The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing

by Minda Webber

  Jane couldn't help but shudder at the image.

  Clair laughed. "I know! As much as I love my adopted cousin, Frederick, I wouldn't want to be married to so many different men, even if they were all sewn together. Needless to say, it wasn't one of my uncle's better ideas."

  Jane agreed.

  "Anyway, Jane, I am twenty-five years old and only recently fell in love and married."

  "Clair, you would have had more than an offer or two if your head hadn't been up in the clouds. What with your supernatural studies and your bluestocking conversation, you ran most poor gents off."

  Clair smiled shrewdly. "It's a good thing I did, or I would have missed my Ian. Speaking of him," she said, glancing around the ballroom, "where, oh where, has my little were gone? Where, oh where, can he be?" Perhaps her husband was in the gardens, getting a breath of fresh air since the full moon was still two nights away. She shivered, anticipating the nights to come. Call it moon glow, being moonstruck or moon-mad, but Ian was an animal in the bedchamber, taking her to unheard of heights of pure pleasure. Every night was a howl.

  Since her friend was ignoring her wishes, Jane took it upon herself to change the subject. "Speaking of Frederick, I don't see him here tonight," she said, slyly peeking through the crowd in hopes of seeing that polished Peer of the Realm, the Earl of Wolverton.

  "No, he's still with Uncle Victor in Germany. They're researching mushrooms. Something to do with seeing forty-foot pachyderms and twenty-foot daffodils after eating them."

  Personally, to Jane, most of Dr. Frankenstein's research sounded like a big white elephant. Who really cared either way—except maybe really large mice? Next, the dumbo would be trying to prove elephants could fly. But Jane smiled faintly at Clair and nodded her head in what she hoped was an approving manner.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something happening. Turning slightly, Jane spotted him: Neil Asher, the Earl of Wolverton, alias the Prince of Darkness, alias Dracul. He was entering the ballroom.

  Jane couldn't help but notice him at once, his vital, youthful energy seeming to pulsate in the air. He had an Old World charm; but, then, upon reflection, Jane remembered that he was from the oldest world there was. In mortal years the earl, Dracul, appeared to be in his mid-thirties. But appearances were deceiving, especially when dealing with vampires, who were the unholy guardians of the fountain of youth. Neil Asher, the Earl of Wolverton, was likely older than Methuselah.

  Clair's attention was still absorbed in scanning the ballroom and looking for her wayward werewolf spouse, but Jane heard two young ladies remark behind her, "What a handsome devil that Earl of Wolverton is, quite the man-about-town."

  As Jane studiously regarded the earl, she agreed, appreciating his devil-may-care attitude and swagger. Asher, it appeared, was never discomposed—or decomposed, she was happy to note—facing the world with great decorum. Yes, the haughty undead earl was known for not giving a fig for anyone's good opinion. But then he had a whole fig tree of regard for himself.

  The women's remarks continued, and Jane eavesdropped shamelessly. "I hear the earl can't abide anything less than perfection in his life. Everything he owns is of the first scratch."

  Just like Old Scratch, the Devil himself, Jane mused, noting the earl's costume. The vampire also had a devilish glint in his eye, adding to his diabolical charm. Jane found herself amused. The earl was a vampire pretending to be a man pretending to be Lucifer himself, the King of Demons.

  Yes, the Earl of Wolverton dressed all in black, just as the Devil did, which meant the two probably had more than a passing acquaintance. The earl's black jacket fit him perfectly, outlining his massive shoulders and broad chest. His long legs were encased in tight black breeches, and his mask hid only his eyes and the top of his aristocratic nose, leaving the rest of his perfect countenance for inspection. His burnished chestnut hair showed gold and copper under the light of the Venetian chandeliers and glinted along with the two golden horns set atop his head. He was truly temptation on the hoof, since he affected her Van Helsing sense and sensibilities.

  She sighed. It was a shame that he was a vampire. It was even more of a shame that she was a plain Jane, vampire-hunting Van Helsing and could never attract a man of Neil Asher's ilk. The earl was a connoisseur of all things bright and beauteous, all things lush and lucre-ful. Asher couldn't abide anything less than perfection in his well ordered, beautiful and hedonistic life. That shouldn't surprise her. That was a long-standing character trait of the forces of Darkness. And of men in general.

  Once again, the two young ladies behind Jane made comments. "I hear Asher delights in all things great, though rarely small. Especially in the bosom area."

  The other woman gasped in shock. "Charlotte, how could you know that?"

  The first young lady lowered her voice, making it hard for Jane to catch her words. "My brother told me. It's whispered among the demimonde of London."

  Clair Huntsley finally spotted her husband, waved, then turned back to Jane, noting her friend was once again eavesdropping—a deplorable habit that Clair herself had proudly taught her. Observing Jane's distraction, Clair turned in the direction her friend was staring, watching the Earl of Wolverton's grand entrance. Jane was apparently captivated by the handsome vampire, which was very good for Plan Z. Clair wondered if Jane had guessed that the earl was one of the Nosferatu. She didn't think so. And Clair hadn't yet confided in her about it. She would leave that little detail for later.

  Studying Asher's face, Clair frowned. "Asher is paler than usual." She remarked. She truly valued the man's friendship, in spite of his high-handed arrogance. She owed him a debt that would take a great deal to repay.

  "Perhaps he's overextended himself," Jane commented thoughtfully. Being Dracul would put a drain on anyone's energy—all that debauching, drinking and despoiling virgins, she thought to herself.

  "Perhaps," Clair conceded worriedly. She harbored a deep guilt over Asher's unrequited feelings for her. She knew she had hurt him deeply by not returning his affection. But how could she when Ian was the love of her life?

  It didn't matter that reanimated dead flesh fascinated all Frankensteins. It didn't matter that Asher was an alluring, intelligent vampire, a shade made up of the cold touch of the grave, the call of night breezes and twilight hours. She hadn't fallen for him. Her love was Ian alone.

  Asher was mystery, mist and predator. He was filled with ghosts of the wind, memories of royal courtiers with elaborate lace cuffs, finely dressed ladies in wigs and loose court morals. He was of a people long gone, people who had worn shiny armor, held swords lifted high as their battle cries filled the air. Honor and the bonds of blood had bound him then as they bound him now. Asher was centuries old and aging, though he looked forever young. But while for many years the urbane Asher was sharp of both tongue and teeth, lately his razor wit had borne a venomous twist that Clair disliked.

  "I don't know," she hedged. "Asher's eyes seem rather more haunted than usual." They were stark, sad eyes, all laughter appearing to have fled into some murky darkness in the depths of his soul. That was why, in her typical Frankenstein fashion, Clair had decided to do something special for Asher to cheer him up. Something most wondrous, like finding him a wife: someone with a nice figure and wonderful silver-green eyes. Someone who was both compassionate and feisty when roused—a trait Asher would definitely need in a mate, especially with his own toplofty view of himself. And who could be feistier than a vampire hunter? Never mind that Asher wouldn't want a wife, and most assuredly not a vampire-slaying Van Helsing.

  "Jane dear, Ian and I are having a house party at Ian's estate in Wales next weekend. I would so like you to come."

  "I… I," Jane hedged. Her attention was on the earl. How could she melt such a handsome visage with holy water? But regret was a four-letter word—well, six—with which spinsters were quite familiar. She could certainly use a cup of cocoa right now to settle her nerves.

  "I have invited
a party of around twenty ladies and gentlemen, with guests such as Lord Graystroke and the Earl of Wolverton," Clair continued slyly, pleased to see her friend's face pinken.

  Yes, she thought smugly, her matchmaking plan would be a smashing success. The old Frankenstein genes, which her aunt Mary Frankenstein swore included matchmaking, were pulsing within her. Just wait until she told Ian her plan! Clair chewed her lip. On second thought, she would keep mum about the new scheme. Ian still hadn't recuperated completely from the last one.

  "A house party? How, um… nice." Jane nodded halfhearted, having a strong and strange urge to stick her head in the sand like her favorite ostrich, Orville, did when he got upset. She felt guilt crushing down on her chest. How could she accept Clair's honorable invitation, knowing that the earl's life was limited if her father's scheme unfolded as planned? Knowing that she intended to melt Clair's friend's face off tonight?

  Rubbing her head, which had started to ache, Jane felt a dreadful coldness seep inside her. She was betraying Clair's friendship by harming this devastating earl. Yet, if he were Dracul, how could she not? But if he was the unprincipled Prince of Darkness, then why had he' saved Clair and her husband's lives, at risk to his own? Where were the debauchery and depravity in that demonic deed?

  "Jane you haven't answered my question," Clair said as she noted her friend's tense stance and lack of attention.

  "House… party… nice," Jane replied, trying to keep her face sphinxlike. Almost against her will, her eyes were drawn back to the dashing earl, who was flirting with a bevy of beauties.

  Clair laughed. "Asher knows his worth, and he makes sure everyone else does too. Come, let me introduce you."

  Jane shook her head. "I need to refresh myself in the ladies' room. Later, perhaps."

  Clair studied Jane closely, noticing her extreme agitation. "Is this more than nerves at meeting such a devilishly handsome man?" she asked.

  "Of course not!" Jane said, looking anywhere else.

  Her friend was hiding something, Clair decided. "Of course not," she agreed, giving a warm smile. Jane had a secret, and she would find out what it was. After all, she was a Frankenstein and a Huntsley now—a practically invincible combination. Oh, to what heights she could aspire, and Ian would pick her up if she ever slipped and fell. "All right then, Jane. I will introduce you later. May I remind you that Asher's not an ogre?"

  "No, just a devil," Jane replied. She well knew that Asher was no ogre. He was worse. He was the fang-faced vilest of villainous vampires, Count Dracul, who wasn't even a count at all, but an earl. The liar.

  Clair arched a brow.

  Jane smiled. "The Devil made me say it," she joked.

  Clair laughed. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I see that my husband is motioning me over to him. But I will see you later on and make your introduction to Asher. I just know that when you get to know the Earl of Wolverton, you will find him… most intriguing. He can be a bit overweening at times, but after all, he is Asher. Besides, my dear friend, he is someone you will never forget. I'll stake my life on it."

  Jane nodded and then quickly strolled away, whispering softly to herself, "No, Clair you are staking the earl's."

  Who Was that Masked Woman?

  Lord Asher, Earl of Wolverton, stood alone dressed in black, his gaze riveted on the Huntsleys. He almost smiled at Clair's foolish shepherdess costume and the joke it implied: Clair protecting her flocks from the big bad wolf. The big bad wolf in question would be her husband, Ian.

  Asher grimaced, uttering disgustedly, "Well, they say love is blind. It would have to be for Clair to prefer Huntsley to my own renowned personage." He shook his head and wondered: How could she prefer a lycanthrope to a vampire? After all, everyone who was anyone knew his species was superior.

  For over three hundred years, Asher had been looking for a nameless face in the night, was always searching out souls and places. Suffering long, dreamless days of sleep, awakening at night, he longed for something more, some warmth lacking from his exalted world. Peers of the Realm and vampire princesses, nothing meant anything. Then, less than six months ago, Asher had almost grasped his dream. Regrettably, she had fallen in love with Ian Huntsley. And even more sadly, wolves mated for life. Asher clenched his fists and watched Ian Huntsley protectively usher his wife out of the ballroom.

  Watching Asher, Jane Van Helsing stood across the room in an alcove surrounded by ferns. She was for all purposes invisible to the other members of the ton where she stood, and she studied Asher watching Clair and Ian exit. The earl, unaware that he was being observed, let down his guard and briefly revealed his broken and bleeding heart.

  An student of both human and vampire natures, Jane was surprised. Vampires were notorious for their deadpan expressions. That the earl had revealed emotion meant that what he felt was intense. Clair had told Jane that Asher had some misplaced affection for her, but…

  "Clair's wrong. This is no misplaced affection. Asher is in love with her," Jane realized, suddenly filled with disquiet. "But how can Dracul love anything? He's too mean. Yet, I can't blame him for loving Clair. She's adorable."

  As she spoke, a slight twinge of jealously pricked Jane's heart, surprising her. She knew the earl was a handsome man—only an idiot would fail to see that. But as her mother always said, handsome is as handsome does. Sucking someone dry of all his or her life's fluid was not her idea of polite society. And even if the earl weren't in love with Clair, he wouldn't be interested in someone as mousy as herself.

  Besides, Jane had a scheme to bring to fruition, just like all the other Van Helsings marching through history. They all stopped to the beat of a different drum. It didn't matter that she preferred the flute.

  It was time to firm up her resolve. In spite of her many years of practice on vampire dummies, Jane had never made a true vampire kill, even though she was twenty-three years of age. This galling fact was an unheard-of and shameful precedent in Van Helsing history. It was why her father was so annoyed with her. Still, Jane couldn't help her squeamishness. She got sick when she saw little dogs run over by carriages. She felt nauseated when she saw burns on the little boys who were chimney cleaners, and she had stolen one away from his master. Now Timmy worked in the stables at her family's country home.

  Shaking her head dolefully, Jane remembered her first staking. She'd been sixteen and scared. She had closed her eyes and staked the pillow in the coffin instead of the vampire. Her father had finished the task with one quick stroke, using the Van Helsing-brand, #4 mallet. Blood had sprayed everywhere. Jane had gotten sick all over the major's favorite hunting jacket. To say her father was not pleased was a major understatement. It had been a day to live in family infamy. Especially since her uncle Jakob and six male cousins had also witnessed her deplorable lack of killer breeding. She had also learned the lesson that day: Everything in life is location. A lady just needed to know where to stand.

  Her disastrous and humiliating second attempt at staking had occurred at age twenty, with even less success than her first. This vampire, a newly made fledgling, quite muscular and attractive, had definitely not been an old bag of bones like the first. When Jane had opened the coffin, she'd got much more than she bargained for. The fledgling was naked as the day he was born (or made), and in full splendor, decked out in all his glory, his erection was rampant. Behind her, Steven Ray, the fourth oldest of her male cousins, had commented drolly that he'd known the vampire was going to pop out of his coffin, but not quite in such a way.

  It had all been too much for Jane; she had run screaming from the crypt, her face beet red, her cousins' taunts ringing in her ears. As she ran, she'd berated herself. Instead of striking at the vampire—or in the very least, her cousins—she had turned tail and fled. To this day, she was still living down that fiasco. Her cousins called her the Streak, making sly comments like, "Don't look now, Ethel Jane!"

  After the awkward naked-vampire debacle, Jane had been sent home in disgrace to the family estate in Dorchest
er. Now, almost three years later, her father had called her back. Unfortunately, it had been shortly after her arrival that the spies announced Dracul had come to Town. And that abysmal revelation had led her to tonight, which had her reaching for the flask of brandy she had cleverly hidden beside the holy water in her gown's deep pocket. The strong liquor was concealed in a silver flask, which she only used in case of an emergency—a vampire emergency.

  Sneaking a quick peek about, Jane took a sip of brandy. The fiery liquid traced a burning pathway to her stomach, imbuing her momentarily with courage. "Tonight I will just stalk up and strike with my holy water and no stake." She took another sip. "I won't have to worry about blood splattering my gown tonight. And that's something," she coached herself. "No bloody mess, just a bit of watery goo."

  Frown lines creased her brow as Jane tried to remember the section on the corrosiveness of holy water in the family manual on methods of vampire extermination. Her father had said that the earl's flesh would melt. Nervously, she gulped more brandy. Maybe melting flesh would be worse than pounding a stake through the chest cavity.

  Glancing over at the polished earl, Jane shuddered. "How can I melt those exquisite looks?" She mused again. "Maybe I can find a good reason why this job must be done. Or maybe I can make the job a game."

  Well, either way, she would have just one more sip of brandy to help the medicine of her heritage go down. Taking a long swallow, she closed her eyes. She wished she was finished and on her merry way, feeding some birds.

  "A vampire a day is the Van Helsing way," she muttered to herself. Her words begin to slur slightly as she gathered her fortified resolve. Slowly she would put her plan into action. She would casually walk the earl's way and introduce herself. That would be shocking in itself, since she and the earl hadn't been formally introduced.