by Minda Webber
"Sneaking snoop," he whispered back.
"Lusty libertine."
"Nosy Nellie," he murmured, leaning close to kiss her.
She held her hand up, stopping him. "This isn't the time. I need to see Wilder feed."
"This should be some trick. Has your uncle Victor designed some sort of gadget that sees through wood?" Ian mocked.
"Hush," she whispered. Quietly, she turned the handle on the door. "Bloody hell. It's stuck. Of all the luck," she grouched.
She had made it unseen inside Wilder's red bedroom, and now she couldn't see the sight she needed to see. She was beginning to wonder if Ian Huntsley wasn't rather the opposite of a good luck charm.
Ian gave it the old Oxford try. The result surprised him. "It does appear to be stuck. What an interesting situation. We could stay in here until we rot or I could bang on the door and plead with Wilder to let us out."
His anger was slowly building. Once again, Clair had run headfirst into disaster, this time dragging him with her. In all his days of spying, he had never ended up in the untenable position of being stuck in a wardrobe. What was worse, Clair didn't even realize what a disaster she truly was or the danger she was in!
Ian drew Clair nearer, his hot breath on her ear. "Of course, when Wilder asks me why you and I are in his wardrobe, I will have to tell him that we were spying on him. Then I imagine I will be meeting him with pistols drawn at dawn," he finished grumpily.
"Don't be stupid. He can't meet you at dawn. The sun would fry him to a crisp."
Though neither could see the other, each knew they were glaring furiously.
Reaching into the pocket of her breeches, Clair retrieved a slim pick. A moment later, Ian heard a slight click.
"What are you doing?" he whispered.
"What else? Picking the lock."
"My, my, is there no end to your nefarious talents?"
"Put a sock in it, my lord," she snapped.
As the latch gave, Ian hissed. "Don't push on the door." The words of warning came too late, and both Clair and Ian were dumped unceremoniously on the carpet.
The tableau was straight from a tawdry farce, Ian thought. Wilder was literally caught with his pants down, a shocked expression on his features. Dressed in nothing but black garters and nature's grace, Lady Montcrief was on her knees, worshiping Wilder with her mouth.
"My stars, Ian! I got it wrong again. Wilder's not biting her. She's biting him!" Clair gasped.
It was more than Ian could bear. It was classic Frankenstein. He fell to the floor, howling with laughter.
It was an hour later—filled with sermons, curses, and one or two dubious explanations, all of them coming from Ian—before Clair was returned home to her bedchamber.
Dispirited, she glanced around. The room was decorated in Wedgwood blue and creamy white, with chairs of similar hue, while the settee and window seats were all upholstered in a delicate floral pattern. Well-stocked bookshelves lined the walls and a fire flickered in the blue-marbled hearth.
The logs in the fireplace shifted, causing tiny sparks to shoot outward into the thin mesh screen. Clair stared gloomily at the flames, recalling with shame Ian's lengthy and virulent lecture on the way home.
Ian had been fierce in the closed coach, trying to impose his will upon her. But no matter how he lectured, threatened, or cajoled, she wouldn't give up her dreams of winning the prestigious Scientific Discovery of the Decade Award. She wouldn't give up her chance to be a published scientist of renown, no matter what Ian growled and no matter how many harsh lectures he subjected her to.
She could still hear his stern tone, telling her that she needed to live in the real world and give her scientific research a rest for a while. But he didn't realize that science was her life on every level.
She remembered the look Ian gave her, which had scorched to her very soul. She was terribly afraid that she was falling in love with the devious wretch. But she would stick to her guns. She didn't care how hotly Ian looked at her with his passion barely banked. Or how his dark green eyes blazed as fiercely as the flames in her hearth. Or how long he pleaded and threatened her to stop work. She wouldn't give up her quest. She was first and foremost a Frankenstein and a seeker of the truth.
Aunt Mary, sitting beside her in a white cotton nightgown, finished pouring some tea. "Now, dear heart, care to tell me about it?"
"It was an unmitigated disaster of the first degree," Clair replied mournfully. "And worse, I made a complete jackass of myself."
She winced, remembering her words about Lady Montcrief's bite. Ian had scornfully explained that Lady Montcrief might be a vamp, but she was no vampire. He went on to explain in a rather formal, clinical manner just exactly what Lady Montcrief was doing to the Honorable Christopher Wilder—an act Clair felt wasn't very honorable in the least.
Clair bit her lip, thinking that she would rather suck on a lemon than do that to Wilder's male member.
Lady Mary patted her niece's hand companionably. "Did I ever tell you about the time Victor was seventeen years old?"
Clair shook her head.
"Well, you see, Victor got a rather inflated opinion of himself, and decided he could challenge the Fates and win."
"What did he do?"
"He chained himself to the gables of the roof during a nasty electrical storm, threatening the lightning to strike him."
"What happened?" Clair asked. This was a story about her uncle that she had never heard before.
"What do you think? The fool boy got struck by lightning. It was rather amazing that he lived."
"Of course!" Clair squealed, her eyes alight with excitement. "I always wondered where he got the idea for using electrical currents to stimulate dead cells in the reanimation of dead flesh. I asked often enough, but he would never tell me."
"Of course not. Your uncle Victor is a proud man and he lives on your hero worship. He would never want you to see him in the guise of fool."
Tenderly Clair hugged her aunt, the woman who had been like a mother to her ever since her parents were killed in a boating accident when she was four. She understood the moral lesson her Aunt Mary was imparting: Everyone makes foolish mistakes, but only the foolish give up their dreams. "Thank you, Aunt."
"Good. Now, no more mopes. You merely had another case of mistaken identity. You will just have to buckle down and dig deeper. I have complete faith that you will find that nasty nest of vampires."
Picking up her teacup, Clair sipped thoughtfully. "Aunt, I thought you weren't too fond of my vampire study."
"Heaven knows I'm not, but it's important to you. You are too much like your Uncle. If you stopped what you were doing, it would kill off a part of that marvelous creative spark that is so integral to your makeup. I wouldn't want that. You wouldn't be Clair Frankenstein anymore."
"I know you have been afraid of the dangers I might face, but truly the only danger I have been in is making a fool of myself."
Lady Mary giggled. She knew Clair was beginning to feel better. It was due of course to her indomitable Frankenstein spirit, a force with which to be reckoned. "I must admit I have worried much less since Baron Huntsley entered the scene."
"Hmm. I am beginning to think he is unlucky for me."
"I see," Lady Mary murmured mysteriously. "He is not quite as handsome as some of the other young men of the ton. I believe his jaw is too square, his nose a trifle too long."
"Oh no, Aunt, you're wrong. He's truly gorgeous in a wild and handsome way."
"He is rather arrogant at times," Lady Mary proposed. She carefully regarded her niece's reaction.
"Not at all. Well, only to toad eaters," Clair defended devoutly.
"I heard that he is a seducer of innocents." Lady Mary suggested, her tone bland. Now she was getting to the heart of the matter.
Clair blushed. "He has been a perfect gentleman to me," she began, then stopped, remembering his hot, strong hand on her breast.
Watching her like a hawk, Lady Mary poun
ced. "Clair, is there something you'd like to tell me?" She didn't quite approve of the old ruse of getting a man to the altar through a compromising situation, but if the compromising did occur, then the compromiser was most definitely going to marry the compromisee.
Warily Clair eyed her aunt. She knew that tone. Mary Frankenstein was plotting something, probably something to do with wedding dresses and wedding cakes and a certain crafty baron. But while Clair desired Ian to be in love with her, she would not force him into an unwanted leg-shackle.
She leaned over and kissed her aunt's cheek. "No. Ian and I have done nothing to be ashamed of. I wish I could say the same for the not-so-Honorable Christopher Wilder. I would like to tell Arlene and Jane about what I saw. But it wouldn't be proper. Besides, they probably wouldn't believe me."
Her aunt diverted, Clair went on to describe the scene which had occurred upon her emergence from the wardrobe. Much to Clair's chagrin, her always-dignified aunt ended up in much the same position as Ian: rolling on the floor, shaking with laughter.
"If Great-aunt Abby were here right now, she could appoint me her court jester," Clair remarked rather stiffly. That only sent her Aunt Mary into another fit of laughter.
Reconnaissance in the Garden of Good and Evil
The formal garden was filled with lush, rich vegetation. The strains of a waltz filtered through the large stained-glass balcony doors, and from the ballroom soft golden light spread out across the deep green foliage.
Ian lifted his head and sniffed the air. It was filled with a myriad of smells, but one scent in particular: Clair. Surveying the darkly shadowed areas, he spotted a very shapely bottom stuck into the air. He would know that derriere anywhere.
He knew it, had dreaded it, had been prepared for it, but still her unrelenting audacity made him grit his teeth. She was like a feisty terrier with a particularly juicy bone.
Ha! he thought. When Clair Frankenstein got the bone between her teeth, she was off and running, leaving everyone else behind. But he had no choice except to follow.
He stepped lightly, approaching his unsuspecting victim as silently as death. Clair never heard him coming. Leaning over, he seductively breathed on her neck. "Boo!"
"Ouch!" Startled, she banged her head on the shrubbery under which she was halfway hidden, tangling her hair in its limbs. Frustrated and a trifle wary, she complained gently, "You scared the life out of me."
"Better me than some other villain lurking in the shadows," he remarked sternly. He began untangling her hair from the boughs of the bush.
As he did so, Clair motioned Ian to squat down by her side. "Be quiet."
Ian gritted his teeth. "Who, or should I say what, are we spying on now?"
"I resent that."
"No. You resemble that."
"I am not spying, I am merely on a scouting mission," she hedged.
"Who is your victim this time?" Friday-faced, he tried for a modicum of civility. It was not an easy feat, as he was fast being driven around the bend by Clair's scampish antics. And she was driving at a fast clip.
She narrowed her gaze at him. "Really Ian, you would think I was committing a murder or something."
He bared his teeth. It was not a smile. "No, but I might be. Clair, how many times do I have to warn you?"
"Four thousand, five hundred, and two," she said impishly.
At odds with his annoyance, he felt a desire to kiss her. "Very amusing." The twitching of his lips turned into a lopsided grin.
"It made you smile."
The wily rogue was just too tempting for his own good. Or hers. Clair had no time for romantic nonsense right now. She was on another investigative quest into the unknown. Who knew what earth-shaking discovery she might make tonight? She was due. Who knew what hideous fiend lay hidden in the guise of nobility? Who knew what salivating beast she would reveal, what scandal so spectacular that the world would take note. Not to mention what scientific theory she could prove to awe the judges of the prestigious Journal's award. The world was at her fingertips—or rather half a garden away, lurking in the guise of humanity.
Dragging herself out of her thoughts, she grinned up at Ian. "Yes. I most certainly made you smile," she noted.
"Better than crying, I guess." Ian sighed wearily. "You know, Clair, I might be a fool, but I am not a stupid fool."
She cocked her head, studying him like some lab specimen. "Pray explain."
"Look around you, Clair." Ian gestured to the night.
Excitedly, Clair asked, "Is it a vampire bat?"
Ian sighed louder. Taking her chin in hand, he lifted her head, positioning it. The moon was hard to miss, way up in the sky.
He said, "The moon in all its silvery splendor, its glistening remnants of moonglow. Some say that on a night when the moon is blue, all those couples who gaze upon it are struck… moonstruck."
"Is that like a disease?" Clair asked.
Ian shook his head in resignation. "No, Clair. They are struck by love." Putting a hand to his ear, he continued with his lesson in romance—as much romance as one could try for when one squatted behind some yarrow bushes. "Listen to the music of the night. It has a cadence, a rhythm all its own. A romance all its own. And here I am, and here you are, male and female all by ourselves, alone in a garden. I am with a most beautiful woman and I am watching for… vampires. You do see the irony in the situation, don't you?"
Slowly, he leaned over and kissed her. She tasted wet, spicy, and yet sweet. Her lips were the softest velvet, her sigh a song of beauty. She had a scent all her own, like just before a rain in the Welsh mountains. It was a smell he distinguished from a thousand other females. Clair stirred his appetites and made him ache with want.
Clair breathed Ian's smell, too, a smell like dusky autumn leaves and tart apples. He tasted feral and fierce and made her blood hum. She sighed into his mouth, again feeling that unfamiliar throbbing between her legs. She released another breath, this time from vexation. Ian was turning her into a terrible trollop, a hopeless hussy. However, it was a heady feeling.
With regret, Ian broke off the kiss, knowing this wasn't the time or place for seduction. Frustrated in both body and spirit, he stared at Clair's wet, pink mouth, carnal cravings eating at him. "Be glad I have overcome my regrettable tendency towards cannibalism," he said.
She smiled, a bemused expression on her heart-shaped face. Yes, she and Ian clearly had an intense gravitational pull towards each other, like the sun and the moon. The attraction was definitely changing her into a helpless harlot.
"You are vampire-hunting again, I take it," Ian said.
"In a manner of speaking," Clair replied sheepishly.
"You know, Clair, someone should have told you a long time ago that you shouldn't count your vampires before they hatch."
"How silly of me," she teased. "And all this time I thought it was chickens."
"If only it were," Ian remarked regretfully.
"Shush," she warned, staring through the shrubbery at the opposite end of the garden, where a small rose arbor covered in red and white rambling roses stood reposed in half shadows. Tiny lanterns filled with candles flickered overhead, and a tall brown-haired man was escorting the charmingly lovely and charmingly lewd widow Lady Montcrief into its depths.
"My, she does get around," Clair observed dryly.
Ian's eyes widened at the sight before him. He glanced in horror at Clair. "Oh, no! Not Asher. You couldn't possibly be idiotic enough to be spying on the Earl of Wolverton."
"Hush. I told you I wasn't spying," Clair whispered.
"Bloody hell! The deuce you're not. Just lurking in the shadows like a spider waiting to pounce?"
She punched him in the arm, all semblance of decorum fled before the winds of her ire. Ian was making her furious with his unreasonable attitude. He knew she was a scholar of the supernatural—unpublished as of yet, but a scholar nonetheless. This was her mission of scientific discovery, and Ian had no right to make her feel like a Peeping Tom just
because of a few hair-raising kisses. He had no right to dictate to her.
"If you're so concerned about being seen, you can leave."
Ian scowled furiously. "If I left, I am sure it would improve my humor. But unfortunately I can't. By God, Clair! You are in way over your head. This is no small thing. The earl is a thoroughly ruthless, cunning adversary. You don't want to make an enemy of the man."
He trembled with anger. Clair was rushing in where only fools would tread—which, come to think of it, described her perfectly. She was a bluestocking kook. And yet, to his grave misgivings, he was crazy about her. Now his queer bird was going to try and dissect Neil Asher, the Earl of Wolverton. The man would chew her up and spit her out without a twinge of conscience. Asher had no soul and hadn't for a very long time. He was infamous for both lechery and just retribution, a man both revered and reviled. And for bloody damn good reason.
"I am not making an enemy out of him, only a supernatural predator!" she explained.
"I'm sure he'll be delighted with that distinction," Ian said. "I can hardly wait for the end of this farce!"
"You pig!" Clair snapped. "I'm not wrong this time. I am absolutely, positively sure. Beyond a reasonable doubt, any doubt. The earl is a bone-crunching, marrow-munching fiend of a werewolf. And I shall prove it!"
"Damn, Clair. Keep your voice down. Do you want him to hear?" Ian warned. He lifted her chin to meet his burning gaze. "How in bloody hell did you come upon this remarkable lack of deductive reasoning? What dubious fodder did you glean from the rumor mills?" He was enraged. She was treading in deep water and he, Ian Huntsley, was forced to drown her or save her pretty neck. "Clair, I'm waiting for my answer."
Glancing up at Ian with a rueful smile on her face, she explained. "It was staring me in the face all along. Indeed, I feel rather foolish about it. It was rather elementary. He is the Earl of Wolverton. I just assumed that was too easy."
His patience at an end, Ian snapped. His eyes a furious shade of green, he grunted, "What does the Earl of Wolverton being the Earl of Wolverton have to do with werewolves?"
