Pursing her lips, she wondered if the earl slept au naturel? Did he sleep with a pillow? Would he expect her to share his coffin? She made a moue of distaste. She would slam the lid on that idea, and quickly. Even for more of the man's deadly sweet kisses, Jane wouldn't share a cramped casket in a dark, damp mausoleum. No way, no how.
"No, I have seen no evidence of the earl being a vampire," Jane replied, her eyes studying the hunter green Persian rug on the floor. She would take a page from Clair, who wrote the book on telling little white fibs to save other people's feelings—or their very lives, as it was in this case.
"No. Asher is most definitely not a vampire," Jane said, smiling weakly. She put Asher's big, white fangs and red eyes out of her mind.
Relief flashed across her brother's face. "Good, good," he said. "Since the information was wrong about him being the Prince of Darkness, I was most devoutly hoping the earl was not even one of the undead. I have been worrying since we left London."
"No need," Jane lied stiffly, studying her brother's boots.
"Damnation!" the major cursed. "If the earl is not a vampire, then we lose our inside track. You can be bloody well sure that my brother, Jakob, will be hot on Dracul's trail if he gets a whiff that the gruesome who-some is on the island." He pounded on the end table beside him, upsetting his glass of brandy. "This whole jumbled mess is for nothing! Once again, Jane has put herself in the brambles, and has put a stain on the Van Helsing pedigree with her actions."
Brandon stood straighter, his expression outraged. "By gawd, Major! Jane is in this mess because of your dubious orders. As her commander," he suggested, "doesn't the buck stop with you, father?"
"D'oh! Oh dear. Yes, well," her father blustered, his pinkered face now scarlet. "I am just disappointed in losing a possible connection to that vicious vampire. I was counting on Jane's eyes and ears."
"We'll find a way, father. We always do," Brandon remarked pensively. "Besides, this time it's personal."
Noting that her brother's anger had faded, sorrow taking its place, Jane gently stood and patted his arm. "What's happened, Brandon? What occurred in Transylvania that has you so down?"
"Dracul is what happened. He killed a friend of mine in Bulgaria."
She reached up and kissed his check. "I am so sorry. Can I do anything to help?" she asked, but she already knew what she would do. Suddenly, living with a vampire had a fifth good reason. As her father suggested, vampires often flocked together in nests. Surely living in the same residence as Asher would enable her to gather information on whether Dracul was come to Town. Once she had gathered this information, she would relay it to her brother in the form of an anonymous tip. She didn't want to harm Asher, but she wasn't her father's daughter for nothing.
Married to the Monster
The vicar of Huntington parish surveyed the dour wedding party with a twinge of unease. He much preferred morning weddings to these late-night affairs. In the past month he had presided over four weddings and a funeral. This wedding reminded him more of the funeral. The vicar knew that this ceremony was being rushed. In point of fact, the groom had only proposed the night before. But what could you say when the nobility were involved?
The vicar sighed and glanced over at the father of the bride. The man's expression was bordering on petulant. The bride's brother wore a look of woe. Baron Huntsley, who was seated next to his wife, appeared resigned, while the earl's man of business had a solemn demeanor. Worst of all was the groom, who for all his exalted personage looked as if he wanted to bite somebody's head off.
The bride entered the chapel. She was pale, her mouth was pursed in a tight line and the bouquet of flowers in her hands was shaking, scattering petals here and there, which made the vicar feel that there was definitely more going on than a case of bridal nerves. To be honest, the vicar decided that the only person who appeared happy at this supposedly joyous occasion was the baroness Clair Huntsley—she was smiling merrily.
The vicar shook his head slightly. There was just no judging the Quality. They were a breed unto themselves. And the Huntsleys and their peers more than most.
Clair turned around in her front-row pew and waved dramatically at Jane. Then, turning to her husband she remarked, "Oh dear, Ian, look at Jane. Why, she is beyond pale, and she's not even undead."
Ian nodded. "She would have been beyond the pale if the earl hadn't married her." Glancing over at the groom, he added, "Asher isn't in much better shape. I can't tell which of the two is whiter."
Clair patted her husband's thigh. "They'll be fine. I give them two months, and they'll be madly in love."
"Mad, I concede, but love is a pipe dream. This time that Frankensteinian brain of yours has conceived a plan that's scientifically doomed to failure."
"Never," Clair argued. "But speaking of mad, the major looks like he could spit nails. Or Neils," she added as a joke.
Ian grinned.
Unaware that he was under discussion, Major Edward Van Helsing raised his arm to escort his daughter down the aisle, his pudgy face somber. Glancing down, he noticed Jane's extreme pallor. "Come now, girl. Buck up. Remember, neither rain nor sleet nor hail nor snow can stop a Van Helsing from his duty. Besides, you are marrying an earl—quite a coup, Jane. Your mother would be proud."
Jane straightened her spine and laid her trembling fingers upon the man's arm. Then, turning toward Clair, she managed to nod stiffly, physically restraining herself from running screaming from the church.
Tonight was an ending for her, as well as a beginning. From the ashes of her old life, she would begin a new life with Asher.
Regrets beat at her mind like a trapped bird in a too-small cage: Regrets that by this marriage she would be leaving her brother, whom she dearly loved, and her father, who had never seen who she really was or what she wanted to be. Regrets that her father would have used her as a spying tool if he had known she was really marrying a monster. Regrets that she and her groom were being forced to wed at all. So many regrets, they were fighting each other in her mind for attention.
Scrunching her eyes, Jane recalled that she needed to speak to Clair about the fur in the settee leg. She would also hint that a better carpet might be bought for this church.
Looking up from her study of her shoes and the awful brownish red carpet in the aisle, her eyes sought out the groom. He would have taken her breath away, if she'd had any left to give. Asher was dressed entirely in black, with the exception of a red waistcoat, trimmed in jet. Anger radiated from him in waves. She guessed the old adage was true, and she muttered, "Hell hath no fury like a vampire made to marry."
"What did you expect, daughter? The earl is renowned for his dalliances with beautiful women."
She missed a step at her father's words. Anger overcame some of her panic. But glancing at the groom, Jane swallowed hard at the frosty look in his eyes. There was no welcoming smile to soften his stern features. And she couldn't really blame him for detesting her; not after her foiled attempts on his undead life and this forced trip to the altar.
She felt like crying. Her groom was not only coldblooded, but he also had very cold feet. And not because he was undead, but about her! Even discounting the fact that the earl didn't want to be wed to a woman he detested, he was also marrying beneath him. Her father was a mere knight, and her uncle only a baron. The Earl of Wolverton could have married any lovely lady in the land. Any other woman on this day would be merrily singing, thrilled to wed such a handsome, wealthy earl; overjoyed to marry up in status, not fearful. But, then, they wouldn't know that the groom might pop up in bed (his casket?) at any time and bite her neck—in a bloody way.