"The Duke of Ghent."
"The Duke?" Clair repeated, surprised. "Are you sure? He seems like such a jolly old man. Aunt Mary knows him. And he's a duke."
"You believe Wolverton is a werewolf and he's an earl," Ian accused.
"True. I guess supernaturalism is an equal-opportunity employment."
Ian studied her, a reluctant grin on his face. He knew she was going away again into that dizzy maze of her mind. Patiently he waited, wanting to kiss her silly.
"Okay, why this particular duke?" she asked.
His grin grew. The trap was sprung. He would now lead Clair off in a different direction. And though he regretted his false directions, at least this path wouldn't plunge her to her death if she took a right turn.
"The duke is always mixing up spells and chanting while he cooks. He has a pentagram painted on his bedroom wall. He owns three black cats. Oh yes, and a black dog too," he ad-libbed, making most of it up as he went.
Ian knew he should feel guiltier. He knew he should probably be more concerned, but he really didn't see how Clair could break into the Duke of Ghent's home. The duke was known for his paranoia due to years in the war. All he owned, most especially himself, was heavily guarded. "The duke also dresses in those long warlock robes," he added, inspired.
"Warlock robes?" Clair hid her smile. Ian was so adorable trying to help her scientific quest. Of course, he didn't have a clue at all about the work an actual hypothesis actually required. He had gotten lucky on his first try and she was proud of him, like a mother hen watching her chick leave the nest. How she wanted to hug the handsome dolt! At this moment in time, she discerned, she had never felt closer to another human being. It was almost frightening, her desire to be held by him and to hold him, to comfort and caress him for all the days of her life. If only Ian were the marrying kind, she would set her cap for him in a London minute.
In a pig's eye, she thought in horror. Where had that last traitorous thought come from? She had decided long ago that she wasn't the marrying kind, either. She had her science to pursue. She had the prestigious Scientific Discovery of the Decade award to pursue. She had Ian to pursue. Drat! She needed her attention focused on things that howled at the moon, not this magnificent man in front of her. Still, if anyone could make her dream of wedded bliss, it was Ian, mere mortal though he was.
"You know, those garments that devil worshipers wear," he was saying.
"The cowls?" she asked, trying to suppress a grin but failing.
He scowled.
"I know. You're not a fashion expert on the occult."
"Clair, Clair. What am I going to do with you?" Ian took her into his arms.
"Kiss me?" she suggested.
Ian did as the lady requested, and their passion once again ignited. Unfortunately, before Ian could sample a taste of her forbidden virgin fruit, Lady Mary entered the library looking for her embroidery. Fortunately for his status of single white baron, the kiss had only just begun. He broke away in haste, a silly grin plastered on his lips. He fled to his carriage still wearing the expression, causing his footman Tiger, who had been holding the horses, to give him an odd look. Inside, a flustered Clair and a flushed but smiling Lady Mary watched his leavetaking. The library hummed with anticipation. Lady Mary was delighted. Her Plan A, To Catch A Baron, was going so smoothly that she wanted to pat herself on the back. She could just see Clair in her wedding finery. She would be a true sight to behold.
Glancing at her niece from the corner of her eyes, Mary observed the pink flush upon Clair's cheeks. Clair was in love with Ian; she just didn't know it yet. Yes, it would be a splendid match. The match of the century, and Mary would have been an integral part of the wedding of the two great families. She did so love a good wedding.
"The baron is really a most intriguing man, quite the catch of this season or any season," she remarked casually, carefully hiding her marital plot. She would see the baron all the way to the altar, or her name wasn't Mary Frankenstein.
Clair reseated herself at her desk, interpreting the speculative gleam in her aunt's eye. So that is the way the wind is blowing, she thought. She couldn't really blame her aunt, since some of those same thoughts of church bells and wedding cakes had been intruding upon her own dreams.
Studying her niece out of the corner of her eye, Lady Mary picked up her embroidery, chuckling. Raising her head from her notes, Clair glanced at her. "Something amusing?"
Her aunt smiled a secretive smile. "Nothing really. Oh! I did receive a letter from Victor today."
"Have they found Frederick?" Clair asked somberly, concerned for her adopted cousin, who was a like a big, big, big brother to her, even though his left arm and both ears were younger in origin.
Her aunt waved her hand in the air. "Yes. Nothing to be concerned about. Frederick came home, no worse the wear."
"Does Uncle Victor know what caused him to run away?"
"It appears that a group of young men were running around impersonating poor Frederick. They are all wearing those sixteen-foot-long clodhopper boots he wears and sporting bolts in their necks," Lady Mary explained patiently. "Frederick was quite upset about the whole impersonation thing at first. He thought they were making fun of him. Then Frederick learned they were imitating him because they admired him. You know, rather like all those young bucks in town imitate that Beau Brummell person."
"I'm glad Frederick is in fashion now. He's had a hard time of being different. How is Uncle?"
"My brother has calmed down somewhat since Frederick came into his own," Lady Mary explained. She smiled affectionately. "I was always fond of the giant tyke, myself."
"Yes. Frederick has always been like a big brother to me. Remember the time he held me up in the window so I could scout out the vicarage? And he saved my life a time or two," Clair reminisced. "Remember when the crazy old vicar tried to spear me with that pitchfork?"
Her aunt's face took on a greenish cast. "How could I forget? If Frederick hadn't routed the old devil, you'd have been seriously injured or burned."
"Dear Frederick, owner of my heart."
"No, sweet. That was Mr. Applebee's heart Victor used."
Both women laughed. Looking down at the notes she had jotted, Clair changed the subject. "By the way, Aunt Mary, what do you know of the Duke of Ghent?"
Her aunt's expression became distant. "Julian was very fresh in his salad days. He was quite the rogue. He lives much quieter now. I know he has a fondness for cats, black in particular, and is always going to see that play Abby drags me to—McDougal?"
"McBeth," Clair corrected. She went on to partially explain the conversation between Ian and herself, although she left out the part accusing the Duke of Ghent, not wishing to worry her aunt with fear for her safety.
Clair then relayed the warning about never inviting the Earl of Wolverton inside their home, albeit suspiciously. Ian knew more than he was saying about the mysterious Asher. In fact, Ian was being as mysterious as the earl. Which was not surprising. But now, instead of one mystery to solve with the wolfish earl, Clair also had to puzzle out the baron's excuse for hiding what he knew. It appeared everyone was hiding something. Aunt Mary, Ian, the Earl and the Duke of Ghent—only Frederick was an open book.
Clair sighed. When had life gotten so complex? She had to find the weres, but where were they? Did Ian know where the weres were and who was a werewhat? If so, then why was Ian remaining silent on the subject? She signed again, wishing she could ask, "Will the real vampires and werewolves please stand up?"