The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

'Who could not know the great Dr. Victor Frankenstein? I attended several of his lectures during my university days in Vienna. I was quite impressed with some of his suppositions. Although some of those theories do trip into the realm of the extremely bizarre.'

'Such as?'

'The cloning of people.'

'Ah yes. One of his favorite theories. Uncle Victor believes that someday scientists will clone many things. Perhaps a goat or a sheep or even people. He also believes doctors will be able to harvest organs from dying patients and place them in people who have weak hearts or kidneys.'

Ian arched a skeptical brow.

'It is a beautiful hope for the future.'

'Hope springs eternal.'

'True. Hope and good old-fashioned hard work and research. Research my uncle is on the cutting edge of,' Clair added proudly. 'Uncle Victor is quite brilliant. Perhaps the most brilliant of all scientists alive.'

Ian nodded politely, amused. Victor Frankenstein was brilliant, but he was also a card-carrying lunatic. He was most famous for his forays into animating dead flesh—queer work which had created widespread controversy, not to mention chaos when his creation escaped and roamed the countryside, eating up blind men's food and setting fire to the Ritz after a particularly bohemian display of dancing.

Ian couldn't help cringing when he remembered that fated night. He and some of his cronies had gone to see the dancing monster the night the Ritz had gone up in flames.

Ian sighed, admitting to himself that Victor and the monster had danced a mean soft-shoe. But who else but a card-carrying lunatic would introduce a monster to the Countess of Deville and expect all to go well?

The countess was well known for her love of big men and their larger-than-life attributes, and one couldn't get much bigger than Victor's monster. The countess was also known to be rather randy and grabby. She had grabbed the monster by his assets and squeezed.

The monster, taken by surprise, had barked into the Earl of Kent, who in turn fell on the Marquis of Stoker, who in turn landed on Major Van Helsing, who knocked over both Mr. Bear and his wife, etcetera and etcetera, until the stage lights had been knocked over and the stage curtains had caught fire. It had been a typical Frankenstein fiasco. Still, Ian didn't want to hurt Clair's familial feelings.

'Yes, your uncle is brilliant. By the way, how is the monster faring?'

Clair frowned. How rude! 'We don't call him the monster. His name is Frederick Frankenstein. My uncle adopted him, you know. And he is doing quite fine, thank you.'

She crossed her fingers behind her back. She had recently gotten a letter from her uncle Victor. Silently she sent a prayer upward: Frederick, please come home. Frederick had wandered away again, and the villagers were in an uproar. Sometimes, she thought, Frederick was worse than a mischievous pup—although in his favor, Frederick was house-trained.

'You know, Frederick has really had quite a hard life, growing up as he did,' she told Baron Huntsley.

'You mean, being pieced together from different human body parts?' Ian asked.

Clair shot him a quick glance to see if Ian was mocking her, then motioned for Brooks to enter with the tea tray. 'I mean he is lonely. After all, he is the only one of his kind. It sometimes makes him rather melancholy. I used to give him pets. Once I gave him several lizards for company, when he first came to live with us.' Clair stopped suddenly, a strange look on her face.

Brooks set the tray on the table. Seeing the sad look on his mistress's face, he tried consoling her in his stiff-necked, formal way. 'Now, Miss Clair, you couldn't have known that Frederick would eat those iguanas or the fish.'

Ian coughed, trying to cover his laughter. 'Fish?' he finally managed to inquire with a straight face.

Clair nodded, pouring the tea. 'Goldfish.' Again, she shook her head. 'It seems they are a favorite delicacy of Frederick's.'

Holding up the tray, she asked, 'Cream or sugar?' Ian shook his head, taking the cup as Brooks left the room. Clair sighed, watching the butler depart. 'Well, I guess not everyone is a pet lover,' she mused sadly.

'Quite,' Ian agreed, taking a sip of tea. It was spicy. He commended himself on his excellent ability not to howl with laughter at her downcast face and outrageous statements. She was a mixture of refreshing innocence, bulldog determination, and the most outrageous habit of saying whatever came into her mind.

Still, he needed to grab hold of himself. Enough admiring of this madcap female, he had information to ferret out!

Observing that her butler had left the room, Ian went on the attack. 'Miss Frankenstein, can you tell me why you thought I was a vampire?'

She glanced up from stirring cream into her tea. 'Well, of course, Baron Huntsley.'

Ian waited with bated breath. This was one of the main reasons he had dropped by the Frankenstein house on Pelham Square, aside from getting another chance to view the delectable Miss Frankenstein.

Clair took a sip of her tea, then spoke. 'My investigations revealed that you were known to be seen only at night. You have an allergy to silver, you only wear gold jewelry on your person, and you…' She hesitated, seeming embarrassed.

'Yes?' he prodded.

'You… umm. You are reported to be a remarkable lover. In fact, a few of the women say they… umm.' Clair paused, her cheeks pink. Ian thought the color became her immensely. 'You are a lothario of the first order. Women say that they swoon from pleasure when you make love to them. These interviews, I felt, supported my hypothesis.'

'And your hypothesis would be… ?' he prodded, enjoying her discomfiture. He was a man for all seasons— well read, well fed, well bred and well bedded. He was a virile man who exuded confidence and sexuality, the latter ensuring legions of willing women gracing his bed. He was a man whom other men looked up to and whom women found irresistible.

'That you were draining their blood as you made love to them. That they fainted from loss of blood, not your great talent at inspiring all-consuming passion.'

She is an open book, Ian thought as he viewed the expressions passing rapidly across Clair's fair face. He was amused to note that they ranged from thoughtful to studious to awestruck to embarrassed—then to thoughtful interest.

'So that was your hypothesis. Now what do you think, now that you see me here this morning—in the flesh, so to speak?' He couldn't resist the tiny jab.

Clair glanced at the floor, not wanting to meet his eyes. 'Well, I guess it is possible that your lovemaking is so wild and abandoned that these women do lose consciousness. Although without scientific proof…' She trailed off, apparently lost in some conundrum of scientific bent, her mind clearly in a state of perpetual motion.

Unwittingly she spoke her thoughts out loud. 'I wonder if a scientific study would be possible? Although one would most likely have to be a master on the subject to judge it accurately.'

Ian choked on his tea. 'I would be happy to apply as your lab rat,' he said, grinning wolfishly. His nostrils twitched slightly as he breathed in her scent. Clair Frankenstein made him hunger in a fundamental way. She made him want to snatch her up and carry her off like a primitive man would, to teach her the meaning of the passion that was buried beneath her logical mind. Yes, he concluded, still waters did run deep. And with Clair Frankenstein, you might just drown if you didn't watch your step.

Clair's eyes grew round at the thought of the baron as her specimen. Oh, the charts and angles she would have to inspect, and the body of scientific evidence—the very large, very manly body of Baron Huntsley…! The techniques she could use would be invigorating and insightful and… She shifted in her chair, feeling an uncomfortable heat between her legs.

The research would not only be highly informative, she feared, but highly enflaming as well. Too enflaming, she mused, remembering the kiss of the previous night. She was treading in dangerous waters. She was becoming wild, uninhibited, wicked, wanton. Not a scientist. Who knew what she might do next? She might end up reading that scandalous Henry Fielding novel or dancing naked around her bedroom. She might start saying 'legs' in public instead of 'limbs.'

Although Lady Delia had often remarked that Clair didn't have a romantic bone in her body, Clair knew herself better. Sometimes, late at night, she would dream of that one man who was made specially for her, like a