"I concur," Ian said, then smiled into the eyes of the older woman. Deep lines fanned outward from the edges, but did nothing to dim the audacious brightness in her gaze.
"I am charmed by the honor you do me," he said quietly to Lady Abby.
The woman bowed her head regally and moved on to greet the other guests, a study in queenly demeanor. Ian stared after her.
"I take it Lady Abby has a slight problem with reality?" he asked.
"Oh, no," Clair protested. "Aunt Abby is normal—except when she is having one of her episodes. This time she is Queen Elizabeth. I must admit Elizabeth is one of my favorites."
"She has other people she impersonates?" Ian asked, fascinated in spite of himself. Not withstanding what Clair said, Lady Abby's normalcy was a moot point. As far as he was concerned, the woman had more bats in the belfry than Westminster Abbey.
"Oh yes. She believes she is everyone from Caligula to Shakespeare." Clair searched his face for some sign of revulsion. Happily, she found none.
Ian kept his expression blank, a habit long ingrained. He had been right. Victor Frankenstein wasn't the only one a few cards short of a full deck in this family. No, it appeared Clair's nut didn't fall far from the old Frankenstein family tree, he mused sardonically.
Imps of the Perverse
Clair sat gloating like Cheshire, her friend Jane's well-fed cat, as she and the other women made polite chitchat and the men finished their brandy and cigars. As far as she was concerned, the dinner party had been a raging success—the one small exception being when Mr. Harre had gotten weepy at the sight of the turtle soup being served.
The talk had been lively, the meal superb, and Ian looked spectacular in his evening clothes. He was dressed wholly in black, with a white waistcoat embroidered with red thread that matched the red ruby pin in his fashionably tied cravat. The handsome devil quite took her breath away.
Ian had also acted with remarkable courtesy to both her aunts, not even lifting a brow when Great-aunt Abby had called out, "Off with their heads," when the senior footman forgot to pour her more wine.
Clair couldn't help but beam. Ian seemed to take in the eccentricities of her family with a remarkable calm, like a lone oak standing tall against the woodcutter dancing gleefully around its trunk. She felt almost sure that he was interested in her, which made her heart quicken and her insides feel as if tiny butterflies were alighting in her stomach. It was a truly exceptional sensation for a woman who had learned to compartmentalize her feelings, placing them in tiny boxes to be safely stored away, while she devoted her life to her career.
Breathing deeply, she savored both her feelings and confusion like the men did a fine port after dinner. It was amazing what an attractive beau could do for a woman's outlook on life.
Noting her friend's agitation, Arlene sat down next to Clair on the green-striped settee. "Clair, you look provokingly thoughtful. I bet I can guess what you're contemplating so thoroughly." Arlene grinned. "One very handsome baron?"
Clair sighed. "He is handsome, isn't he? Probably the handsomest man in all of London… England… make that the whole British Empire!"
Arlene giggled. "I can't believe it, but it appears you, my scientific brainiac, are smitten. This is quite the red-letter day."
"Yes, I do believe I am. It's like being bitten by bedbugs and not minding. I should be thinking about my vampire theories, but instead I'm thinking of how green Ian's eyes are," Clair confided conspiratorially.
Before she could say more, the salon was suddenly filled with the smells of cigar smoke and a faint trace of aged brandy as the men entered. Clair smiled affectionately as Professor Whutson approached. He was one of her favorites among her uncle's cronies.
"What a fine meal, Clair. I am so glad I could attend." Whutson patted his belly.
She hugged the older man. "So am I. We have missed you. But I know Dr. Homes has kept you quite busy," Clair said sincerely. "Tell me, what is he involved with now?"
"Tobacco."
"Tobacco?"
Whutson laughed at her expression. "Yes, Homes is busy testing different tobacco ash. The other day I opened the door and smelled thick smoke. I thought a fire had broken out, only to find Homes studying tobacco ash."
Clair's laughter pealed out like the tinkling of bells. Professor Whutson shared in her mirth, chuckling long and loudly.
"Homes has deduced that he can solve many mysteries if he can tell from where certain tobaccos originate."
Clair's smile faded as she grew intrigued, her mind instantly recognizing the possibilities. "Yes, of course! That is quite astute of him. I imagine tobacco is much like a fingerprint. If Homes can determine where villains buy their tobacco, I feel sure it would cut down on investigation times."
"Quite, my dear." Giving her a quick peck on the cheek, he motioned toward Lady Abby, who was setting up court. "I do so enjoy confounding Homes with these readings, for I always relate them carefully when I arrive home, and he is always astounded that your aunt is always correct."
Clair laughed brightly. "You are a wily old fox."
"If so, I am in good company," he said cheerily. "Come, let's enjoy another adventure of the tarot cards."
The two joined the group around Lady Abby, who prepared to begin her readings. "Come, my subjects, it is now time for the cards." So saying, she sat down in a tall Louis XVI chair and pulled out her tarot cards. "Who will be first?"
After no one answered, Lady Abby dramatically pointed a finger bedecked with rings at Mr. Poe, who had once again taken up his post by the stuffed raven, that ominous bird of yore. "You there, leave that bird alone and come here."
Mr. Poe hurried to obey the royal request, seating himself in front of Lady Abby. "My lady."
"Do I know you, sir? What tempest has tossed thee to my shore? Have we met before, perhaps at Windsor Castle? Did you make obeisance to me there?"
Poe shook his head, looking ill at ease.
Ian shook his head, amused that the man was embarrassed talking to a make-believe queen, but perfectly fine with being enamored of a dead, stuffed bird.
"Come now, sir. No need to be shy," Lady Abby advised haughtily. "My, you are a beguiling little fellow." Turning around to face Raleigh, she added ceremoniously, "Raleigh, we must give him an appointment at court."
Mr. Raleigh nodded from across the room. "Yes, Bess. Perhaps I can put him on as Dresser of the Wardrobe."
Lady Abby seemed satisfied. "A most worthy position. What say you, Sir Poe?"
Clair hid her grin. Mr. Poe looked like a fish out of water, but then Aunt Abby often had that effect on people. Her great-aunt was as delusional as they came during her episodes, a wonderful old lady full of spit and vinegar. Of course, she also had a heart as vast as the bluest of skies.
Mr. Edgar Allan Poe finally managed a weak nod as Abby adjusted her heavy gown and shuffled the cards.
The cards were drawn, yet remained facedown as the sounds of silence descended upon the room. The only exception was the ticking of the pendulum clock on the fireplace mantel, ticking away the hours of every human life.
Lady Abby glared ruthlessly at the offending clock. "To the tower… take it to the tower. Brooks! Brooks! Take it away, it offends us."
The long-suffering butler hurried forward, a rare mutinous look on his face. Ian repressed a grin. If this were the Bounty, Lady Abby—alias Queen Bess or whoever the hell she was this week—would be walking the plank.
Brooks quickly bundled up the hapless clock and took it away, muttering under his breath. "They don't pay me enough to endure this."
"Now, Mr. Poe, pay attention to the cards," Abby commanded as she turned three tarot cards over. "By the heavens that bend above us, you have drawn the Tower and the Chariot!" She shook her head. "But also the Moon, which is good." She looked arrogantly at Mr. Poe. "You will have fame. The power of your words will evoke strong emotions and images. Perhaps you will know great fame, but it will come with a cost. A very great cost. Perhaps the cost of your heart. The road will not be easy."