Lowering her head and studying Ian, Clair nodded. Then she confided, "Differences in appearance can now be manufactured. Recall, I told you about the French vampire count and my uncle Tieck? Well, Uncle Tieck introduced the count to Uncle Victor, who discovered a way to reconstruct parts of the face. For instance, to shorten a nose, raise a hairline, or add a cleft to a chin. You do know vampires heal quickly?"
"I daresay it wasn't in my storehouse of knowledge," Ian responded dryly. "But do go on. I haven't been so entertained in years." He added the last so sincerely that Clair could not take offense.
"Well, do you know how vampires react to silver?"
"I do believe that I heard somewhere that it burns their skin, rather like acid," Ian replied cautiously. He knew exactly what silver did to a vampire, and it wasn't a pretty sight.
Clair nodded enthusiastically. Ian was as intelligent as he was darkly handsome. "Yes. Vampires are extremely sensitive to silver. It can actually kill them in large and prolonged doses. But it is perfect for certain surgeries, if the dose is minuscule. Since vampires heal too quickly for any type of facial surgery to be permanent, my Uncle Victor developed a technique called silver surgery. He implants tiny particles of silver—not enough to damage a vampire or kill him, of course—in whatever facial area he is reconstructing. That way, a shortened nose stays shortened, unable to grow back to its original length due to the implants. Thus a vampire could return to his ancestral home immediately after surgery."
"And I fit this profile," Ian remarked, understanding so much more than he had. "I suppose, in a strange way, your theory makes sense. You thought I was a vampire pretending to be my human father, who later pretended to be me, myself."
"In a word, yes."
"That is so insane that it is absolutely brilliant."
She nodded her thanks, her pretty cheeks pinkening at the praise.
Tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair, Ian couldn't seem to relieve his worry. "This subject you've chosen, the undead, is a grave one. Not to mention dangerous. Why pick this particular subject? There are other important scientific spheres to study. Why the Nosferatu?"
"All Frankensteins study what is difficult. And all Frankensteins are published. Our great name is revered in the hallowed halls of academia. I can do no less but try to follow in my forebears' footsteps. I am who I am. After working with my uncle for a number of years and seeing his interest in animating flesh, I admit to having become quite interested in the dead and the living dead. Hence any interest in the vampire."
Ian didn't like her answer. It didn't fit with his plans. "But it could be extremely dangerous to research that particular subject. Besides, there are no such things as vampires."
"You are kind to warn me. I know the dangers of my research. Even Uncle Victor tried to put his foot down."
"I see that it did little good," Ian noted gruffly.
"How could it, with Frederick's foot right beside his?" she teased. "Uncle Victor may be many things, but a hypocrite he is not. So instead of hindering me, he gave me my first sharpened stick."
"Stake," Ian corrected, wishing he could get his hands on old uncle Victor.
Clair nodded. "He also told me about the garlic and holy water."
"Yes… the garlic." Ian sighed, reached into the coat of his pocket, then held out his hand. It was filled with garlic. "You forgot this last night."
Clair took the cloves, laying them on the table. "You must think me a complete nodcock. First, I break into your home, although for a good purpose. I accost you with garlic, then with a stake. Then, to top it all off, I accuse you of being a vampire and flee, dropping garlic in my wake."
She shook her head, sending her tawny curls flying. "Is that why you dropped by today? You wanted to return my garlic? We do have more in the kitchen, you know. Still, I thank you."
She hated to admit it to herself, but she was rather disappointed to note that the baron had only been interested in her left-behind spices.
Ian took her small hand in his. "No, Miss Frankenstein, I do not think you are a nodcock. I think you are an original. And besides returning your property, I wanted to see you again and invite you to go riding in the park with me this afternoon."
It took less than two seconds for Clair to decide. She had much to do today with her studies, especially since Baron Huntsley had turned out not to be the leader of the London nest. And he was a mere mortal. Still, he was a fascinating man and only the second man she had ever kissed. An hour or two shouldn't hurt her project. "That would be lovely."
Not as lovely as you, he mused. "At four, my lady." Then Ian left the room, his long strides taking him down the hallway.
On the way out, a commotion by the stairway caught his attention. Three ladies dressed all in black were marching in what looked like a funeral possession down the corridor. It was a scene straight out of Macbeth, with old crones murmuring chants. Two more ladies joined the procession. The fourth was small and plump with the same tawny hair as Clair, but with a hint of silver at her temples. The fifth was very tall and very thin. Even though she wore a black veil, Ian could tell she was crying copiously.
The plump lady held the veiled woman's arm, trying to gently comfort her, while the first three women fluttered about the room in high anxiety. Before Ian had the chance to retreat, the plump lady glanced up at him. She had a quiet serenity, a graceful beauty that time's march would not mar. He judged her to be somewhere in her forties. She also had Clair's eyes. It had to be Clair's aunt Mary.
He spoke quietly. "I am sorry. I am intruding at a bad time. I take it you are leaving for a funeral?"
Clair's aunt gracefully raised her hand and pointed to a small brown coffin. "This is the funeral. We are doing the march. Clair was busy, or else we would have had her playing Mozart's Funeral March. She is quite talented on the piano," the woman boasted. She knew exactly who had come to call, and her little matchmaking heart was beating a furious rhythm.
Ian stared at the tiny coffin, trying to decide what on earth would fit in it, but in this asylum, anything was possible.
"You must be Baron Huntsley. I am Clair's aunt, Lady Mary Frankenstein. And this is Mrs. Heston." Mary nodded toward the gaunt, grief-stricken woman.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance and only sorry it is at such a trying time," Ian said politely, glancing again at the tiny coffin. Beside Mary, Mrs. Heston had suddenly snatched the tiny casket, hugging it to herself. Her shrieks filled the hallway.
"Polly, my sweet dear Polly! How can I go on?" The old lady's voice broke as Mary enfolded her in her arms.
"There, there, Mrs. Heston. It will be all right. Just think, Polly is in heaven and probably has loads of those crackers she likes so well."
Appearing in the hallway, Clair took Ian's arm, gently pulling him away. As they walked to the door, he glanced back once. "I didn't mean to intrude upon a funeral. Who is Polly? Is she a relative of yours?"
Brooks, his face solemn, glanced down the hall at the last of the procession as he opened the front door for them. He said nothing.
"She's a parrot," Clair explained.
"A parrot?" Ian asked, confused, as he took his hat and gloves from Brooks. The butler was bearing up quite stoically in this cuckoo's nest he occupied.
One of the old ladies was adjusting her large black ostrich fan hat, covering both her ears. Another was crying into a black handkerchief, hiding her eyes. Still a third covered her mouth, hiding her sobbing.