The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (9 page)

“I. know it’s not easy for you young men”—the major stopped and rephrased—”you young ladies— young lady—but you must go forth and battle the enemy. It takes stern courage, and keeping your senses sharp and your wits keen. But you can do it. For this war, this hellish war, is a necessary evil to stop a truer evil from spreading across the world. When you look in your mirror tonight, think brave thoughts. Know that you fight for the souls of the living. Know that you fight a war for the world, with our battlefield, the earth. I know there will be casualties—”

You can say that again, Jane thought sarcastically. Her father’s wars were hell. She’d already lost her peach gown to a tree, and her Cleopatra costume to a mud puddle. She’d endured a horrid headache from overindulgence in brandy, and she was bruised and sore from her fall from the tree. Yes, there had been casualties. She reluctantly turned her attention back to her father.

“—But fear cannot keep you from doing your duty. I know you will succeed. So, tallyho, men. Tallyho!” the major voiced gustily and listened to the echo of his own voice.

“Yes, war is hell, men,” he continued, “but somebody has to fight it. Why, I remember a vampire hunt in 1795, when I was just a young man. I had gotten accidentally locked in a crypt with seven bloodsuckers. Seven, and I had only three stakes to my name. Luckily, I carried my model six with me that night.”

Jane rolled her eyes. The 1795 vampire story again? She wanted to giggle at the thought of her father trying to stake a vampire with a model six stake. The #6 was huge and difficult to wield, though it could take down an elephant. Happily, there were no such things as vampire elephants. However, there were vampire demons, which were what the model six had been designed to slay. But to use the #6 required two men to shove it into the demon’s gut area where the demon’s heart was located.

Jane knew the ending of this tale. Her father had exposed most of his foes to sunlight. Still, she raised a brow. The last time she had heard the 1795 hunt story, there were five vampires. The time before, there had been four. The story kept getting fishier and fishier. The number of vampires grew bigger. It was a whale of a tale her father was telling now, with more vampires than he could fry.

Suddenly she heard a loud thwack to her right. A small arrow-stake was embedded in the wall next to a painting.

She gasped, her eyes searching around for the shooter. Her grandfather, Ebenezer, was squatted down behind the green divan, his bow in hand. She shook her head. He had almost shot a Van Dyck! Like a governess reprimanding her wayward ward, Jane held out her hand, determinedly demanding that her grandfather surrender his bow. The wiry old gentlemen glared at her fiercely, a look of wounded dignity on his face and at odds with his silver hair, which was sticking straight up.

Jane sighed, feeling like she was standing before a dike, trying to plug up all its leaks with her fingers. But the more she tried, the more holes opened. Soon she wouldn’t have enough digits. Of course, she could always go to Clair’s uncle Victor and ask that he add a sixth finger to her hand.

Jane’s grandfather, watching her warily, shuffled backward, still in his crouch.

“Give me the bow, Grandfather,” she said.

“Humbug, Jane. I almost got the sneaky devil, but the clever little imp ran in here. So, you see why you can’t have it, my dear—I have to get the nasty little bloodsucker.”

Her grandfather must mean some vampiric mouse he was chasing. Fortunately she knew there were no such things as vampire mice, just as there were no such things as vampire elephants. “I can’t have you shooting up the house,” she said. Her headache was growing’ worse. She wanted to scream.

Her father stopped reminiscing about the good old staking days, and brusquely ordered, “Come now, Father. Let us put up the bow and arrows. It’s still too light for the little buggers to be out of their tiny little coffins.” He beckoned pompously to his sire.

Ebenezer stood, unrolling his long form and shaking his head side to side. “While Van Helsing’s away, the mice will play.”

“If you will give me the bow, Grandfather, I will take a watch for you. I know you’re tired and you need your rest,” Jane cajoled.

The old man smiled, at last handing her the tiny bow and arrows. Then he followed his son, the major, out of the room. Briskly he turned and saluted, confirming what Jane knew to be true: “I shall return.”

Jane went over to the wall where the Van Dyck hung and yanked the arrow out. She wasn’t even plugging the holes in the dike any longer; she was already drowning.

Jane
arrived late in the afternoon at the Huntsley manor, in a state of high anxiety. This ill-conceived plan of her father’s to hunt the Earl of Wolverton at her friend’s house party was a huge mistake. At the very least, it would likely ruin another of her gowns.

Jane felt like a traitor, wondering how she could betray Clair by staking the handsome earl in her home. Yet how could she devastate her father? She had to do one or the other.

Peering out the carriage window, Jane was the picture of a forlorn miss. Wearily, she sighed and looked around. It wasn’t easy being a Van Helsing, spending your nights in cemeteries, searching for red-gold eyes in every darkening sky.

“Can I do what I’ve set out to do?” she asked herself. She was almost tired of asking. “It’s all so confusing,” she went on, knowing that with the Earl of Wolverton, she had bitten off more than she could chew. She only hoped she was more than he could chew, too.

She sighed. Would she ever be able to do things her way? These questions twisted round and round in her mind while the carriage bumped along, driving her to distraction. Not to mention giving her another slight headache. Her maid, Lucy, hadn’t helped matters by continually complaining of road sickness on the journey. Fortunately for Jane, Lucy was now asleep.

As they neared their final destination, the Huntsley country estate, Jane could feel the carriage slowing down and turning up the dirt lane to the large manor house. Her maid moaned.

“We’re almost there, Lucy. Just another moment or two,” Jane consoled her grimly. Yet how could the maid complain? She wasn’t the one with death and betrayal to face. Jane wasn’t even sure how exactly she would dispatch the devastatingly handsome Prince of Darkness.

As they approached the manor, Jane surveyed everything with an artistic eye. The sun was slowly sinking behind the rolling hills, casting warm shadows on the estate’s massive manor, which had twining vines of ivy curling against its sides. Lush green gardens and dark forested wood lay tangled beyond, boasting flowers of every hue and birds of every manner. On the way up the long and winding drive, Jane spotted a hawk circling high in the clouds, and several peacocks strutting about the lawn, magnificent in their finery. Swans dotted the distant lakeshore, and several brown wrens flew above. Huntsley Manor was a beautiful spot, a wild estate, barely tamed and thus fitting for a werewolf and his bride.

Disembarking her carriage, Jane dusted herself off and walked up the long front staircase, her nerves stretched taut. Fear sat heavy in her stomach. She was announced by the butler and, after a brief coze with Clair, was shown to her room where she could dress for dinner and thankfully compose herself.

For dinner Jane chose a pale green gown of shimmering silk with tiny beads at the hem and a rounded neckline. The color brought out the greenish highlights in her eyes. Studying the mirror, she sighed. “I just look like me,” she complained. Just once she would like to look in the mirror and see a ravishing beauty.

Making a face at herself, Jane accepted defeat. She was what she was, and tonight she would set in motion her father’s plan to stake the earl. Lucky for her, the earl wasn’t aware of her repeated attempts on his unlife. She even felt fairly certain he wouldn’t recognize her as the demented, tipsy woman in the Cleopatra mask at the ball, so all she had to overcome was her own plainness.

Shaking her head, she closed the door to her guest room and said, “I can’t fail again.” The sly jeers of her cousins about the vampire with the erection would be peanuts compared to the big white goober of another bungled attempt—and her father had promised to tell them.

Putting on a patently false smile, Jane went to the green salon, where the other guests of the house party were having a drink before dinner. “Et tu, Brutes,” she murmured as she entered, feeling already like a traitor. She had been a puppet, a bird watcher, a poet, a pawn and the queen of fools, but never had she really been a back-stabber or a bad friend. Yet, what choice did she have?

She could hear bits of scattered conversation. It appeared that Lady Veronique had disappeared. How strange. Perhaps she had run away with some lover. Jane nodded. Yes, that was probably what had happened to the merry-making widow.

Clair hurried over to greet Jane, causing Jane’s guilt to run amok. “You look divine,” Jane said sincerely.

Her friend’s tawny hair shone gold in the soft glow of the chandeliers. Her gown was a deep violet with a square bodice, cut rather high and definitely de trop.

Clair noticed Jane’s glance at the bodice’s unfashionable neckline, and said, “Ian won’t let me wear anything lower.” She laughed. “He seems to have some mad annoyance with men staring at my breasts.”

Jane giggled. “Well, the dress is lovely, even with its high neckline.”

Clair shook her head. “If Ian had his way, I would be running around with material up to my chin.” She smiled a secret smile, clearly thinking about her husband. The couple were clearly in love.

“Let me return the compliment, Jane,” she said. “You too look lovely.”

“And you were always a bad liar, but the thought is well meant,” Jane replied.

“Jane, Jane—what shall I do with you? You are in fine looks tonight. Come, let’s meet our guests. Tell me whom you don’t know.”

As Clair introduced Jane to various members of the party, Jane kept her eyes open and her senses alert. Where was the earl?

“Jane, you must meet one of Ian’s cronies—Mr. Warner,” Clair said as she tapped a man on his rather stout arm and subsequently introduced Jane to both him and the woman next to him. “And this is his fair wife, Mrs. Warner.”

Jane noted Mr. Warner, a tall but portly man, whose clothes, though fashionable, seemed to be in need of considerable attention. She couldn’t help but wonder if his valet had indulged in one glass too many of the claret.

His wife, his bride of only a few weeks, was a stout woman with raven black hair, and she was her husband’s direct opposite in manner and dress. Still, she clearly adored her porcine spouse.

Before the introductions, Clair had confided happily that she’d gotten the lucky couple together. What she hadn’t confided was that Mr. Warner was a wereboar. But, then, Clair didn’t need to tell Jane what Jane could figure out for herself. Shape-shifters gave off a heat energy that Jane could usually pick up. Despite her father’s views against the mixing of species by marriage, most Van Helsings could spot a were creature a foot away. It was due to shape-shifter blood. Although the major pretended the family line was pure, their small amount of werelioness blood sensitized Van Helsings to the supernatural creatures around them.

Jane was next reintroduced to Lord Graystroke and his bosom companion, a Mr. George, whose diminutive appearance and curiosity were legendary among the ton. In Jane’s opinion, Lord Graystroke remained the most interesting person she’d ever met. His dark brown hair had been lightened by his many years in the sun to the color of wet sand. And his massive shoulders were impressive. Jane decided they were probably due to all that swinging around in trees he reputedly did.

She suddenly wondered if Lord Graystroke was a wereape, and if that was why he’d lived among the primates of Africa for two decades. It certainly would explain all that monkey business. Yet, she didn’t get the tingly, heated feeling she usually experienced around a shape-shifter. At last she decided Lord Graystroke was not one of the members of the supernatural world—at least, not by birth.

Lord Graystroke was polite to Jane; yet his eyes were distant and there was restlessness about his person, as if he would rather be hanging around in the jungle than standing stoically, sipping bourbon here, Jane decided. He was the epitome of the well dressed and polite English gentleman, and had slipped only once in the introductions. He had almost said, “I am Tars.”

Jane had gently interrupted, saying, “I am Miss Jane.”

Before further introductions were made, Clair confided to Jane that Lord Graystroke was going through a difficult time. Tonight he had a chip of respectability and familial duty on his shoulder, rather than his orange chimp, Cheetah. It was an adjustment.

Jane understood only too well. As she’d noted before, Lord Graystroke was having to pretend to be something he was not.

Suddenly Clair grabbed Jane’s arm and turned her toward the door. Neil Asher, Earl of Wolverton, had just entered the room. “See there, Jane?” Clair asked, tilting her head in the man’s direction. “The earl has arrived.”

Jane’s breathing deepened. “He’s very handsome,” she admitted softly. Tonight the earl was wearing a deep blue velvet coat with a pale blue waistcoat. The color brought out the vampire’s marvelous eyes, which appeared to glow with an icy blue fire as he made his way toward her.

Staring at Clair Huntsley, Asher twitched his lip up in a semblance of a smile. As always, she was breathtaking. His cold, dead heart beat warmer. He wanted to share the moonlight with her and hear her pulse pounding like a drum as it pumped rich blood throughout her marvelously decadent body—which Ian Huntsley, lucky wolf that he was, owned lock, stock and smoking hot barrel.

As he made his way toward her, the highlight of this provincial house party, Asher thought back over the centuries. When he’d been a hundred and seventeen, it had been a very good year—for female fledgling vampires. They had hunted together in the soft summer nights, and hidden in fine mausoleums in the daylight.

When he was a mere two hundred and twenty-one, it had been another good year—for Parisian courtesans with their perfumed hair and their white flesh bare.