The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (3 page)

As Jane approached Clair and the two gentlemen, she craned her neck trying to spy Frederick, the Frankenstein monster. Freddie was Clair’s adopted cousin, and he loved masquerade balls. He always dressed up in the most outlandish costumes. Since he was well over six feet tall, he always stuck out like a sore thumb, and was about as attractive.

Glancing about her, Jane could see several of the usual Frederick impersonators, with their green face paint and shoes the size of Derbyshire, but not the real thing. A pity. Jane enjoyed Frederick’s polite, childlike manners, and was never afraid of being alone with him. Even if he did have a face that would launch a thousand ships—all running away from him, of course. But, then, his mismatched looks weren’t his fault. No, that blame lay at Dr. Victor Frankenstein’s feet, since he was the one who’d created Frederick out of odd body parts. The doctor really should have been more selective in his selection of a nose and chin for his monster, and not so caught up in the reanimation of dead flesh that he overlooked looks in favor of graveyard-robbing expediency. Or so Jane had thought on one or two occasions.

As she approached her close friend, Jane noted how beautiful Clair looked tonight, what with her shining golden hair and large gray eyes. “Clair, you arrived early! I thought you wouldn’t be in Town until tomorrow,” she said.

Clair bent her head, her tawny curls bouncing. She studied Jane’s costume, listening to the voice and finally smiling as pleased recognition lit her eyes. “Jane Van—”

Jane interrupted before her friend could finish, looking at the two gentlemen standing nearby. “Paine. That’s right, Clair. Jane Paine.” Pulling her friend aside, she whispered dolefully, “Father is having me use my mother’s maiden name for the time being.”

Clair Huntsley, nee Frankenstein, arched a brow but kept her expression stoic. “Major Van Helsing is at it again, with some harum-scarum scheme, isn’t he?” she asked. “A stratagem most assuredly designed to deliver some poor unsuspecting dead man walking right into a permanent coffin?” Poor Jane, she thought, born a Van Helsing when she fainted at the drop of blood. The situation was so bloody unfair.

Her friend shrugged philosophically. “You know how eccentric he is, and how thoroughly dedicated to his vampire-slaying duty.”

“Eccentric?” Clair almost snorted. “ My family is eccentric. Your father and cousins are unhinged—like Frederick’s wrist gets at times. Always running around in their black capes, muttering rubbish, carrying huge black bags, planning some mysterious cloak-and-dagger business stuff…” Clair laughed wryly.

“And don’t forget your cousin’s fetish for crypts.” How Jane, with her love of birds and her artistic temperament, had ever come from that deranged clan was a question she had asked more than once. Jane, who was made up of fairy dreams and hopes as light as gossamer wings, and who was just as fragile—she was definitely a bird of a different feather.

Seeing her friend’s tense expression, Clair decided to change the subject. She smiled, holding out both hands, genuinely glad to see Jane. “Ian decided to return to Town a bit early. I meant to get in touch, and was going to call on you tomorrow if you weren’t here tonight at the Stewart Ball. Now I feel like some wooly-headed female. Come, let’s talk.”

Actually, Clair had meant to send Jane a note saying she had arrived in London at noon. However, her adorable husband had had other ideas, distracting her with his wolfish appetites. And what a fine distraction it had been, Clair mused dreamily—love in the afternoon with a hot-blooded husband who took her to the wild side.

Waving goodbye to the sheik and centurion, Clair took Jane’s arm and strolled her toward the punch bowls. “You look grand tonight and quite mysterious,” she remarked, pleased. In her green Egyptian creation, Jane seemed right in line with Clair’s great-aunt Abby’s tarot-card prediction.

Only last night, Clair had asked her great-aunt if her friend Asher, the Earl of Wolverton, was destined to find true love. In the back of Clair’s mind, Jane had popped up as a possible bride for the vampire, who himself had a few months ago popped up from his coffin and into Clair’s life like a vainglorious jack-in-the-box. Since that time, Asher had saved her beloved husband’s life as well as Clair’s own, creating a lasting bond between them all.

Clair had been delighted when her great-aunt predicted, “A queen in green will be the means. He lives by night, his bride-to-be by daylight. She hunts his kind, but love she will find.”

Clair had seen the threads of the two lives spinning themselves together, and she had wanted to laugh aloud with glee. Life was oftentimes filled with ironies, and what sweet irony that a Van Helsing vampire hunter would be destined for the Master Vampire of all London. Oh, how the fates would laugh when Clair’s newest plan—Plan Z, Against all Odds—was finished and done. She didn’t care one whit that the objects of her plan were mortal enemies; she had never cared for bigotry, and wouldn’t stand for it now.

“Clair?” Jane called curiously.

Clair started, then smiled looking sheepishly, adorable in her shepherdess costume. “Sorry, I was woolgathering,” she said.

“How is the wedded state treating you? You’ve certainly got a sparkle in your eye tonight. Married life seems to agree with you,” Jane remarked.

Clair grinned. She had speculated and suspected much about the things that went bump in the night before marriage. Now she knew exactly what that bumping was and how delicious it could be. Well, all’s were that ends were, she thought saucily.

“Married life is intense, interesting and infinitely wonderful,” she replied at last, chewing on her bottom lip. But that was the understatement of the year. Marriage to a werewolf was a course that never ran smoothly. From the first moment she awoke to watch her husband of less than a day transform from mortal to wolf, the fur had flown. All of it his. It would have been awe inspiring, if Clair hadn’t been so furious to find out the truth.

Why hadn’t he told her he was a werewolf, when she was knee-deep in scientific research into shape-shifters and vampires? After his startling but spectacular revelation, Clair had of course tried to yell at him in an intelligent manner—but it had been next to impossible with him howling at the moon and running around sniffing all the furniture.

“We’ve resolved all our differences admirably,” she told her friend cheerfully. “I now have a full-time lab specimen to explore to my heart’s content.” And explore she had—on many very interesting, although not so scientific, occasions. The scientific method had been forgotten in the search for primal passion’s release.

“I’m just wild about Harry Ian,” she confided happily, glad her close friend was in London so that they could share confidences once again. “He is the most remarkable man I have ever met. A jack-of-all-trades, he is strong yet gentle, tender yet passionate, intelligent yet fun to be around. He makes every day a holiday.” She loved him all sleek and muscled in his human form, and she loved him all furry-faced with his big white fangs. Her husband was like many beasts in one, especially in bed on nights close to the full moon, when he answered the call of the wild. To say their love life was passionate and wild was an understatement. “These days, my only complaint is waking up after a full moon to find fur or muddy footprints in our bed.”

“Yes, well, sheets are sheets, even if they are silk. But love is love.” Jane hugged her and smiled. “I am glad you are so well content with wedded bliss. You deserve as much.”

“As do you,” Clair responded.

Jane shrugged slightly. “Happiness isn’t easily found when one’s duty is slaying vampires,” she complained.

Noting her friend’s somber expression, Clair quickly changed the subject again. Glancing down, she remarked, “I do so admire your costume. And I imagine you are much cooler than I am in this costume.”

Jane laughed self-consciously. “I know it is not in my usual style, but I decided to be adventuresome tonight.”

Clair was surprised. This was too good to be true. “Are you perchance husband-hunting?” She knew just how deeply Jane had been hurt by two would-be suitors when both gentlemen defected. Having desired something and failed not once but twice, Jane would be beyond timid to try again.

Although she lived in her own little world, where reality changed day to day and monster to monster, Clair was astute enough to recognize that Jane was too aware of self-perceived flaws. She was not a beauty in the traditional sense of the world of 1828 London; Jane didn’t have fair skin and hair, or eyes the color of the sky. Still, she was a wonderful person and needed to know it.

“Jane, you would make anyone a grand wife. Your soul speaks from your remarkable-colored eyes, and you have a very fine character and caring disposition. There is none better,” Clair complimented.

“I’m certainly no beauty. We all know that,” her friend replied morosely.

“Ha! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Look at Frederick. Many people find him hideous to look at, but I think he is a fine specimen of many men.”

Jane Van Helsing looked at her friend and laughed. Clair was indeed good and kind. “Yes, Frederick is as fine a men as any. And I’m hunting all right,” she added. Was that an understatement! Then, realizing what she’d said, Jane resisted kicking herself. The Earl of Wolverton, whom her friend had once mistakenly believed to be a werewolf, was Clair’s confidant now. And Jane’s blood oath prescribed saying any more about her mission.

Clair clapped her hands together. “I can’t believe it! You always told me you would never get married. I’m so happy you decided to give matrimony another chance. It can truly be wonderful if you find the one you love.” She looked delighted, scheming even.

Jane shook her head. Clair always saw the silver lining in every storm cloud. She was always hopeful. But the silver was often tucked away or absent. Jane’s own hopes had long been dead on the vine, dying a withering death as she contemplated the long years ahead. Those years were decorated in bleak shades of gray, were shadow years, spent in darkness, her precious youth wasted in haunting cemetery after cemetery, always on the prowl for those monsters who feast on blood. She would spend her life reluctantly queasy at her stomach and casting up her accounts, fending off hairy little spiders and ruining fashionable gown after fashionable gown. All to be a Van Helsing.

“I was teasing about husband-hunting, Clair,” she said when she noticed her friend’s expression. “You know I am close to becoming an ape-leader at my advanced age of twenty-three. Besides, you must remember how my only season in Town went. It was a disaster of the first order.” Jane needed to throw her friend off the trail; if Clair caught even a hint of the scent of intrigue, she might as well go home now, empty-handed except for a full flask of holy water.

“Your first season wasn’t that terrible.”

Jane gave a short bark of laughter with a hint of resignation mixed in. “Yes, it was. I was extremely plump, and my father insisted on those out-of-date sausage curls and gowns better suited for a dowager.”

“Exactly. I always thought your father sabotaged your chances. Although I never understood why. But, then, Major Van Helsing is not a man easily understood—unless it is his love of the hunt,” Clair remarked thoughtfully.

“Indeed! Truer words were never spoken. The major lives for that thrill. Foxes, birds and his prey of choice—the undead,” Jane affirmed. “My father can ride the hounds to within an inch of his life and stake a vampire to the last inch of his.”

Clair nodded thoughtfully, suddenly realizing the truth: The major probably wanted Jane to remain unmarried so that she could continue to hunt vampires and carry on the glory of the family name. Well, the major could just cry in his brandy ‘til the cows came home. Marriage was heavenly bliss, and Jane was going to get married and so was Asher. To each other. Just, neither one of them knew about it yet.

Despite Jane’s lineage, Clair knew very well that Jane would never be a danger to Asher. The girl was too softhearted. When Jane was nine, she had pulled the tail off a lizard. Clair had caught her trying to put the tail back on, woebegone and crying that she was sorry. She had only stopped weeping when Clair explained that lizards’ tails grew back automatically—and sometimes their heads, if Uncle Victor was around. Later that same day, Clair and Jane had buried the tail, complete with eulogy. Clair had been quite proud of herself, using knowledge gained from her aunt Mary’s work as a pet-funeral director and taxidermist to conduct the service.

Jane gave Clair a let-us-not-discuss-this-subject-further face, pursing her lips and furrowing her forehead. Clair did what all good friends do at one time or another and ignored her.

“Fiddle-faddle. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and love doesn’t grow on trees.” Although it might hang from them, she mused wryly. “If you’ll recall, I was a wallflower for many seasons. I didn’t think there was anyone for me. I thought I would die an old maid aunt. Although… Uncle Victor did promise that he would create a husband for me if I hadn’t found one by the time I was thirty,” Clair admitted.

Jane couldn’t help but shudder at the image.

Clair laughed. “I know! As much as I love my adopted cousin, Frederick, I wouldn’t want to be married to so many different men, even if they were all sewn together. Needless to say, it wasn’t one of my uncle’s better ideas.”

Jane agreed.

“Anyway, Jane, I am twenty-five years old and only recently fell in love and married.”

“Clair, you would have had more than an offer or two if your head hadn’t been up in the clouds. What with your supernatural studies and your bluestocking conversation, you ran most poor gents off.”

Clair smiled shrewdly. “It’s a good thing I did, or I would have missed my Ian. Speaking of him,” she said, glancing around the ballroom, “where, oh where, has my little were gone? Where, oh where, can he be?” Perhaps her husband was in the gardens, getting a breath of fresh air since the full moon was still two nights away. She shivered, anticipating the nights to come. Call it moon glow, being moonstruck or moon-mad, but Ian was an animal in the bedchamber, taking her to unheard of heights of pure pleasure. Every night was a howl.