suspicions of his servants.
The duke, stirring something in a large black kettle on the stove, remained unaware of her. Unfortunately he had stopped chanting.
Gathering her courage, Clair crept forward until she was leaning around the duke. The spellbook she'd been so determined to view was in reality a cookbook. 'Where's the eye of newt?' she muttered to herself.
'Drat!' she added. A troubled frown crossed her features. 'Out of the frying pan and into the fire.'
Startled, the duke dropped the ladle he'd been holding. 'Who in the blue blazes are you?' he asked.
Trying for a composed look, Clair politely answered, 'I am Clair Frankenstein.'
The name raised one of the duke's imperious eyebrows. Taking a quizzing glass out of his jacket pocket, he looked Clair up and down. Then, pointing to a small round table in the corner of the kitchen, he motioned her to sit. 'Aren't you the Frankenstein who used that new-fangled recording device to capture pigs rooting around a cemetery?'
Bloody hell, Clair thought, borrowing one of Ian's favorite curses. It seemed her fifteen minutes of infamy were lasting a bit longer than fifteen minutes. 'I was going to record
'Intentions, intentions. It looks as if you ended up with a pig in a poke.'
Clair raised her eyes to the ceiling. How she hated such humor at her expense. She would never live down those little oinkers. The initial flashbacks from the porcine incident had people pointing and giggling at her—or worse, oinking at her. One clever gent had even sent her a roast pig with a dozen violets. That had been the breaking point. Clair had quit eating pork—a feat not easily done, since the Frankenstein cook made the most delicious bacon and eggs.
The duke took in the bright flush on her face. He smiled. 'What are you doing haunting my kitchen?'
'Would you believe I was hungry?'
Shaking his head, the man picked up his soup ladle and began dishing stewlike substance into two bowls. He placed one in front of Clair.
Suspiciously, she sniffed. It smelled delicious. 'Is it poison or bat wings?'
'Heavens no, child. Chicken wings in red wine stew.' He placed the second bowl to the right of Clair. 'Would you care for a glass of chianti to go with it?'
Clair nodded warily, waiting for an explosion or a demand for further explanation as to why she had sneaked into his house. It wasn't long in coming.
'Now, tell me what all this balderdash is about.' His voice was stern with centuries of breeding as he poured a rather generous amount of wine into a very tall glass. 'And don't try to bamboozle me, my dear.'
She knew a command when she heard it. Sensing honesty was the best policy, she replied with the truth. 'I thought you were a practitioner of the black arts.'
'Good grief, no!' he said, flabbergasted. 'I am a practitioner of the culinary arts. To be honest, I haven't blackened anything in the kitchen since I was a wee lad.'
Drat! Drat and double drat! She had done it again, made a fool of herself, always rushing in where even angels feared to tread and falling flat on her face. How could she have made such a mistake again? Wait a minute! This fiasco was courtesy of one sneaky, odious toad of a baron. The realization narrowed her eyes. It was her caring, helpful Ian who had started her on this primrose path, leaving her to face the folly. She was a lone rat on a fast-sinking ship. She would kill him with her bare hands, she envisioned. Or boil him in oil, then tie him to the mast and burn him for treachery.
'Won't you try my stew, my dear?' The duke asked. 'It's one of my new recipes,' he added as he motioned to the cookbook on the counter.
Politely, Clair took a bite. It was as good as it smelled. She was a bona fide idiot and this duke was a bona fide chef. 'It's delicious. Amazing, Your Grace.'
He took several sips of his wine, obviously pleased. 'Some wine?' he asked again.
'Yes, thank you.' Maybe she could get bosky and forget this whole misguided adventure. Or, Clair mused, maybe she would lop off Ian's nose with a carving knife. That would be a funny sight.
Mulling over her options, she recognized that if she had only had a brain and Ian only had a heart, she wouldn't have stumbled into this kitchen. Indignantly she brushed back a lock of her golden hair and tucked it behind her ear. 'Your Grace, I am a bit confused.'
'I can see that. I take it this is another of your pigs in a poke.'
'Your Grace, I do beg pardon, but I am really getting tired of everyone bringing up that misadventure.'
He chuckled. 'I can well believe it. Now, let me introduce myself properly. I am Julian Maurice Oswalt. But my friends call me Ozzie,' he remarked as he leaned over and patted the fatter of his two black cats. 'You, I think, may call me Ozzie.' The cat purred loudly, eliciting another chuckle from the duke, who pointed a finger at the contented puss.
'This is Aurora, mother to that one over there,' he informed Clair, inclining his head toward the smaller of the two cats, who lay snoozing peacefully at the foot of the stove. 'That is Samantha. Both are bewitching felines.'
'They are pretty,' Clair agreed. 'And, in a way, they are partly responsible for why I'm here tonight.'
Ozzie raised an eyebrow. 'You're a cat burglar?' he asked. Then he winked.
She laughed. 'Of course not. I'm here because I thought you were a warlock.'
Ozzie chortled. 'I see. I know people think it odd that I only keep black cats, but as a boy my dearly departed mother gave me one. These are her great granddaughters. The cat's, of course. Not my mother.'
'I didn't know dukes could be so sentimental,' Clair said.
'We do take our sentimental journeys—all in the dark, of course. Yes, sentiments and passions are frowned upon for a duke, as is cooking. What would the
'They'd want to stew you in your own sauce, I would imagine.'
'Correct, Miss Frankenstein.'
'Call me Clair,' she offered. She quite liked this eccentric duke. 'I must say you are a bit of a surprise. In all fairness, you should have called for your guards to cart me off to the fleet for this cursed business. But you didn't. Why is that?'
'You are a Frankenstein, and having a long acquaintance with your family, I have learned to expect the unexpected from you. You know, you look a great deal like your aunt Mary did when she was your age. She was quite the coquette in her day, and the loveliest woman I ever beheld.' Ozzie smiled nostalgically. 'Now, tell me the whole story of this new project. I have a desire to be entertained.'
So Clair did just that, starting at the beginning and leaving nothing out. The duke sat quietly, sipping his wine. He was indeed an inspired listener, filling her wineglass and bowl whenever needed but rarely commenting. After she finished, he gave some suggestions on how to go about finding the werewolves and vampires. But he cautioned her to be careful, reminding her how upset Aunt Mary would be if she got herself in danger. He agreed that Ian should be boiled in oil. He also agreed that men, with himself being the exception, were black-hearted knaves. Finally, he sent his warmest regards to Clair's aunts, most especially Mary; then Ozzie, the wonderful cooking wizard, sent Clair on her merry way, reminding her that there was no place like home.
Less than hour later Clair was seated on the pale gold and blue floral settee, her bare feet nestled in the thick plush Turkish carpet of her aunt's bedchamber. Shadows flickered on the walls from the rise and fall of the flickering flames of the fire in the large blue-marbled hearth, and seethingly Clair explained the night's comedy of errors. After her explanations, she was even more incensed.
'Odious toad! Philistine! Cowardly cad! I can't believe his nerve! His absolute gall! What does he think me? Stupid, I'll wager. Ian is the veriest pillock!' Clair roared.
'Now, now, dear, the baron doesn't think you a nod-cock. He's just underestimated your bulldog tenacity,' Lady Mary soothed, patting her niece's arm.
'Flattery,' Clair muttered.
'But true. All Frankensteins have bulldog determination. It's an inherited quality, you know.'
'Now I'm a bulldog?'
'Better than an ass, my dear,' Lady Mary said. She poured some jasmine tea into a delicate porcelain cup.
