"If only it were," Ian remarked regretfully.
"Shush," she warned, staring through the shrubbery at the opposite end of the garden, where a small rose arbor covered in red and white rambling roses stood reposed in half shadows. Tiny lanterns filled with candles flickered overhead, and a tall brown-haired man was escorting the charmingly lovely and charmingly lewd widow Lady Montcrief into its depths.
"My, she does get around," Clair observed dryly.
Ian's eyes widened at the sight before him. He glanced in horror at Clair. "Oh, no! Not Asher. You couldn't possibly be idiotic enough to be spying on the Earl of Wolverton."
"Hush. I told you I wasn't spying," Clair whispered.
"Bloody hell! The deuce you're not. Just lurking in the shadows like a spider waiting to pounce?"
She punched him in the arm, all semblance of decorum fled before the winds of her ire. Ian was making her furious with his unreasonable attitude. He knew she was a scholar of the supernatural—unpublished as of yet, but a scholar nonetheless. This was her mission of scientific discovery, and Ian had no right to make her feel like a Peeping Tom just because of a few hair-raising kisses. He had no right to dictate to her.
"If you're so concerned about being seen, you can leave."
Ian scowled furiously. "If I left, I am sure it would improve my humor. But unfortunately I can't. By God, Clair! You are in way over your head. This is no small thing. The earl is a thoroughly ruthless, cunning adversary. You don't want to make an enemy of the man."
He trembled with anger. Clair was rushing in where only fools would tread—which, come to think of it, described her perfectly. She was a bluestocking kook. And yet, to his grave misgivings, he was crazy about her. Now his queer bird was going to try and dissect Neil Asher, the Earl of Wolverton. The man would chew her up and spit her out without a twinge of conscience. Asher had no soul and hadn't for a very long time. He was infamous for both lechery and just retribution, a man both revered and reviled. And for bloody damn good reason.
"I am not making an enemy out of him, only a supernatural predator!" she explained.
"I'm sure he'll be delighted with that distinction," Ian said. "I can hardly wait for the end of this farce!"
"You pig!" Clair snapped. "I'm not wrong this time. I am absolutely, positively sure. Beyond a reasonable doubt, any doubt. The earl is a bone-crunching, marrow-munching fiend of a werewolf. And I shall prove it!"
"Damn, Clair. Keep your voice down. Do you want him to hear?" Ian warned. He lifted her chin to meet his burning gaze. "How in bloody hell did you come upon this remarkable lack of deductive reasoning? What dubious fodder did you glean from the rumor mills?" He was enraged. She was treading in deep water and he, Ian Huntsley, was forced to drown her or save her pretty neck. "Clair, I'm waiting for my answer."
Glancing up at Ian with a rueful smile on her face, she explained. "It was staring me in the face all along. Indeed, I feel rather foolish about it. It was rather elementary. He is the Earl of Wolverton. I just assumed that was too easy."
His patience at an end, Ian snapped. His eyes a furious shade of green, he grunted, "What does the Earl of Wolverton being the Earl of Wolverton have to do with werewolves?"
Clair looked at him as though he were a loaf short of a baker's dozen. "Pay attention, Ian. Wolverton. Wolf. Werewolf. Good grief! His coat of arms has a wolf on it. I must have been blind. Wolverton is the werewolf of the vampire nest." Her eyes gleamed with smug satisfaction. "I reasoned it out last night."
"The Earl of Dover has a dragon crest. You don't see him out and about breathing fire and eating innocent maidens," Ian snarled. Then, recalling some of the old earl's proclivities, he wanted to kick himself. Bad example. The Earl of Dover did eat maidens—the fairer, the better. "I take it you have more than his coat of arms and family name to condemn the man to his furry fate?"
Nodding, Clair began to tick off the points on her fingertips. "Number one, he's never seen on the night of the full moon, which makes perfect sense since werewolves can only transform into their animal form on full moons, regardless of provocation or predilection. You know they absolutely have no choice in the matter but to go from man or woman to wolf form."
Yes, Ian knew, but he hadn't realized Clair was aware. "Go on," he urged gravely, concerned. Asher would not take this lying down, and neither would several other groups he knew.
"Secondly, I was informed by several jewelers that the earl can't wear silver—he has a terrible allergy to it. Thirdly, Wolverton is very fit and handsome. Shapeshifters generally are fit. I deduce it's from all that running about on nights with full moons and the energy it takes to metamorphose," Clair explained, a speculative look in her eye. She continued to study the figure of the alluring earl.
Ian's scowl darkened further as she talked. "Go on," he forced out, gritting his teeth. This woman was dangerous, deranged… and driving him wild with her soft, pink lips.
"Number four, several waiters have revealed that the earl only eats his steak rare."
"The man should be hanged!" Ian gasped.
"That's not all," she hissed. Better people than Ian had mocked her. For a man as bright as he, Ian could be such a dimwit. He just wasn't getting the whole wolf-man picture.
"I am all agog. Do tell," he said.
"Fifthly, the Earl of Wolverton has animal magnetism. I calculate it must be a werewolf thing—pheromones and all, you know. His lovemaking is reputed to be even superior to your own." There, that should shut him up, she speculated. From her limited experience and what limited gossip she and Arlene had heard, men were worrywarts about their bedroom skills.
"The man should be worshiped as a god," Ian growled sarcastically, jealousy flooding him. He would show her magnetism. He could be an animal anytime she wanted.
"Don't be flippant," she snapped. Drat! Ian was still being an addlepated twit. For someone so strong and intelligent, he reminded her of a ten-year-old. And he wasn't paying attention. He couldn't see the werewolf in the forest for the trees.
"Sixthly, Wolverton owns wolfhounds."
Exasperated, Ian ran his hands through his thick hair. "So do I! So does my cousin Galen and so do a hundred other men. What has this got to do with the price of tea in China?"
The bloody woman was an enigma with windmills in her head, stirring up all kind of ill breezes that would undoubtedly blow his careful world away.
Vexed, Clair complained, "Ian, keep up with me here."
"I'm trying, Clair. I'm trying." Trying not to strangle you, he thought waspishly. Clair Frankenstein made him madder than any other person alive, dead, or undead.
"I have done a study."
Ian glowered. How he was beginning to hate those five little words. They were words which spelled Ian's descent into the madhouse—or, he reasoned sardonically, he could just move in with the Frankensteins.
"The wolfhounds' footprints hide the werewolf prints. Anyone tracking a werewolf would see that there are wolfhounds in the vicinity and, seeing the werewolf prints, would believe that they are those of the wolfhound," she explained happily.
Ha! Ian thought. The bloody fool woman acted as if she had found the Rosetta Stone. He arched a brow, begging her to explain, wishing she would become a mute in sudden retribution for irritating him and delving into matters otherworldly. He wished to no avail. Plan A, The Seduction of Clair Frankenstein, was no longer proceeding as planned. He couldn't even distract her from her quest with a romantic tryst in a garden with the smell of roses and gardenias filling the air and the mystique of the glowing moon. His attempts were a dismal failure.
"However, I do know how to find the truth," she continued.
"I expected no less," Ian muttered.
Excitedly, she explained the solution to the problem of wolfish prints. "You see, you follow the wolf's footprints or wolfhound prints until they turn into those of a man—or vice versa."