The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (28 page)

Asher’s eyes widened in stunned shock, the image of her dancing around the room naked making his blood heat. “You’re being vulgar, Jane. And the word isn’t ‘man thing’—it’s ‘cock,’ or ‘rod,’ or ‘phallus.’ Not ‘man thing.’ That’s so demeaning.”

“So your cock is demeaned and that concerns you, but not your wife? How touching!”

“Are you practicing to be a harridan?” Asher questioned tartly. “I must remind you that the Countess of Wolverton should be more careful.”

“Why, you bloodsucking bastard. Dare you criticize my conduct when you have made me a laughingstock by your insensitivity?”

“Mind your manners, backstabber,” he replied frostily. But he couldn’t help staring at her heaving bosom, and at the pulse beating rapidly in her neck. Just a little sample, he thought as he stepped closer, in awe of her fire. She was so pretty when enraged.

“Coldhearted corpse!” Jane glowered, and she raised her hand to slap him. Asher caught her palm and threw it aside.

“Vicious vampire murderer!” he replied. And yanking her to him, he kissed her fiercely, savoring the hot spice of her lips, listening to the blood beating in her heart. His erection came to life. He wanted her—it was that simple and that complex.

Infuriated beyond words, Jane jerked away from her husband, her fists clenched, wanting to pound on Asher’s chest and at the same time to run her hands all over that smooth sweet skin. “I hope you cock up your toes,” she gasped.

Asher shuddered, trying to stem the tide of pure lust he felt. He was cocked up all right. “Thank you for your kind wishes,” he said.

“I hope you rot in your grave!” she seethed. “It’s bad enough that you ignore me all the time, but now I can add humiliation to the myriad list of your faults. And not just private humiliation, which you supply daily, but public. In front of all society. You’re nothing but a debauched fiend. And I deserve better than to be imprisoned with you for life.”

“What a charming sentiment. Now I know how you really feel. All those earlier words of wifely devotion and loyalty, they were merely words. Words without honesty. But then, why I should expect honesty from a Van Helsing is beyond me,” Asher sneered. Surprisingly, Jane’s venom hurt. He had thought his heart long frozen over.

But as he glared at his wife, he knew he couldn’t trust her. He just wouldn’t give her that power or satisfaction, for she would betray him as surely as she was a Van Helsing.

“Humbug! You wouldn’t know honesty if it bit you on the neck.” And with those words, Jane turned and fled the room, her long hair trailing loose behind her like a glorious brown-gold cloak.

Asher yelled after her, “Or staked me in the ass! Oh, sorry, you already did that!” It was childish, but no Van Helsing alive was going to get the last word on him. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Her husband’s words made Jane even angrier then she already was—not an easy feat to accomplish. But her horrid hubby did it with such polished ease. So she had made a tiny mistake and poked him in the fanny; it wasn’t the end of the world. Or even his own end,—at least, not the end of his life. It had been his hind end.

Reaching the hallway, Jane furiously realized that she was leaving her own bedchamber. Slapping her hand against her forehead, she grumbled, “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Chagrined, she stormed back inside, pointing a finger at the door and saying, “Take your stubborn distrust and your rotten, rakish, vainglorious vampire ways out of here.”

“You’re quite pretty when you’re mad.” He bowed curtly, a sardonic smile on his lips, his anger obviously simmering as he stalked from the room.

As he closed the door behind him, Asher heard the sound of glass exploding against it. In spite of himself, he laughed. His feisty little wife had stood up to him in a fine fit of temper. She was a virago, but she was his virago. And somehow the sound of the word “his” began to feel right.

Shaking his head in disgust at his momentary lapse, Asher went to find his valet. He had to impart the dangerous news he had discovered. The disappearance of so many prostitutes and Lady Veronique had him deeply concerned that vampires were the cause. Vampires with no moral concerns, no concern for the rest of the species. Vampires who drew attention to the nest in London. Asher could think of only one vampire despicable enough: Dracul. Yes, Asher’s nemesis. He must be alive and well, and living in London. Where, Asher wasn’t sure yet. But he would find out as if his life depended on it—because it very well could.

Dracul was many things, and all of them were very, very bad. The Prince of Darkness was… well, just that. There wasn’t even a flicker of light in his blackened soul. He inspired fear and terror. But most importantly, the count detested him with a burning intensity which did not bode well for any of Asher’s close friends.

Opening the library door, Asher found Renfield having his nightly brandy. Renfield glanced up worriedly at his long-time master.

“You have news?”

Asher nodded solemnly, seating himself before the fire. “It’s not good. Although, I must say that the performance I put on tonight would have rivaled Keene’s. Ferreting out information from Lady Montcrief was rather an odious task, despising the tart and her heinous betrayal as I do, but I think she doesn’t suspect my plot or her place in it.”

“Of course not, my lord. You are a master of hiding your emotions, and Lady Montcrief is vain enough to believe you just want her.”

“True, Renfield. I am a master of deception when needs be,” Asher agreed.

“My lord, the news about the Prince of Darkness?” Renfield probed.

Asher sighed. “You know, Renfield, sometimes you are such an old fuddy duddy. No joy in you at all.” But with those words, Asher began to explain what had occurred, and the information he had gleaned most brilliantly about his archenemy.

Jane hid outside. Her husband was so aminated, the sound of his voice carried out into the corridor beyond the hall where she crouched in deep shadow, listening avidly to anything she could discern.

It had not been her intent to eavesdrop. She had only meant to yell one or two more things she thought up immediately after he left—a development that made her even more enraged, having come up with such pithy and witty comebacks to his taunts after he left the room. This happened to Jane often with her father or cousins. With her cousins, she generally gave as good as she got; with her father, she remained mute. Not so with her husband. He was going to get his comeuppance tonight!

But she’d quickly discovered that Asher was not in his bedchamber changing. Knowing of the valet’s penchant for a late-night glass of brandy, she’d found him in the library with Renfield. Unfortunately the words were muffled, and all Jane heard was: “Dracul is my enemy… danger.”

Then came the useful words, which would help change Jane’s life forever: “… the Birds of Paradise Club, two nights from now. I have other places… tomorrow.”

Smiling to herself, Jane crept furtively away. So, her husband did know Dracul, possibly even where Dracul was hiding. But more importantly, her husband wasn’t on good terms with the fiendish, unprincipled Prince of Darkness. This eased her soul.

Tomorrow she would let it slip to Renfield that she was going to a dinner party at the Huntsley household, but in reality she would hide by the stables and follow her husband on his search. If tomorrow night didn’t net Dracul, then she would visit this bird club Asher had alluded to. Once inside, perhaps she could determine if Dracul was a frequent visitor. It shouldn’t be too difficult to wing it inside a bird club. After all, she was a member of the Hummingbird and Parrot Society herself; this Birds of Paradise Club shouldn’t be all that different. She was a little surprised that she hadn’t heard of the club, since she was familiar with most of the bird-watching societies of London and the surrounding countryside, but there was nothing to be done about it.

As she opened the door to her bedchamber, Jane smiled. Her father would be proud of her. She was finally taking the vampire by the fangs—and the right vampire. She would lead her brother to Dracul’s lair, and she could hardly wait to see her cousins’ faces when she and Brandon returned victorious. She could even envision her husband thanking her for ridding him of his deadly foe. He might even begin to trust her then!

Her smile grew wider. Yes, life was going to be good once all this blood and gore was behind her. Perhaps Brandon wouldn’t even need her help in the staking. Then she wouldn’t have to ruin anyone’s cape by throwing up all over it.

The
night breeze was cool almost to the point of being chilly. The day before, it had rained in London, leaving a slight smell of damp earth wafting in the wind. The rain had packed the fallen leaves into a spongy cushion, and Jane’s feet were silent as she walked. She was dressed to the nines in her fashionable ebony velvet spencer and skirt; if her wily husband did end up spotting her, she wanted to look her best.

Curling mists of gray gave the night a depressing sameness as Jane walked. She followed her husband with a natural grace from years of strict training, flowing from shadow to shadow just as she’d been taught. (This was easier said than done, loaded down with her vampire kit and long skirts.) But her training paid off, as always. She had hated her lessons when she was thirteen, hated the funny little men from the Orient dressed all in black who taught the Van Helsing children in silent stalkings and intricate swordplay. But they were worth it.

She even appreciated some of the later things she’d been taught, the weirder stuff. At age nine, her mother had made her walk with a book on her head for ladylike deportment, while her father made her walk with eggs in her pockets.

Jane smiled suddenly, remembering another of her mother’s lessons. But she already had on her best chemise and clean petticoats, just in case the night turned ugly and she was injured.

Her smile faded. There was one thing to count on with the count: He was devious. Jane knew that Dracul had slaughtered much better vampire hunters than herself. And what if he hurt Asher? she wondered. Even though still angry with Asher, she cared deeply for him. Stupid, perhaps, but true. He had stolen into her heart and someday she would steal into his—even if it killed her. But if he was hurt… ? She remembered a case where a distant cousin found Dracul’s daytime resting place. His head had been sent home in a hatbox. Shuddering, Jane knew she did not want to be face-to-face with her husband in that way.

She lifted her chin, strengthening her resolve. Asher had his wife to back him up, even if he was unaware of the fact.

Watching the gaslights dancing about the figure of her moonlit husband, Jane concentrated on pretending that she was the fog, flowing forward unnoticed. So far, she had followed Asher from his favorite club to another less savory club in the East End. So far there had been no sighting of Dracul, but she knew her husband well enough to know that he would leave no gravestone unturned.

Asher walked along the cobblestone streets, his attention on the darkness before him. Few people were out. London had begun growing quieter in direct proportion to the lateness of the hour, and no longer were merchants hawking their wares or dozens of carriages crowding the lanes. His mind was distracted… focused on Jane.

He couldn’t help but think about her, and about the way she looked last night. Her smile, rare and fleeting, had been filled with warmth for him alone. Until he had mocked and hurt her. Yet his feisty wife had borne the weight of his cruelty like Atlas. That was a rare ability in his exalted world, where everyone seemed so cruel and evil to one another.

She had called him an ass, and had been correct. He’d behaved callously to this woman who now bore his name. He shook his head with real regret. He would make it up to her. At times he found the strange tenderness growing inside him for Jane overwhelming. His plain Jane was neither plain, nor so ordinary. She might not be the usual catch of the day, but perhaps her own rare loveliness was more priceless.

What was he to do with her? He laughed, the sound harsh. He knew exactly what he wanted. He would do it from dusk until dawn’s first light, and the next night and the next one after that. If only Jane were Clair. But then, Clair didn’t have Jane’s magnificent neck or marvelous green-silver eyes. Clair wasn’t Jane.

“I’ll be double deuced,” he muttered. He was going insane. “To think, I prefer a Van Helsing to a Frankenstein!” One family created monsters, the other family killed them.

Jane hurried to catch up. All at once, Asher had turned off the beaten cobblestone street onto a gravel path with heavily foliaged trees, leaving Berkeley Square. His long legs ate up the ground, his black cape flowing behind him. Jane, with her short legs, was hard-pressed to maintain speed. Her breath came faster as she concentrated on not tripping.

Suddenly, bird song caused Jane to halt. The beautiful notes… Jane would bet her last chocolate that the bird who was warbling was indeed a nightingale. Yet how could that be? The species had not been heard in London for over thirty years.

Jane scanned the darkness, trying to discover the source of the sound. To her left she saw a white owl rise like a plume of smoke and become a faint hint of white against the glittering stars as it winged upward. For an instant she longed to fly free with it, to feel the night breeze in her face.

Scanning the tree line, she tiptoed to a stand of large oaks where the notes might have originated. Once there, she realized that the nightingale must be farther away than she’d thought.

Cocking her head and listening intently, she was disappointed when the notes suddenly vanished. Worse, Jane realized that she was alone—the bird had flown the coop, and so had her husband!

The notion of her husband flying away suddenly struck her. She wondered if that were possible. Had Asher just turned into a big rodent and soared off?

“Curses! Foiled again! He’s driving me batty,” Jane griped. She had always longed to see the transformation of a vampire into a bat. Everyone in the Van Helsing family had laid odds on which of them would be first. Jane’s name was always last. Still, so far none of the illustrious Van Helsings had witnessed the mysterious feat.