The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

by Minda Webber

  "The duke is always mixing up spells and chanting while he cooks. He has a pentagram painted on his bedroom wall. He owns three black cats. Oh yes, and a black dog too," he ad-libbed, making most of it up as he went.

  Ian knew he should feel guiltier. He knew he should probably be more concerned, but he really didn't see how Clair could break into the Duke of Ghent's home. The duke was known for his paranoia due to years in the war. All he owned, most especially himself, was heavily guarded. "The duke also dresses in those long warlock robes," he added, inspired.

  "Warlock robes?" Clair hid her smile. Ian was so adorable trying to help her scientific quest. Of course, he didn't have a clue at all about the work an actual hypothesis actually required. He had gotten lucky on his first try and she was proud of him, like a mother hen watching her chick leave the nest. How she wanted to hug the handsome dolt! At this moment in time, she discerned, she had never felt closer to another human being. It was almost frightening, her desire to be held by him and to hold him, to comfort and caress him for all the days of her life. If only Ian were the marrying kind, she would set her cap for him in a London minute.

  In a pig's eye, she thought in horror. Where had that last traitorous thought come from? She had decided long ago that she wasn't the marrying kind, either. She had her science to pursue. She had the prestigious Scientific Discovery of the Decade award to pursue. She had Ian to pursue. Drat! She needed her attention focused on things that howled at the moon, not this magnificent man in front of her. Still, if anyone could make her dream of wedded bliss, it was Ian, mere mortal though he was.

  "You know, those garments that devil worshipers wear," he was saying.

  "The cowls?" she asked, trying to suppress a grin but failing.

  He scowled.

  "I know. You're not a fashion expert on the occult."

  "Clair, Clair. What am I going to do with you?" Ian took her into his arms.

  "Kiss me?" she suggested.

  Ian did as the lady requested, and their passion once again ignited. Unfortunately, before Ian could sample a taste of her forbidden virgin fruit, Lady Mary entered the library looking for her embroidery. Fortunately for his status of single white baron, the kiss had only just begun. He broke away in haste, a silly grin plastered on his lips. He fled to his carriage still wearing the expression, causing his footman Tiger, who had been holding the horses, to give him an odd look. Inside, a flustered Clair and a flushed but smiling Lady Mary watched his leavetaking. The library hummed with anticipation. Lady Mary was delighted. Her Plan A, To Catch A Baron, was going so smoothly that she wanted to pat herself on the back. She could just see Clair in her wedding finery. She would be a true sight to behold.

  Glancing at her niece from the corner of her eyes, Mary observed the pink flush upon Clair's cheeks. Clair was in love with Ian; she just didn't know it yet. Yes, it would be a splendid match. The match of the century, and Mary would have been an integral part of the wedding of the two great families. She did so love a good wedding.

  "The baron is really a most intriguing man, quite the catch of this season or any season," she remarked casually, carefully hiding her marital plot. She would see the baron all the way to the altar, or her name wasn't Mary Frankenstein.

  Clair reseated herself at her desk, interpreting the speculative gleam in her aunt's eye. So that is the way the wind is blowing, she thought. She couldn't really blame her aunt, since some of those same thoughts of church bells and wedding cakes had been intruding upon her own dreams.

  Studying her niece out of the corner of her eye, Lady Mary picked up her embroidery, chuckling. Raising her head from her notes, Clair glanced at her. "Something amusing?"

  Her aunt smiled a secretive smile. "Nothing really. Oh! I did receive a letter from Victor today."

  "Have they found Frederick?" Clair asked somberly, concerned for her adopted cousin, who was a like a big, big, big brother to her, even though his left arm and both ears were younger in origin.

  Her aunt waved her hand in the air. "Yes. Nothing to be concerned about. Frederick came home, no worse the wear."

  "Does Uncle Victor know what caused him to run away?"

  "It appears that a group of young men were running around impersonating poor Frederick. They are all wearing those sixteen-foot-long clodhopper boots he wears and sporting bolts in their necks," Lady Mary explained patiently. "Frederick was quite upset about the whole impersonation thing at first. He thought they were making fun of him. Then Frederick learned they were imitating him because they admired him. You know, rather like all those young bucks in town imitate that Beau Brummell person."

  "I'm glad Frederick is in fashion now. He's had a hard time of being different. How is Uncle?"

  "My brother has calmed down somewhat since Frederick came into his own," Lady Mary explained. She smiled affectionately. "I was always fond of the giant tyke, myself."

  "Yes. Frederick has always been like a big brother to me. Remember the time he held me up in the window so I could scout out the vicarage? And he saved my life a time or two," Clair reminisced. "Remember when the crazy old vicar tried to spear me with that pitchfork?"

  Her aunt's face took on a greenish cast. "How could I forget? If Frederick hadn't routed the old devil, you'd have been seriously injured or burned."

  "Dear Frederick, owner of my heart."

  "No, sweet. That was Mr. Applebee's heart Victor used."

  Both women laughed. Looking down at the notes she had jotted, Clair changed the subject. "By the way, Aunt Mary, what do you know of the Duke of Ghent?"

  Her aunt's expression became distant. "Julian was very fresh in his salad days. He was quite the rogue. He lives much quieter now. I know he has a fondness for cats, black in particular, and is always going to see that play Abby drags me to—McDougal?"

  "McBeth," Clair corrected. She went on to partially explain the conversation between Ian and herself, although she left out the part accusing the Duke of Ghent, not wishing to worry her aunt with fear for her safety.

  Clair then relayed the warning about never inviting the Earl of Wolverton inside their home, albeit suspiciously. Ian knew more than he was saying about the mysterious Asher. In fact, Ian was being as mysterious as the earl. Which was not surprising. But now, instead of one mystery to solve with the wolfish earl, Clair also had to puzzle out the baron's excuse for hiding what he knew. It appeared everyone was hiding something. Aunt Mary, Ian, the Earl and the Duke of Ghent—only Frederick was an open book.

  Clair sighed. When had life gotten so complex? She had to find the weres, but where were they? Did Ian know where the weres were and who was a werewhat? If so, then why was Ian remaining silent on the subject? She signed again, wishing she could ask, "Will the real vampires and werewolves please stand up?"

  "But dear," Lady Mary said, "if the Earl of Wolverton comes to call, we must invite him in."

  "Ian advised us against it," Clair warned.

  "But that would be badly done," her aunt chided.

  "Better than well done and eaten," Clair remarked, closing the book she had been referencing. "Now, what is for dinner?"

  "We are starting with stuffed grape leaves and a Caesar salad, followed by roast mutton with olive tapanade, and wine, of course," Lady Mary replied, setting her embroidery down.

  "Ah, yes. I had forgotten. Aunt Abby is Julius Caesar this week."

  "Which is fine by me. I am too old to curtsy all the time. I find it quite tedious on the knees," Lady Mary remarked tardy. "Abby is upstairs right now telling the maids the die is cast and making plans to invade Egypt."

  Clair shook her head. "I know. Yesterday she told me that if I was serious about Ian, she would bribe him with the city of Alexandria as a wedding present."

  "Well, what young lady could ask for more as a dowry? Not to mention the prestige of having Julius Caesar as a wedding guest. Just think how jealous Cleopatra would be!"

  "Et tu, Brute?" Clair asked laughingly. But all in all, it seemed just anoth
er typical day in the house of Frankenstein.

  After dinner, she wrote another letter to her friend, remedying the recent lack of updates:

  Dear Jane,

  I spoke to Brandon last night and he informed me you left for Holland a few days ago. I am sending this to the Van Helsing country estate with orders that it be forwarded to you at your aunts house in Holland. You must tell me all about your adventures there, and are the wooden shoes comfortable?

  Ian, that handsome clever man who is not a vampire, is helping me advance my goals regarding the supernatural world. Well, he's not actually helping, but rather is following me around. I believe he may be smitten. I, in return, find him quite remarkable—for a mere human. I must admit he has consumed a bit too much of my thoughts and time, time which would be better spent with my research.

  Since last I wrote, I found out that the Honorable Christopher Wilder is not so honorable. I caught him in a compromising position with a noble lady of less than noble reputation. He is also not a vampire. It was quite distressing: the undressing and the fact that neither the lady nor Wilder were sucking each others blood—other things perhaps, but not blood. Oops! Sorry. I know how you feel about the b-word. Anyway, Wilder is not a vampire. Which is most discouraging, but I know my duty to the Frankenstein family name and motto. I will prevail.

  Fortunately, I have two new leads. My latest theory is that I have uncovered the werewolf of the vampire nest. I believe it is the Earl of Wolverton. How silly not to have recognized it before. Ian insists I am wrong. Did I mention how strong he is? Ian, not the earl. Of course, as a werewolf, he would also be strong. The earl, not Ian.

  Ian believes that the Duke of Ghent is the warlock of the nest. Did I mention that Ian is helping me with my research and he is extremely intelligent for a mere mortal who is not a scientist? Ian, not the Duke of Ghent.

  As for other news, we received word that Frederick has come home again. We were all greatly relieved, though confused. There had been several Frederick spottings across the countryside, which turned out to be Frederick impersonators and not my dear adopted cousin. But he is home now, safe and sound, all six foot eight inches of him.

  With fondest regards,

  Clair

  P.S. Great-aunt Abby came into my room whilst I was sealing this letter. She sends her regards and says to tell you not to miss the English sailing against the Spanish Armada this week. (She has been Queen Elizabeth quite a bit in the past two weeks.)

  A Neil in the Coffin

  Ian wanted to be anywhere—perhaps fighting dragons, or cavorting naked with mermaids or even old Nessie herself in Loch Ness—rather than here waiting on his nemesis.

  But boot perched against the crypt, Ian stood patiently. The sun disappeared from the sky and night encroached. He could hear the scraping of the skeleton-like branches of the trees on the top of the mausoleum. And as the last rays of the setting sun vanished, the coffin lid popped up with a loud creak.

  Ian surveyed the inhabitant with disdain. "I see you've changed your sleeping habits. No longer sleeping at home?"

  However sleepy the man's hooded eyes, the anger burning in them would have made a lesser man weep with fear. "It seemed circumspect, considering the situation," Asher grunted, his gaze glacial. He stretched, his long body unwinding. "Come to put a nail in my coffin?"

  "No, Neil—although the thought is tempting." Ian was wishing himself in a thousand different places, but instead he was stuck with this grumpy vampire. Somehow he had known Asher wouldn't be much of a morning person. Or was that evening person?

  "More than tempting, I'd wager," Asher scoffed, carefully exiting his coffin. He watched his foe with bright, burning eyes. Ian Huntsley would pay for this desecration of his bedroom. And Huntsley would pay in a way that was close to his heart: Clair.

  "I'll tell you why I'm here…" Ian trailed off, his body tense, his senses on full alert.

  "Let me take a guess. The fair Clair," Asher said. "Do you think a Frankenstein by any other name would still be a Frankenstein? That's part of her trouble, you know."

  "I have better things to do with my time than stand here listing to you butcher Shakespeare," Ian growled, moving forward threateningly. "Leave Clair alone. You'll live a much longer undeath if you take my warning to your black heart."

  "What a brave man you are. Foolish, but brave nonetheless," Asher stated, the sharpness of his voice just shy of a razor's edge. His look could have frozen lava. "I have lived centuries, yet you dare to threaten me?"

  Ian pulled a vial of holy water out of his pocket. An enraged vampire was not a thing of beauty, and was deadly as an asp. He didn't want to tangle with Asher, but he couldn't back down either.

  "I see you have come prepared," Asher snarled, his sharp white fangs glistening in the glow of the candles Ian had lit nearby.

  Ian knew he was walking a tightrope between foolish threats and useful ones, and he prayed he didn't slip. "Leave Clair alone. I know the whores of London would hate to see that pretty face of yours scarred by holy water."

  Asher's cold laughter filled the tomb. The sound slid down Ian's back, making him flinch. "Our dear Miss Frankenstein has been a busy little bee, flitting here and there. She knows about Wilder."

  Knowing how fast Asher could move, Ian watched carefully. His senses were on alert, but Asher simply grabbed for trousers, quickly slipping them on to cover his pale, strong legs.

  "She thought Wilder was a vampire. Now she thinks he's just an ordinary lecher."

  Buttoning the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, Asher shook his head. He wanted to smile but didn't. Instead he became as still as marble, his face an expressionless mask—a vampire trick he had learned as a fledgling. He loved baiting Huntsley. "She's too close. She's ready to point the finger at me."

  "It's not what you think. Clair suspects you're a werewolf." He waited, focused on Asher's reaction. To his great surprise, the vampire threw back his head and laughed.

  When he was done, Asher wiped blood-red tears of mirth from his eyes. "What a queer start. What a queer duck Miss Frankenstein is. It's all in the stock, the breeding—the blood, you know. That bloody damn Frankenstein pedigree."

  With remarkable aplomb considering his current fears, Ian replied, "I thought you would be a bit more upset by my revelation. It's not everyday one is accused of being a werewolf."

  Asher chuckled and wiped a speck of dirt off his gleaming black Hessians. He had been called worse.

  Ian scowled, seeing Asher's amusement. "Ah, yes. You have been called a wolf a time or two, but only by females you've bedded." He began to pace, carefully keeping his distance from the Nosferatu. "Now, what do you plan on doing about this?"

  "Shall I play Lancelot to your Arthur?" Asher grinned, thinking of what he would give a lot of lance: Clair's fragrant, sweet flesh. And when Clair was totally his, Huntsley would lie down and die like a wounded dog. For Asher knew something Ian hadn't realized yet: Ian Huntsley was in love with Clair—the kind of love that happens only once and lasts even after death did you part.

  Ian's pacing stopped abruptly, and he glowered at Asher. "You won't touch one drop of her blood. She's an innocent in all of this."

  "Ha! She started this whole ludicrous mess by poking her nose into things which are none of her affair! In this cat's case, her curiosity has very well killed her."

  Ian shook his head. "We're in a gray area here. There's no need for violence. She thinks you're a wolf, not a vampire."

  Asher shrugged. He wasn't planning to kill Clair; he was going to kiss her senseless and drink her blood. But what Huntsley didn't know did hurt him, which was just what Asher wanted. "Semantics. Dead women tell no tales. I'll err on the side of caution." He struggled into one of his black Hessian boots. They were made to fit tightly, showing off his well-made calves. "Clair is human, and mortals have a major tendency to gossip."

  Ian wanted to smash the complacent look off Asher's face but knew he couldn't. He wasn't strong enough to defeat the vampire
in a battle. He also knew that if he had staked Asher while Asher was still in the coffin, Asher's nest of vampires would seek retribution not only against him but also Clair. He grimaced. He was going to have to do some fast-talking. Pointing at the vampire's boots, Ian remarked with a sangfroid air, "You missed a spot. I guess everything runs smoother with your valet. Your human valet."

  "Your point," Asher snapped, his patience gone. Huntsley had invaded his territory. Huntsley had been waiting inside this crypt with holy water in hand when he opened his coffin. Huntsley could have easily killed him. Someone would pay!

  "Your valet, Renfield, is human. And as far as I know, Renfield has never told another living soul about you and your nest."

  Asher shook his head. "Correction: My valet is my human servant. A pointed difference." He snickered as he finished putting on his second boot.

  Ian snarled in disgust. "Come on, Asher, we need to reach some kind of compromise."

  The vampire raised a tawny brow. "Now it gets interesting. Are you suggesting I make Clair my servant?"

  "Over my dead body," Ian growled, his rage a living beast.

  "With pleasure." Tying his cravat with a flourish, Asher faced Ian, fangs extended, his ice blue eyes glittering with golden flames.

  Ian backed off a few more steps, watching Asher's complete transformation from man to vampire. Fortunately he had encountered the metamorphosis before. Still he observed, and his fascination was apparent, his angst palpable.

  The blue of Asher's eyes was now almost overshadowed by the golden flames. His gums had receded, highlighting his inch-long fangs, and his fingernails lengthened to needle-fine points. Concern for Clair was the only thing that kept Ian from leaving the crypt. He unstoppered the vial of holy water and held it high for Asher to see. In his other hand, he pulled out a sharpened stake—Van Helsing model number four.

  "I'll take you with me, or at least hurt you. You know that if holy water touches your skin, your flesh melts. It's no idle boast, Asher. I won't let you hurt Clair."