The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

Clair shook her head. 'Ian is the ass. An unmitigated jackass of a man!'

'It's in men's natures,' Lady Mary confirmed sincerely. 'Even more unfortunately, they often bray and kick.'

'Ian's a beast!' Clair continued bitterly.

'Most men are. Have a cup of tea, dear. It will calm your nerves,' her aunt advised as she handed over the cup and nudged a plate of teacakes across the small mahogany foot table.

'He's a monster,' Clair ranted, scrambling for other names to call her betrayer.

'Don't be silly, dear,' Mary admonished, taking a sip of tea. 'He's nothing like Frederick.'

Clair rolled her eyes. 'Ian Huntsley is going to be sorry. I'll make him eat his words. He betrayed me. You just wait and see.'

On her way home from Ozzie's, she had conducted an absolutely brilliant plan. She called it Plan B, The Sting. Ian was going to get pricked by jealousy, drown in his own perfidious nectar. Clair would pollinate the Earl of Wolverton with honeyed words, buzz around him, and cloud the issue of her research. Being the queen bee, she would not get stung and she'd be able to scout out London's nest of supernatural predators. Yes, her Plan B was a masterpiece of Machiavellian planning. The idiot drone—that would be Ian—didn't stand a chance.

'I don't believe I like that look in your eyes,' Mary said. 'It generally bodes trouble.'

'Mainly for Ian. He is such a… such a… man!' Clair had run out of insults.

'And thank heavens for that,' her aunt said, patting Clair's arm again. 'Where would we be without the silly creatures?'

'In paradise.'

'And very, very lost there, I'm afraid. Now eat your scone and drink your tea. You'll feel much better.'

Clair sighed. Her aunt's recipe for curing tragedy was stuffing one's face until one felt much like one of her taxidermy subjects. But Clair wasn't ready to eat her way out of her pique. 'I would have been utterly mortified at mistaking His Grace for a warlock, except he was such a great sport. And an amazing cook,' she added as an afterthought.

'Yes, Julian was always a kind heart,' her aunt reminisced, expression melancholy.

Taking in her aunt's demeanor, Clair speculated there must have once been something between them. 'He told me to call him Ozzie, and he asked much about you,' she said.

'Ozzie, indeed. Such an undignified name for such a fine figure of a man.'

'He's rather old. I'd say at least in his early fifties,' Clair said, probing for a reaction. She got one.

'The face may age, but the heart does not. In here,' Lady Mary replied, pointing to her chest, 'in here, we're all still beautiful young debutantes in our first season.'

Hmm, Clair mused. Live some, learn some. There was more here than met the eye, she decided. 'I take it you knew His Grace well at one time?'

'My dear, you are prying.'

Clair laughed heartily. 'That too must run in the family. I do believe I inherited that particular trait from you, Auntie.'

Her aunt blushed.

Clair continued her questioning. 'Do tell. Was Ozzie one of your gentleman callers?'

Lady Mary smoothed her creamy lace nightgown, her expression one of woe. 'I knew him when I was a debutante.'

'How well?'

'Little scamp! We courted for a while. Alas, it didn't work out. He was quite the catch of the town, top-of- the-trees in his heyday.'

'What happened?' Clair was beginning to be concerned by the wistful look in her aunt's eye.

'He was caught in a compromising situation with another young girl who was making her come-out that season. They were married a week later.'

Clair was shocked. 'Ozzie has too much honor to compromise an innocent, I would think,' she said.

'Yes, he does and he did. The young girl and her mother engineered the compromise. Julian was trapped.'

Clair was upset to discover this secret anguish of her aunt. All these years, and she'd never known Mary had once been deeply in love. And apparently she still was. 'Is that why you never married?'

'I never found anyone to compare. No matter the passing of the days or years, the memory of Julian still clove to me of wondrous days of long ago.' Lady Mary stared off into the distance for a moment; then, recalling herself, she said to her niece, 'It's another characteristic of our ancestry. It seems most of us Frankensteins only love once and always too well.'

Tears sparkling in her eyes, Clair hugged her dear aunt tightly, wishing she could ease this heart long broken. 'I am so sorry. I never knew.'

'It's spilt milk now, Clair, and has been for some time.'

'I don't know. He asked specifically about you tonight, and more than once. Besides, hasn't his wife been dead for over a year now?'

Mary nodded. 'That may be, but Julian would never approach me. His honor would hold him back. He knew how badly he hurt me.'

Regarding her aunt's downcast features, Clair smiled. 'I hope you don't mind, then, because I invited Ozzie to dinner in a few days.' She hadn't, but that point could easily be remedied with a quick note on the morrow. Clair grinned. It appeared she had inherited another Frankenstein characteristic: the matchmaker gene.

Friday the Thirteenth

Of course it was the Friday the thirteenth, Ian groused. His luck had gone from bad to worse as the day progressed, beginning when he awoke to find his valet had fallen down the stairs dead drunk. This left Ian with no recourse but to polish his own riding boots. To make matters more difficult, there was not a drop of champagne in the house to put a spiffy sheen on the Hessians, since Ian's valet had finished off the last four bottles in the wee hours of the morning.

Next Ian had discovered the upstairs maid was pregnant, and that the footman responsible was suspiciously on leave visiting his deceased grandmother.

Following that, Ian sat down to breakfast to discover that the cook had burned his kippers. A few inquiries confirmed his suspicions. His valet had had a partner in crime in finishing off the champagne.

With domestic matters so grim, Ian had wisely decided it would be prudent to take a ride in the park. Unfortunately, on the way his roan horse had thrown a shoe, clipping a little old lady's shin. The early morning hours had ended with Ian being beaten over the shoulder with a reticule.

As luck would have it, his cousin Galen had been riding by and witnessed the whole affair. Ian knew well that there would be chortles throughout the Highlands when Galen went back and told the sordid tale to his brothers. All in all, Ian conceded dismally, it had not been one of his finer mornings.

But then came the icing on the cake to this unluckiest of days. Clair threw his dozen roses—he'd been trying to apologize for telling that smidgen of a white lie about the Duke of Ghent in order to protect her—smack dab in his face. Ian now sported a half dozen scratches on his cheeks from the thorns. His day's luck was staying true to form.

Lady Mary witnessed the bristling Clair and her amazing throwing arm. She then watched as Clair stormed off in a cloud of ill humor. The gentle lady tried to explain to Ian that her niece had a smidgen of temper, but then was interrupted by Lady Abby, who entered the room in one of her bizarre costumes, complete with Roman toga and grape leaves for a crown.

Before Ian could say 'Jack Frost' he was sitting in the Blue Salon listening to Abby's plans to march on Rome. He was also having a tarot card reading, for all the good it did him. The three times Ian drew cards, he drew blanks, white cards in the tarot deck. Enough was enough. Tucking his tail between his legs, Ian beat a strategic retreat home to lick his wounds and doctor his scratches.