Following that, Ian sat down to breakfast to discover that the cook had burned his kippers. A few inquiries confirmed his suspicions. His valet had had a partner in crime in finishing off the champagne.
With domestic matters so grim, Ian had wisely decided it would be prudent to take a ride in the park. Unfortunately, on the way his roan horse had thrown a shoe, clipping a little old lady's shin. The early morning hours had ended with Ian being beaten over the shoulder with a reticule.
As luck would have it, his cousin Galen had been riding by and witnessed the whole affair. Ian knew well that there would be chortles throughout the Highlands when Galen went back and told the sordid tale to his brothers. All in all, Ian conceded dismally, it had not been one of his finer mornings.
But then came the icing on the cake to this unluckiest of days. Clair threw his dozen roses—he'd been trying to apologize for telling that smidgen of a white lie about the Duke of Ghent in order to protect her—smack dab in his face. Ian now sported a half dozen scratches on his cheeks from the thorns. His day's luck was staying true to form.
Lady Mary witnessed the bristling Clair and her amazing throwing arm. She then watched as Clair stormed off in a cloud of ill humor. The gentle lady tried to explain to Ian that her niece had a smidgen of temper, but then was interrupted by Lady Abby, who entered the room in one of her bizarre costumes, complete with Roman toga and grape leaves for a crown.
Before Ian could say "Jack Frost" he was sitting in the Blue Salon listening to Abby's plans to march on Rome. He was also having a tarot card reading, for all the good it did him. The three times Ian drew cards, he drew blanks, white cards in the tarot deck. Enough was enough. Tucking his tail between his legs, Ian beat a strategic retreat home to lick his wounds and doctor his scratches.
Which led him to now, when he was standing alone at the rout hosted by the Rogers family, wondering dismally how his Plan B had failed so miserably and hoping desperately to see Clair. He knew she was angry with him for his deceit, and he'd expected that, but he really hadn't expected her to be so furious she wouldn't let him explain. And to be honest, he really hadn't expected her to be able to break into the duke's domicile. He had been spectacularly wrong on both accounts.
Gloomily, he leaned against the wall. He spotted Clair flirting with a pink of the ton. As always, she was ravishing. Her hair was pulled high on her head in a Grecian knot, with floating tendrils around her shoulders, and it shone brightly in the light of a dozen candles.
She was wearing a gown of silver-blue satin interspersed with creamy lace. The lace circled the dress's hemline and puffed sleeves, and edged the deeply scooped neckline, which more than showcased Clair's splendid bosom. Ian wanted to worship at the shrine of those magnificent breasts. Bloody hell, he cursed to himself. The way his luck was running, he would be more likely to suckle a pig's tits than Clair's.
Scowling, he noted how the young buck with Clair was trying to stare down her dress. He was going to kill the stripling, and definitely planned a word with Lady Mary on her niece's risque choice of gowns.
Feeling Ian's gaze upon her, Clair looked up. She donned a mask of cool disdain and pointedly ignored him. But with lashes lowered, she observed him discreetly.
She hid a gleeful smile, silently congratulating herself on her luck. How delightful that Ian was staring at her, and from the expression on his face, he was no happy gentleman.
Yes, this was her lucky day. She had finally found the exact color of green ribbon to match her poke bonnet, which she had been searching for the past two months, and she had won ten quid while playing whist with Great-aunt Abby. She never won playing cards against her great-aunt; Clair reasoned it was because the woman spent so much time with tarot cards.
Risking another peek at Ian, who was staring at her grimly, Clair raised her chin in the air a notch higher. Yes, she mused, this was her lucky day. Ian was miserable—which he should be, the conniving, callous cad. He was a cad who had betrayed her, made her look a fool. He wasn't fit to kiss the toe of her shoe. He wasn't fit for human company. How dare he tromp on her precious dreams? How dare he make a mockery of her research? How dare he judge her aspirations to be less worthy than a man's, and then play her false? The bounder! He probably didn't share a single hope in her chest.
Brandon Van Helsing interrupted her silent ranklings. "Clair, how pretty you look tonight! Like a budding rose, picked fresh," he flattered.
Clair smiled. "My thanks, Brandon. And you look quite the man about town yourself," she praised, noting that his dark gold jacket went well with his dark brown hair. "I have written to Jane recently and am awaiting her reply."
Brandon nodded. "I hope all is well with my younger sister."
"Yes. I hope she quite enjoys her visit to Holland, although nursing the injured can be less than exciting. Still, I'm sure Jane will come back with some marvelous sketches of birds." Clair noticed a slight tightening of Brandon's jaw, knowing birdwatching was proscribed among the career-oriented Van Helsings, with their black capes, black bags, and cemetery fetishes. How dear Jane with her love of birds and artistic temperament had ever come from that deranged clan was a question Clair had asked herself more than once. Jane was truly a bird of a different feather.
"True. She has quite the talent for taking an object and making it appear to come alive on paper," Brandon remarked, thinking how his sister's bird-watching tendencies greatly disturbed their father, who would much rather Jane turn her bird-watching into vampire bat-hunting. "I will be visiting with Jane in a few days, for I am leaving for the Continent on the morrow," he stated.
Clair cocked her head, studying him. The man was on the hunt. What vampires was he tracking? "Business, or making the grand tour?"
"The tour," Brandon said, with only a slight hesitation.
Clair knew it for a lie. Rather than making the grand tour, as many of the sons of the aristocracy did—visiting museums, music halls, brothels and gaming halls—Clair would bet a quid that Brandon's tour would include cemeteries and mausoleums. "I see you take after a certain baron here tonight."
"Pardon?" Brandon asked, perplexed.
"Oh it's nothing," Clair remarked sweetly. Men could look a lady in the eye and tell such big fat lies. She wondered if it was inborn to the male nature or if they attended some class on telling fibs.
Before Brandon could respond, Claire's bosom friend Arlene Garwood joined the group. Pleasant hellos were exchanged; then Brandon took his leave. Clair gave express instructions for him to tell his sister that she was missed.
As soon as Van Helsing left, Arlene commented on Ian's and Clair's locations—far apart. "So you two haven't reconciled yet?" she asked. She kept glancing back and forth from Clair to Ian; she had heard the whole sordid tale of Ian's treachery when Clair arrived on her doorstep at the unheard-of hour of nine in the morning. "After all, he did try to explain. And he gave you those lovely roses."
"Hmmpf." Clair snorted, unmindful of decorum. "No. And I won't reconcile with him. Not yet. There's more here than meets the eye. I'll wager a monkey that Ian is keeping secrets from me. And if he thinks that his gift of roses was enough, old Baron Charming has another think coming. I'm going to show him no mercy."
"Oh no, Clair. You have that gleam in your eye. That same gleam that almost got us drowned when searching for mermaids when we were young. That same gleam that got us locked in the attic for half a day when you decided the rats there were really ghosts. What are you up to this time?"
"Nothing yet," she remarked as she dragged Arlene behind a group of large potted ferns. "Now Ian can't see us."