The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

Dr. Frankenstein, I Presume

'Hmmm?' Now that was an answer, she noted dismally. She was finally rendered speechless. Uncle Victor would be stunned. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Clair knew she should be running for her life. But no, that was too melodramatic. Instead, she stood her ground like one of the Elgin statues all London was agog over.

Should she apologize for dropping in unannounced at his bedtime, or should she pretend to faint? No, fainting was too dangerous. The sly baron might decide a midnight snack was in order, and she would be the main aperitif.

Peeking up at him from beneath her eyelashes, Clair felt her adrenaline surge. Her morbid curiosity seemed to be overcoming the worst of her fears. Her mind, a steel trap-like device, was already compartmentalizing facts. She was in the presence of a vampire. He could be centuries old. Who knew what secrets he had learned over the years? It was utterly terrifying, utterly illuminating, and utterly bloody remarkable. Clair was spellbound. Her host had a powerful, predatory air, a wild energy about him that was almost primitive. If he was centuries old, he was well preserved. Hmm, very well preserved.

'Madame, and I use the term loosely, I am waiting for an answer!' Baron Harold Ian Huntsley's voice was clipped, the evident rage enough to release her from her bemusement.

As nonchalantly as possible in the presence of the Baron and his very predatory glare, Clair took a tiny step back—an infinitesimal step. When the attractive aristocrat remained absolutely still, she took another step backward, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the threat of danger.

Clair had the strangest sensation that the baron was stalking her, even though he hadn't moved a muscle. 'So this is what a mouse feels like,' she muttered.

'I beg pardon,' he asked arrogantly, watching her with blazing eyes.

Clair blinked. The man radiated hostility, and most of it she feared was directed at her. 'This isn't what it looks like. Not at all. This is a mission of science,' she explained.

'Science?' Baron Huntsley snarled, once again revealing sharp white teeth. He studied her with a hard glint in his eyes. 'You look as though you are standing in my basement uninvited.'

'Well, I am. I mean, I obviously am here in your basement uninvited. If I weren't here, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Not at all,' she protested, biting her lower lip nervously, wishing she were in India right now, or even the London stews, that hotbed of thieves, murderers, and prostitutes. She wished she were anywhere but here. Baron Huntsley would be a frightening figure even if he were not part of the supernatural world. Quickly she recited to herself again, 'The truth at all costs.'

Ian, Baron Huntsley, stared at the woman who had dared interrupt his solitude. He asked, his tone icy, 'So, why have you broken into my basement?' He didn't know her game, but he would find it out. No one stole from him. Still, this five-foot-three-inch bit of bluster and bravado didn't look like a thief. Actually, he surmised as he studied her, with her fraying black cape, she looked like a reject from the London stews.

Clair dramatically waved her hands in the air. Baron Huntsley was truly formidable. 'Broken in? Appearances can be deceiving,' she said with a false smile.

Slyly examining him from top to bottom, Clair began compiling scientific facts, wondering if the devastatingly handsome baron could turn into a bat. She wondered too why he was back so early from the party. She wondered if he was going to bite her neck, and if he did, would she mind terribly? He was a rather handsome dog for a vampire. And he had such broad, strong shoulders. His legs were very long, his thighs heavily muscled. She wondered if he ever got cramped in his crypt.

'With what were you planning to make away? Just what in my basement would interest a thief?' the baron asked.

'I was not stealing anything. I could never be a thief. It just isn't in my genetic makeup,' Clair answered honestly. She hesitated a moment, then added, 'With the exception of a corpse or two.' Although Clair really didn't consider it thievery to rob graves—at least of their bodies. The dead were generally dead—unless they were the undead or her uncle Victor had gotten hold of them.

The baron raised a brow, his aristocratic features sharply delineated by the flickering candlelight.

'Medical purposes… the corpses,' she explained.

She's insane, Ian thought sadly. Such a beauty. She didn't look like a lunatic.

Staring right at her, he thought of another reason she might have come. He asked, 'Are you here to compromise me, then?'

Clair was shocked. 'No! What a ludicrous thought. I value my blood and my bloodline too much to do such an unladylike thing as that. No, I am here to compromise your coffin. But since you seem rather in a hurry and appear to be in a bleak mood, I think I'll just take my leave now,' she went on in a convoluted manner, hoping to dazzle the wily baron with a profusion of words, allowing her to slip away unnoticed. She took a step around him.

Ian blocked the woman's route with his muscular body, his eyes widening in surprise. He was momentarily speechless, a first for him. He had seen and done many things in his jaded lifetime, some things he would carry to his grave as scars upon his soul. But he had never seen anything like this small Amazon standing quite proudly, although quite stupidly, in front of him.

In spite of his shock, he couldn't help but notice how pretty she was, what with her tawny gold-brown hair and her huge eyes. They were gray, the color of the rain-streaked skies over his beloved Welsh mountains.

'My coffin?' He finally processed what she'd said. 'What coffin?'

'Baron Huntsley,' Clair started, then stopped. 'I assume you are Baron Ian Huntsley of Yorkshire and Balmoria in Wales?' He nodded, so she continued. 'That dog won't hunt, Baron Huntsley. You are not going to play that old game.'

When he remained silent, she scowled. It was so like a man to play the innocent when he was guilty of hiding secrets. But this secret couldn't be hidden. It was staring them both in the face: his crypt.

Her Frankenstein curiosity taking over, Clair forgot most of her fear. Yes, this was the baron's crypt. This was where he probably slept the day away, dreaming of ill-gotten gains of blood and who knew what else a creature of the night like himself might dare to dream in the depths of sleep.

'What game are you speaking about?' Ian was fascinated in spite of himself. He should call the Bow Street runners, he thought. He should call his staff and have her thrown out, but he'd rather have his staff throw her into his bed. She was a petite beauty and she was in his territory now, right where she'd put herself.

He drew closer, nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed in her scent. She smelled of winter, fresh and frosty. He found it remarkably stimulating.

Dramatically, the woman pointed and chastised him. 'How about that great big stone coffin in the corner? My lord, you are deliberately trying to draw my attention away from it.'

'Oh, that coffin,' Ian replied stiffly, questions flooding his mind. He wondered if any of the enemies he had made spying for the British government had something to do with this. He wondered if she was playing a game, and if so, what were the rules? He wondered if the woman was mad as a hatter. Then he wondered if he himself was mad as a hatter for listening to her demented ramblings in his basement on a Tuesday night. Surely he was. But though curiosity had killed many a cat, he was as curious as any cat—and not as easily killed… nine lives or not.

Clair smiled smugly, her fright easing. The baron had not rushed her. He had not attacked her, leading her to believe that he probably wouldn't. She felt fairly safe—as safe as one could feel in the presence of a crusty, mad vampire. And though he was a handsome devil, he would still have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool a Frankenstein. And he went to bed in the mornings.

'Yes, that coffin.' She pointed primly to the massive stone monument. 'Your coffin.'

'Actually, that's my ancestor, the second Baron Huntsley's coffin.'

She snorted.

The unladylike noise from the woman caught Ian unaware and had him staring at her transfixed. He arched a brow as he observed the way the candlelight highlighted the golden strands of her hair. Parts of it had become undone from her braid, giving her a wild, tousled look, as though she had just stepped from a lover's bed. He wanted to be that lover, although he couldn't tell much about her figure with that grotesque cape she was wearing. Still, that didn't stop the flow of blood to his groin.