Asher cursed under his breath. He would have Clair Frankenstein come hell or high water. And Huntsley be damned, if he wasn't already.
The Scientist Who Knew Too Much
Clair was in a brown study. Despite her great expectations of her tale of two vampires in the city, she had ended up with an expected twist. It was a dickens of a dilemma. It seemed, she mused, that for a scientist who knew so much, as of late she often knew too little. She needed to reassess and reevaluate her work in order to learn how to proceed, although she knew she was right about the Earl of Wolverton being a werewolf.
Brooks's announcement of Baron Huntsley interrupted her thoughts. Clair hid her smile as she saw him walk into the room. He made her heart do a funny little pitter-patter. He looked as if he had gotten little to no sleep last night. Good, he could join the club.
Clair was still angry with him for abruptly dragging her out of the garden the night before, and for his quick departure from the ball without a word to her. He needed to get into the spirit of things—which spirits were vampires and werewolves. She wouldn't bend an inch. She would show Ian a thing or two—mainly that Frankensteins couldn't be intimidated or dragged willy-nilly from gardens.
As Ian entered the room, he noted Clair's posture and expression. Yes, she was still most definitely angry at him. The thought was irritating. She had no right to be peeved because he cared enough to try and stop her from getting Asher's back up. But she was a female, and their reasoning wasn't always reasonable, no matter how a man tried to interact with one.
Ian had come prepared to do penance. Seeing Clair sitting in the library, framed in bright sunlight from the huge bay window behind her, he caught his step, standing and staring at her. She was so very lovely and so very much alive, obviously enjoying life in all its complexity.
He smiled. Clair was a vision of everything that was spring, in a morning gown of mint green silk. She sat in a gilt-wood chair in front of her massive teak desk, across which books and yellowed papers were haphazardly piled. Ian hid a grin at the total chaos of her workspace, presuming there was somehow a method to her madness.
After several minutes of heavy persuasion, he finally got her to admit to having an encounter with the earl. His ugly suspicions of the night before were now unfortunately confirmed.
Ian sought damage control. "Don't invite him into your house or your life."
Clair stared in disbelief. Ian had done everything but draw her a picture on how the Earl of Wolverton could not be a werewolf or a vampire. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought Ian had been trying to pull the proverbial wool over her eyes. "You stated last night—and most emphatically, I might add—that the earl wasn't a werewolf or a vampire!"
Ian could almost see the steam coming from her ears. Defending himself, he cajoled, "I am almost positive that he's not either. However, just to be on the safe side please do as I ask. Don't let Asher enter here, and stay far away from him on the full moon. Even better, stay home all the time."
Clair fumed. She had been up most of the night worrying about the earl's mysterious comments warning her away from Ian. She knew Ian had the reputation as a rake of renown, yet since he had been wooing her, she was seeing a different side of his roguish tendencies, a side quite special. She had noted it recently, whenever Ian looked at her. Dare she call it love?
After hiding a yawn, Clair couldn't help but return Ian's smile. But what was she doing smiling? Her night had been filled with confusion. She had worried about how the earl found out about her interest in him as a werewolf. And how much exception would he take to the fact? If the earl was dangerous, just how much of a deep ditch had she dug for Ian and herself? At this rate of worry, she was going to have gray hair before she was thirty.
She began to worry that Ian was going to be killed because of her, and then she worried that if Ian was, would he ever forgive her? Then she worried if she could ever forgive him for dying. "It would appear that I have opened a Pandora's box," she said aloud to herself.
Ian crossed his arms, commenting gravely, "Clair, my love, you have no idea."
Clair stood, traversing the room to where Ian stood, placing her hands in his. Imploring him with her smoky gray eyes, she begged, "Please, Ian, tell me truthfully. Is the Earl of Wolverton the Wolf man of London?"
"No." He answered without a twinge of remorse. Lives hung in the balance. Bending, he bestowed a tender kiss upon Clair's brow, then slowly moved away to the shelter of the bookshelves—away from her fresh, clean scent and luscious body, away from temptation.
Clair scrutinized him thoroughly, her analytic brain observing every nuance. "I would hate to call you a liar. However, going back to our earlier conversation, you did warn me not to invite him in. Why is that?"
Ian shrugged, schooling his expression. "I'm jealous."
"In a pig's eye," she retorted.
"You told me you thought he was a handsome," Ian reminded her, closing the distance back to her side, unable to help himself. He loved being near her, her smell, her laughter, the way the shadows of the room highlighted her heart-shaped cheeks.
"Handsome is as handsome does. Asher scares me a little, reminds me of a lofty king spider casting out his web and spinning it in little melodramas."
Ian nodded gravely. "An apt description," he remarked, knowing he would have to go to Plan B, since Plan A had been sent down in flames. Plan B was of a crafty sort, a Machiavellian plan. Brilliant, even if he did say so himself. It was a plan designed to keep Clair tilting at windmills. It was sure to guarantee that she would be kept safely away from the supposed Big Bad Wolf, the earl. He would call it the McGuffin, in honor of his friend Sir Albert Hitchcock, who had devised it for the war ministry. It was a plan where the real object of interest was replaced by another object in order to distract and confuse.
Ian tenderly squeezed Clair's hands. "Clair, I have been thinking long and hard over your research. I know how important you think this project of yours is to your Frankensteinian destiny…"
Releasing his hands, she went to stand by the window, staring out at the vibrant landscape. "It isn't just my destiny or my dreams, it's every man's or every woman's. It seems to me that a man's work will live beyond him, while his dreams, without substance, are only dust in the wind. Does that make sense to you?"
Ian nodded solemnly. "Yes. And that's one of the reasons I stopped by today."
"Yes?"
"Well, the other day I was remembering what you told me about the warlock or warlocks in a vampire nest. So I decided to do a little research on my own. I think I know who your warlock is."
Her eyes shining brightly, Clair almost skipped back to where he stood. In spite of all of Ian's dubious feelings on her work, he had decided to help her! He was interested enough in her to be interested enough in what she cared about. He had actually spent time and effort in searching out the warlock of the London nest, a feat she had tried at and failed.
She grinned, her eyes sparkling with happiness. Ian was her unsung hero. Although, she wasn't dim enough not to know the reason behind Ian's picking out a warlock to research instead of encouraging her hunt of the werewolf. Where werewolves were long and sharp of tooth, warlocks weren't. One was danger with fangs, the other's danger lay only in ancient spells. It was as simple and as complex as he thought her in less peril from magic. Yes, Ian cared more for her than he admitted. "Who?"