The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (12 page)

Besides, she owed the Prince of Death absolutely nothing. He was the unprincipled sovereign of darkness, and she was certainly no minion of his. He was a blood-guzzling creature of the night, and she got violently ill at the sight of blood. He slept in a coffin. She slept with five pillows. He bit people when he was hungry. She bit her nails when she was nervous. The only things they really had in common were their deep affections for Clair and their distaste for garlic.

No, she had no right to feel anything but revulsion for the devastatingly handsome earl. Jane knew that clearly. Asher had to be destroyed, and by her, with no mistakes.

Yet she also knew that perpetrating the damning deed would damage something inside her irrevocably.

Finally, dusty and exhausted as she was, Jane’s knack for solving puzzles came through. She had searched everywhere else, leaving only the large cellar. It had to be right. And she’d made her discovery not a moment too soon, she thought, the late afternoon rays of the sun flitting through the thick glass windows of the cellar hallway; soon the earl would be rising for the night.

Ignoring her guilt and the ugly little gargoyle that decorated the archway of the room’s large wooden door, Jane took out the large flask she’d hidden in her handbag and poured some holy water from it into a bucket. Carefully she placed the metal bucket above the partially open door, balancing it upon the perch. Jane reasoned that when Asher pushed on the door, it would spring open and cause the bucket to fall. The blessed water would then cascade down over the master vampire, melting him.

Regret flowed from her like a steady stream out to sea, and Jane fervently wished she weren’t feeling so wishy-washy about this whole watered-down affair. She was really something of a watering pot.

Already she could feel the tears in her eyes, and she was only waiting for Asher to appear. She didn’t want to view his demise, but it was only fitting. She herself should be the one to clean up the mess, not leave parts of a waterlogged vampire for Clair to deal with. Jane knew it was the least she could do after so grossly insulting her friend’s hospitality.

Hearing a noise in the other room, Jane bit her lip. Her heart pounded furiously. She hated this! She felt like a wicked witch. In her mind she could hear him screaming, “I’m melting! I’m melting!”

Hearing the slight scratching noise again, Jane called out, “Stop!”

Scurrying into the adjacent room, she quickly scanned the floor and then the door. No saturated pieces of Lord Asher were disintegrating into a pool of holy water; there was only a small mouse sniffing at some spilled crumbs along the floor. Jane was so relieved, she began to giggle like a schoolgirl. Her laughter was slightly hysterical as she glanced up at the trap still precariously perched upon the doorsill. But no, Asher hadn’t yet kicked the bucket.

Happiness filled her being. Jane felt as light as air. She hadn’t betrayed either Asher or Clair.

A noise from behind startled Jane, causing her to spin and back up. An orange-furred tomcat had sprung into the room. Unfortunately, the slight bump Jane gave the door was enough to send the holy water tumbling down, bucket and all, drenching her.

So, with a look of pure disbelief on her face, Jane stood in the doorway sopping wet, an empty bucket at her feet and a slight bump on the top of her head where the bucket had struck.

“Curses. Foiled again,” she muttered.

If she didn’t know better, Jane would swear that she had been cursed, for all the bad luck that she’d had in trying to get rid of the earl. Or maybe it was good luck. Maybe Asher had a guardian angel at his side—if vampires could have guardian angels. Could they? She rubbed her aching head. Another thing to puzzle out. When would she ever find time to answer all the questions she’d stored away for a rainy day?

Picking up the empty bucket, Jane quickly made her way to the servants’ stairs in the back of the house. She wanted no one to see her looking like a drowned cat. But just as she reached the landing, she heard the sound of footsteps behind her.

“Oh no! Please let it be anybody but him,” Jane muttered in disbelief. She turned slowly, for she was sure she recognized the booted step. Humiliated, she saw the one vampire she did not wish to see. He was handsome, dry, and most assuredly had some pact with the Devil. How else could he look so good and remain so safe?

Asher stifled a smile, his lips twitching only slightly as he took in the very bedraggled Jane and her bucket. She must have been fishing and fallen into the pond.

“Why, Miss Jane, what calamity has befallen you now? You appear to be all wet.”

“Your powers of observation are truly remarkable,” Jane snapped. Once again, the earl had caught her at her worst. She lifted her chin and ground her teeth. “And I grow excessively tired of know-it-all males.”

Then, gathering what little dignity she had left, she picked up her waterlogged skirts and carried them proudly up the steps, tiny drops of water following in her wake—along with Asher’s chortles.

“What
a wet blanket,” Asher remarked, still chuckling as he walked through the door to the guest suite he’d been given. Seeing Jane resemble a drowned cat had cheered him immensely. He was in a much better mood than when he’d previously awakened.

He was never a morning person—rather, a late sunset person. But today he had awakened with a fierce hunger, both physically and spiritually. And it was due to a spinsterish virgin with only passable looks, even if she did have a neck to die for.

As he entered his guestroom, he spied his valet, Renfield—a gaunt older man with slightly graying hair— setting out his evening clothes. The human had been in his service for over sixty years and was the perfect valet and servant. The lines on his face were a testimony to his age, experience and exasperation with Asher’s decided lack of concern regarding clothing.

Asher’s nose twitched. “Bloody hell! What’s that smell?” he asked.

“Garlic, sir,” Renfield answered. He wore an expression of disgust.

“What the hell is garlic doing in my room?” Asher grimaced. Garlic was one of the old antivampire wives’ tales that didn’t hold water. Sometimes at early sunset his kind would gather in a crowded pub for myth hour, laughing at the fallacies of vampire legends and lore. Mirrors, garlic and turning into bats were a few of the most misguided notions. But it was best to keep the legends speckled with lies. That gave vampires a leg up and out of the grave, so to speak.

Glaring at his valet, Asher raised a brow. Garlic wouldn’t hurt him, but he really couldn’t abide the herb’s smell—or even the way the silly plant looked.

“It was spread in the sheets, my lord. I took the liberty of having them replaced, but I’m afraid that, with your sense of smell, a trace remains.” Renfield helped Asher out of his coat. “Do you think someone is on to us, master?”

Asher shook his head. “No. I doubt it. This party is mainly weres and humans who are in league with them. No vampire hunter would come here.”

“Then who, my lord? Who would play such a smelly trick?”

Yanking off his breeches, Asher ripped a seam. His blue eyes darkened. “Huntsley did this. It sounds just like him. One of his bizarre practical jests.”

“Really, master!” Renfield’s tone was sharp. “Those breeches you just ripped are brand new. I just received the bill from Weston the other day. My lord, I must protest. You are forever ruining your clothing. Only three weeks ago you came home with blood soaking your cravat. I had to throw it away!”

“Yes, well, we had a bit of an orgy at the Granville estate after the will was read. Besides, I have plenty of cravats.”

Renfield stared stoically at his master. There was a long-suffering look on his homely face. “You are always splitting heirs, sir, as well you know.”

“I am a wealthy vampire,” Asher replied, stepping into a pair of midnight black pants. “What should buying clothes matter?”

Not to be discouraged, Renfield continued his tirade. “Last week you came home smelling like gypsy girls and drunken revels. Your brand-new jacket of superfine reeked. It smelled like a winery. It took four days to air it out properly.”

Asher cocked his brow at his valet, who was now fully enraged and looked like a bantam rooster flapping his wings. “The brandy-soaked jacket was not my fault,” he argued. “In fact, the lady who did the deed, a Miss Paine in the Royal Ass, is here at the party.”

“She should be boiled in oil, sir,” Renfield said. “You only wore that black superfine once.”

“My, my, Renfield. You are becoming a bloodthirsty little monster, aren’t you.”

“It must be your influence, master,” the valet replied. He helped Asher into a forest green coat that brought out the copper and gold highlights in his master’s collar-length hair. “But I quite despair that you will reach the grand old age of four hundred with any proper attire left at all.”

Asher had to agree. For centuries people had been trying to sneak up and stake him. It was quite tedious. And not only was it ruinous to his jackets, but especially trying to his undead soul, always having to watch his back against people like those fanatical nuts the Van Helsings. No vampire wanted to have to watch his back against someone trying to stick him, but most especially was it inconvenient when that vampire was at the sticking point with his mistress, which was when the Van Helsings he’d encountered invariably tried to stake him.

When the hunter became the hunted, things could get downright nasty.

“Have no fear, Renfield, I have the Midas touch in business.”

“If only you were as concerned about your wardrobe, my job would be much simpler. And I am a simple man,” his valet protested modestly.

“You, simple? Ha! Why, you’re quite the old tartar—always ringing a peal over my head and searching out exotic hiding places for my coffin away from home.”

“As I said before, sir, your influence must be rubbing off on me,” the valet replied, handing over a comb.

Glancing in the mirror, Asher cocked his head to one side to study himself, glad that the myths of vampires lacking reflections were just that. It would be such a shame to waste reflective surfaces on other people’s beauty and not his own. Brushing a hand through his hair, he reminded himself that he wasn’t getting older, just better.

“I promise I will be careful of my clothing tonight, Renfield,” he told the valet. “After all, I promised Clair that I would take only a small snack per night, not a full meal. And only with the snack’s permission. Which leaves me only shape-shifters to choose from, which shouldn’t be messy. Although why Clair is worrying about me hurting her guests is beyond me. I would only take a drink or two from them, while the werewolves here would eat them whole.”

Renfield shook his head, remaining silent as he finished tying the oriental, a new knot, for Asher’s cravat. “Done, my lord.”

“You are quite the artiste,” Asher acknowledged, stepping closer to the mirror and studying himself. He shuddered momentarily at what he glimpsed in the mirror. Was that a gray hair?

Examining the thick curl by his ear, he noted it was merely very light blond. He shook his head. He was way too young, barely out of his fledgling years, to be set upon by the signs of aging.

“You don’t think I am getting wrinkles, do you?” he asked. Asher examined his eyes and forehead.

“Wrinkles on your face, my lord? Why, they wouldn’t dare,” Reinfield replied benignly.

Asher gave a curt nod. “Then, how do I look? I want to impress Clair and irritate Huntsley,” he added slyly.

“Like a god. Zeus come down from Olympus,” the stiff-necked valet answered.

“Of course I do,” Asher agreed thoughtfully. But a hint of worry filled his words. That wasn’t a silver hair, was it?

“Behave
yourself, Asher,” Clair admonished gently as she watched him watch her guests—or, more to the point, or points, the pulses beating in their necks. Some guests were dancing to the gentle strains of a waltz, while others formed colorful groups in conversation. Asher was avidly attending the latter, his predatory instincts clear.

“Don’t I always?” he asked, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Clair shook her head, then switched her attention to her husband. Ian stood off to the right talking with Mr. Warner, the wereboar. Her husband and Mr. Warner were old friends, often running wild together under the full moon. Ian hunted rabbits, while the wereboar generally searched out truffles. The chocolate kind. And he’d break into Mr. Godiva’s Chocolate Emporium to get them.

Clair gave her husband an adoring look, then returned to Asher. “You must behave, or I’ll rethink my opinion of you,” she warned.

Asher smiled. “De mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

Clair stared at him blankly for a moment. “Hmm, let me think. My Latin is not quite what it used to be.” Finger to chin, she thought for a few moments, then suddenly smiled. “ ‘Of the dead, say nothing but good.’” Pleased with herself, she laughed, the sound like tinkling bells. “My husband would say that with you, Asher, it’s not always possible.”

Asher grimaced. “What sort of whimsy is this? All these lovely beating pulses. All that lovely blue blood just beneath the surface, waiting to be tasted. And I’m available to offer my services,” he teased, hungrily watching the delectable Lady Daffney waltz by, her pale neck beautiful, her low-cut gown revealing two of her ripest assets.

Clair struck him on the arm with her fan. “Only a little snack while you are here at Huntsley Manor—no feasting. And it must be done voluntarily on the part of the donor. With no vampire tricks like mesmerizing. Remember, you promised.”

“It will present little difficulty. I usually have the women neck and neck, in line for my attentions.” Asher smiled lasciviously.

Clair laughed again at his conceit. “I wonder if you will ever change your good opinion of yourself. How do you fit that monstrous ego of yours into your coffin?”

Lifting her hand to his lips, he gave her a quick kiss, savoring the taste of her skin. “Come share my coffin some dawn, and I’ll show you just what fits into where,” he teased.