  Observing Clair and her aunt, Ian recognized immediately that neither wanted to talk of it. Clair was staring with desperate interest at the Venetian chandeliers high above. Her aunt Mary had joined her in wonder at the lights. Ian wondered what mischief Clair had gotten into. His curiosity barely contained, he raised a questioning brow at Lady Delia.

  With great relish, in her breathy little voice, Lady Delia spoke. "Why, our dear Clair was researching the ghostly disturbances at Murray Manor. It appeared that the cemetery had ghosts residing there. Clair went to investigate the apparitions."

  Clair wanted desperately to sew Lady Delia's mouth shut, and Clair did so hate sewing. Lady Delia certainly wasn't her dear anything. This was war!

  Glaring at the woman's smug expression, Clair reminded herself that Delia, the daughter of the Earl of Lon, was a woman of a thousand faces, all of them false. Drawing herself up to her full five foot three, Clair engaged in battle. She could still try to save her king.

  "I was requested by the marquis himself to help stop the nightly visitations," she said. "The marquis was concerned because his guests had been complaining for quite some time about the noises in the cemetery." She said each word with distinct and stately decorum. "It certainly sounded like ghosts. It could have been ghosts. Ghosts have an affinity for the cemetery. They feel comfortable there. You could say they feel very much at home in the cemetery," she said a bit desperately.

  "Dear," Lady Mary said, patting Clair's arm in sympathy. "You couldn't have known that it wasn't a ghost. It could have been. Quite easily indeed. Easily."

  Ian stared at all three women, his amusement obvious. "I am agog with curiosity. If it wasn't ghosts haunting the cemetery, what could it have been? Let me see," he teased. "Was it a goblin? No. Goblins aren't real, I recall being told only recently."

  Clair pursed her lips, her eyes twinkling.

  "Could it have been that dreaded v-word? A vampire?" He gave Clair such a devilish smile that she almost melted on the spot, her embarrassment easing greatly.

  But Ian's look had not gone unnoticed by either Lady Mary or Lady Delia. Carefully, Lady Delia composed her features and remarked sweetly, "No, it was pigs. Smelly pigs, rooting around the headstones at night."

  Clair glanced down, hoping the ballroom floor would open up and swallow her, but knowing in her rational mind that it wouldn't. She had been the butt of these jokes too many times, and it still hurt.

  In spite of himself, Ian caught himself chuckling. Lady Delia giggled. However, Aunt Mary, a veteran of Clair's debacles, kept her grin to herself. It wasn't every niece who could cast for pearly ghosts and end up with swine.

  Yes, Lady Mary remembered the ghostbusting mission at Murray Manor had caused her niece quite a bit of old-fashioned embarrassment, not to mention that it had set her back several months in her observations of ghostly spectrals.

  Loyally, Lady Mary patted her niece's arm. "It was a mistake anyone could make, dear. I'm sure ghosts sound just like pigs rooting about on their nightly haunts." It really had been naughty, she thought, for Delia to bring the subject up.

  Clair wanted to roll her eyes. "Thank you, Aunt," she managed, a rueful smile on her face. Her aunt always meant well, but if Mary wasn't putting her foot in her mouth then she was somehow maneuvering to place Clair's there as well.

  Lady Delia wiped a corner of her eye, her mirth still obvious. The shrew was always at her best when making sport of someone else, Clair thought sourly. It wasn't fair, she argued with herself. Delia looked all pink innocence but had the heart of a killer. She'd flesh out a person's weakness and then go full steam for the jugular.

  "By the by, did you ever manage to find any evidence of ghosts at all?" Lady Delia asked.

  "No. However, I am now working on something altogether different. Much more spectacular than spectrals. It's important. Really, really important research."

  "It wouldn't take much to outdo pigs," Delia said.

  Glaring, Clair wished just once that she hadn't been born a lady. What she wouldn't do to the black-haired witch. She took a step forward.

  Ian, sensing that the battle of wits was moving into a physical reclaim, quickly placed a restraining hand on her arm. "My lady, it is the waltz you promised me." Bowing to both Lady Mary and Lady Delia he said, "If you will excuse us, please."

  Lady Delia frowned and Lady Mary smiled. Chalk one up for the baron, Lady Mary thought. The handsome devil had extracted Clair with hautton finesse, diverting a scene, escaping Lady Delia's clutches, and bringing a smile to her niece's lips. Yes, he would do quite nicely for a husband. She watched Ian gracefully sweep Clair into the waltz.

  On the dance floor, Ian had to keep reminding himself not to hold Clair too tightly. She felt so incredible in his arms, and light as an angel. Her gaze narrowed on him, making him feel he just might be the devil.

  "You're scowling at me," he remarked calmly.

  "Ladies don't scowl," she replied stiffly.

  "Ladies don't get caught up in catfights in the middle of balls," he responded dryly.

  He was right; he had her there. Still, his amusement at her pig disaster rankled. "How clever you are. Yet gentlemen don't make sport of ladies or insult their gowns," Clair said.

  Her earlier hurt had turned into chagrin at Ian's utter lack of compliments on her attire. He should at the least have been stunned by her appearance. She knew she was in good looks. She had to be. She had spent three cursed hours getting ready for this cursed ball only to have the cursed baron insult her ballgown, when she could have been plodding ahead with her investigative work. She had another vampire suspect to study; perhaps she should be off studying him.

  Ian eyed Clair's gown, his gaze lingering on her abundant
charms. A spark of anger filled his eyes. "There is not enough of that gown to insult."

  "Really, my lord, you go too far! Madame Le Fronge said it was the latest in Parisian fashion."

  Ian knew that Madame Le Fronge was one of the foremost dressmakers in London. But obviously the woman was an idiot.

  "Clair, don't get yourself in a tiff. The gown is lovely on you. What there is of it. I can't take my eyes off you—and neither can the other so-called gentlemen of the ton. And I use the word 'gentlemen' lightly."

  "I would accuse you of having a screw loose, if my uncle Victor had created you." Clair glanced around. "No one is paying attention to me."

  "In that case…" Ian trailed off as he danced her out the open balcony doors. The terrace was awash in soft moonlight that gilded Clair's face and hair.

  Releasing his grip on her arm, he moved a step back, staring down at her. "You're wrong, Clair. Men do look at you, and often. If you would just get your head out of your books, you'd see that."

  "Balderdash," she replied. He was embarrassing her.

  "You need to quit reading so much about life and live it," he advised gently as he led her over to a corner on the terrace deep in shadow. "Take time out from your studies and endeavors and just live."

  "I would expect that kind of rakish comment from a rogue."

  "I'll show you rakish," he said. Giving a wolfish grin, he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly against his heated body. Ignoring her gasp of surprise, he kissed her. Clair returned the kiss shyly at first and then with a vigor that was startling. The friction of his mouth working against hers was delicious. His tongue entering her mouth was incendiary. She could feel his body heat envelop her, and she could feel something pressing against her stomach.

  His arms were strong against her back, his hands questing. She felt the pull of his gravity thoroughly. A long, drawn-out moan escaped her.

  With that soft sound from Clair, Ian's kiss took on a will of its own. White hot heat flooded him as he explored the depths of her mouth. All Ian could think was how he wanted to devour the honeyed sweetness of Clair.

  Their kisses quickly heated his blood to the boiling point. He pushed his tongue inside her mouth again. She was like an electrical storm flashing through his system, jolting him back to life. His member was hard and throbbing, heavy with need. She arched back, the movement pressing her ample breasts against his chest. He could feel the nipples pebbling.

  Growling, he trailed kisses down her neck to her daring décolletage. His tongue flicked out, causing Clair to gasp and grab his hair. He nipped her nipple and she shivered. It was almost more than Ian could bear. His hunger for her was sharp-set. He wanted to throw her to the ground and bury himself so deep it would take a week to pull himself free. Somewhere deep inside Clair, she knew that she should stop Ian. Ladies did not do this. Ladies did not feel passion, they only read about it. Ladies did not go out on balconies and then go up in flames. To hell with ladies! She grabbed his hair and pulled him closer.

  Unexpectedly, they heard the sound of footsteps in the garden directly below. Ian broke apart from Clair, his nostrils flaring. Looking down at her, he arrogantly noted Clair's dazed expression and red lips, bruised by passion.

  "I-I…" she stammered. She tried again, her breathing almost back to normal. "I should apologize to you." My God, she fretted. It was worse than she'd thought. She had become a salivating strumpet. She was losing her dedication to duty along with her moral fibre. She hadn't thought about the vampire nest since Ian arrived in the ballroom. What would Uncle Victor think?

  Ian shook his head. Once again Clair had shocked him. "I should be the one offering an apology," he said. His voice was husky with unfulfilled lust.

  "No, I acted very unlike myself—more like I imagine a woman of the street would act in a similar circumstance." Ian tried to interrupt, but Clair waved him off. "I know a lady should not act the wanton, and I am after all a lady by birth and degree, but I am also a Frankenstein. And Frankensteins have a fierce passion for scientific inquiry."

  Ian smiled. "Yes, I know."

  "Then you do understand."

  "Understand what?" Ian was at a complete loss.

  "My response to your kiss was inevitable. You see, we seem to have some kind of electrical current, a spark, so to speak. This spark intrigues me. I feel it must be quite similar to Oersted's theory on magnetism, where two opposing poles attract one another. I had so wondered what caused poets to write such passionate sonnets as I have read. Now I know," she remarked. She turned and began walking away.

  Suddenly she stopped and looked back over her creamy white shoulder. "After experiencing passion myself, this centripetal force, I wonder that there is not more poetry in the world. A veritable deluge of it."

  Ian sighed, frustrated. He was giving her his best kiss and she was thinking of magnets? Still, he couldn't keep his eyes off her as she strolled away, her shimmering green gown a beacon of light. She had done it again: stunned him. Clair Frankenstein was like the unfettered ocean rushing off in ceaseless journey toward distant shores. And how could he resist her pull? She stopped once and looked back, smiling at him, a smile for him alone.

  Grimacing, he studied her. So she thought him an experiment. He had been many things to many people in his life; however, an instrument of scientific inquiry was not one of them.

  Then all at once he smiled wickedly. Just wait until the next time he kissed her. He would give her a charge that would knock her garters off!

  And just what in the bloody hell was centripetal force?

  Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

  The first thing Ian noticed as Brooks led him into the Frankensteins' Blue Salon was that there was not a speck of blue to be seen. The second thing he noted was that the walls appeared decorated in a fur-and-feathers motif. The theme continued through every space available, including the four floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, which were filled with stuffed animals and birds.

  A colorful macaw was perched on a tall gold stand in one corner of the room. In another corner, a magnificent tiger of gold and brown lay in repose. An owl was suspended from the ceiling in midflight. Crouched on all fours atop a gilt end table was a fat tabby cat with two lime green lizards frozen at his feet. One wall was completely covered with every kind of head imaginable, from a twelve-point buck to a grinning ferret. It was a virtual den of taxidermy, and it gave new meaning to the phrase, The night has a thousand eyes.

  Ian raised an eyebrow, centuries of aristocratic breeding explicit in the motion.

  The much put-upon but very proper Brooks explained stoically, "Lady Mary is quite proud of her hobby. In fact, it is rather a sideline of hers."

  Ian raised both eyebrows. "Taxidermy?"

  "Many people, rather than bury their pets, prefer to have them stuffed. That way, they have their loved ones with them forever." With a straight face, Brooks turned to the group of people standing at the fireplace and announced loudly, "The Baron Huntsley."

  The small group turned toward Ian. He took in their faces, though some of them were hidden by shadow. He felt a crackling, creative energy which seemed to roll through the room. It gave him a queer start.

  Bustling forward in a gown of flowered blue silk, Lady Mary made him welcome. "How glad we are that you could make our dinner party. Come meet the others," she requested sweetly.

  The first of the men to whom Ian was introduced was a Mr. Harre, who was visiting from the Isle of Man. His pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and he sniffled constantly. Lady Mary confided to Ian that Mr. Harre's pet turtle had recently died. He had come to her for the funeral, which was set for tomorrow. The tortoise was to have a full burial at sea. Feeling sorry for the grief-stricken Mr. Harre, Lady Mary had generously invited him to tonight's dinner.

  The next man Ian met made a stark impression. The young man had dark, brooding eyes and a grave and stern decorum that made Mr. Edgar Allan Poe seem a decade older than he really was and steeped in perpetual so
rrow. With reluctance, Mr. Poe turned from his study of a beguiling raven on a perch. Both men observed the formalities.

  Next Ian was introduced to a Mrs. Annabel Garwood, a woman of Lady Mary's age who was dressed in a bright yellow brocade gown with purple trimmings and a yellow turban set atop her flaming red hair. The turban had a speckled band which secured it in place.

  Her daughter, Miss Arlene Garwood, made known as Clair's closest friend, was dressed in a less garish fashion than her mother. Unfortunately, she had inherited the carroty red hair color. The rather plain young woman, however, did have eyes a remarkable shade of green. Intelligent jade eyes, Ian determined after careful study.

  But it was the next introduction that most captured his attention.

  "Professor Whutson is an old acquaintance of the family," Lady Mary remarked, smiling warmly at the jolly middle-aged man. He was round of face with long grayish brown sideburns. "He and Clair are great friends, for they are always poking their noses in dusty old tomes or conducting some scientific study here and hence."

  "Honored," Ian said formally. He had met Professor Whutson before. At the time, however, he had been in disguise—a disguise so total that no one except his own mother would have recognized him.

  "Professor Whutson is interested in solving all sorts of whodunits and such. He is quite brilliant," Lady Mary professed proudly.

  "No, no, my dear Mary. It is Dr. Homes who is the brain behind the brawn. His conclusions are genius, and his methods of reductive reasoning are truly remarkable. My friend Homes takes the most daunting and difficult of criminal cases and solves them with amazing aplomb. I am only a novice compared to one such as he," Whutson protested modestly.

  "You work with Durlock Homes?" Ian knew two and two was four, but he didn't like the answer and he didn't like coincidence. Ian knew that Durlock Homes had a sterling reputation. Homes was a mastermind at solving puzzles and problems of any kind. He had met the redoubtable tuba-playing crime-solver when Dr. Homes was on the case of the Sine of Five. Homes had pursued the solution relentlessly, wearing himself down until he fell ill. He hadn't stopped until he solved the riddle.