Which explains, Ian thought smugly to himself, the case of mistaken identity.
A new man entered the room, a tall mustachioed fellow, and Whutson gave a start. "There's that incorrigible Arthur again. He's always following Homes and me around, pestering us and asking the most personal details about our casework, then getting everything wrong. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."
And with that the professor excused himself, leaving Ian to study the room and its odd assortment of guests. Ian noticed that Poe fellow standing alone by the fireplace, where dying embers wrought their ghosts upon the floor. He seemed lost, a man in a dream within a dream. Ian walked over to join him.
"Mr. Poe?"
Edgar glanced up at Ian, nodding, his face sphinxlike. "Baron Huntsley," he said quietly, his attention returning to the raven.
Ian cocked his head, studying Poe. It appeared as if he were receiving some psychic revelation. It was as if Mr. Poe was peering into the darkness of his soul, pondering things no mortal man had before thought.
"Nevermore," Mr. Poe whispered.
"Pardon?" Ian asked, perplexed by the comment and by the odd thin man standing before him.
"Nothing."
"You seem alone with your thoughts." Ian grimaced in disgust. He had smelled the cloying scent of opium before. If Edgar wasn't an addict yet, he was well on his way. Which was a shame, Ian thought. Opiates and liquor might first stir a creative fire, but in the end the addiction extinguished the flames, leaving talent in the ashes.
"No. Not alone." Poe motioned to the raven. "Do you know that I believe this bird is a prophet, a thing of evil? Bird or devil, I know not which."
"I rather thought the bird was dead and, though not buried, most certainly stuffed," Ian remarked.
"He speaks to me, quotes to me."
"Shakespeare?" Ian inquired, deciding to humor him.
"Milton. Paradise Lost," Poe answered solemnly.
"I see," Ian said and he did. It all made perfect sense. The bird was quoting a man who had lost paradise on earth to another who had lost his marbles in the Frankensteins' Blue Salon. Abruptly Ian took his leave. Poe remained locked in mortal combat with the stuffed raven.
Lady Mary intercepted him scant moments later, remarking upon her niece. "Clair should be down soon. She is helping Lady Abby dress. Lady Abby is Clair's great-aunt."
"I look forward to enjoying Miss Frankenstein's company. Her recent studies have quite captured my attention."
"Yes, when one is part of the study, it tends to capture one's fancies." Lady Mary winked at him.
"So you knew of Miss Frankenstein's suspicions?"
"There's not much that gets past me. I've known what Clair was working upon for quite some time. Not to mention that I attended the tarot card reading. It was all most frightening, a truly remarkable event." Lady Mary tapped her fan thoughtfully against her chin. "Such a shame, in a sense. Clair was so sure you were one of those undead things. It would have made her day if you had been the leader the of the pack."
"It could have made her dead," Ian argued sternly. "As her aunt, don't you feel a need to stop this particular road of inquiry?"
Mary patted his arm. "Dear boy, trying to stop Clair is like trying to halt a particularly nasty electrical storm."
Ian frowned. He really wanted to dislike the round little woman, but he couldn't. Her warmth was infectious. Damn, just like her niece.
"You Frankensteins are obsessed with those storms. Using them in your experiments, likening yourselves to… But being electric and unpredictable doesn't keep Clair safe."
Lady Mary smiled slyly. Her Plan A, To Catch a Baron, was falling marvelously into place. She almost felt like a master thief at the ease with which she had so far maneuvered the handsome baron. It was like taking candy from a mere babe. "You're worried about my niece."
"Yes. Miss Frankenstein should be attending balls, not hunting vampires. She should be painting watercolors or embroidering like other young ladies of her class, not running around at all hours of the night peeping into coffins."
Lady Mary seemed to ponder for a moment. "Clair is a cerebral being, often living only in her mind. And you know what they say, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear." She stopped, her brow wrinkling. "Although, if anyone could do it, Victor could." Seeing Ian's strange expression, Lady Mary patted his arm. "I digress. You are worried about my niece. I can say honestly that most of her studies into the otherworldly have been fairly harmless—like those pigs in the cemetery or the devil in the belfry."
"Devil!" His heart froze. Devils were such hotheaded little creatures with nasty tempers, always sticking their little pitchforks here and there. Ian had often thought their temperaments were probably a result of the ugly little horns on their head poking into their brains, along with spending much of their lives breathing sulfur and brimstone. That would tend to make anyone a trifle testy.
Lady Mary pooh-poohed him. "Stop looking like you're going to bite me, my lord. It was merely a case of mistaken identity. This devil was only an alias for the old vicar of Scratch Parish. He was a bit touched in the head, you know."
Ian wanted to ask if the old vicar was a family relation. "I see. Another case of mistaken identity," he said instead. "There seems to be a bit of that going around."
"Well, one could see it like that."
"Yes, one could. However, we were speaking of Clair and her new, very dangerous studies. I can say, with all due respect, that Clair is no match for a vampire."
Lady Mary only smiled more brightly. She would wear her blue velvet ostrich-feathered hat with the pearl inlays to the wedding.
"You don't seem frightened for her in the least," Ian objected.
"Of course not, dear boy. I sleep much better at night knowing she now has you to watch over her while she is pursuing her field research into vampires and werewolves."
Before Ian could do anything more than wipe the astonished expression off his face, Lady Mary bounced off in her merry way. Bloody hell! The dratted woman thought he was a babysitter.
Crossing his arms on his chest, Ian glared, daring anyone to approach him. Enough was enough. Nothing else was going to disturb him tonight. But as often happened, his best-laid plans ended abruptly.
The grand door to the salon was flung open. A tall, stately, elegant, and yet pompous woman entered the room with Clair by her side. The aging dame was dressed in an Elizabethan-period gown of fading green brocade, complete with tall white ruffles around the neck. A gold jeweled crown was set atop her silver hair. She stopped before Ian, a regality in her manner. Eyebrows arched, she gave Clair a pointed look.
"My great-aunt, Lady Abby Frankenstein," Clair said anxiously, searching Ian's face for a reflection of his thoughts.
Clair had suffered many insults regarding her great-aunt Abby's eccentric behavior, each one a tiny nail in the coffin of her reputation. She didn't believe Ian was a shallow man, but experience had taught her the virtue of being cautious where her family was concerned.
A loud cough to her right side brought Clair back from her worries. Glancing at the stern expression on her great aunt's face, Clair quickly conceded, "Great-aunt Abby is also known as Queen Elizabeth of England."
Ian bowed formally over Clair's great aunt's hand, a courtier's smile on his face. He assumed an expression both polite and serious, an expression suitable for meeting one's monarch.
Clair felt the tension in her muscles ease greatly. She hadn't even realized she was holding her shoulders so tightly.
Another cough came, louder this time. Clair finished the introductions. "Elizabeth the First, Queen of England. The greatest queen of all time—even if someday there happens to be an Elizabeth the Second."