The Reinvented Miss Bluebeard (London Paranormal 03) (9 page)

The paunchy Count Caligari took that moment to add, "Well, I must say that my wife doesn't have barnyard begrudgement, either."

Eve pinched Adam's thigh, beseeching him with quiet desperation to be quiet, dreading what awful comments would next come out of his mouth. She quickly turned to Mrs. Sigmund and the countess, knowing when to plan a strategic retreat and run for her life. Her face pink with embarrassment and anger, she nodded to the two women. "Ladies, while your husbands view two of my patients, would you care to retire to the drawing room for a glass of sherry or Madeira wine?"

"Thank you, my dear," Mrs. Sigmund replied. "A glass of sherry sounds just the thing, as I fear I am rather weary of hearing about cocks, cocks, and more cocks. If I never hear of another cock it will be too soon. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't want to see one."

Eve barely managed to suppress a gasp of astonishment at Mrs. Sigmund's candid thrust at her husband. She shook her head and said, "Teeter will lead the way, and I'll join you shortly."

Crooking her finger at her cocksure husband, she made a terse request: "Adam, might I have a word with you now?"

He nodded, a wary look replacing his devilish grin. He clearly knew he was in for a tongue-blistering. But shrugging his shoulders gallantly, he accepted the challenge.

"Teeter, if you would escort our guests, Dr. Griffin and I will be in momentarily."

Once the room was empty of everyone but Adam and herself, Eve hissed wrathfully, "If I had my cutlass I would chop you up, you misbegotten son of a sea dog! How could you imply in polite company what you did about your…" Eve sputtered to a halt. "And what about that cock-and-bull vampire story you told! Locust therapy? Ha! If you're trying to horn in on—"

Adam touched her cheek. "My poor dear, there is no reason for you to fear for your family jewels. I've brought my own with me, and they are ample."

Eve's mouth dropped open in disbelief.

"Please don't trouble your little head. Ex-pirate though I am, I'll share them with you nightly," Adam continued.

"And in the morning, too. Twice in the morning if it would make you happy." His eyes twinkled. "Anything for my sweet wife. I am not a miser; nor will I ever be. What I have is yours to enjoy whenever you wish."

Eve's face turned from a becoming pink to a brash red, her jaw muscles tightening so that she thought she might have lockjaw. How dared he speak to her like this, this wretched, wicked stranger who had forced himself into her life in a strange and dishonorable manner? Now he was spouting off about what was yet to come!

"If I don't murder you before the night is through, it will be a miracle," she hissed.

"That's no way to speak to your beloved husband."

Without thinking, she swung a hard right at him, but the man was bloody fast and she missed. His grin made her try a second time. She missed again, and he dodged back on the balls of his feet.

"I've boxed in the ring for my supper a time or two, just to let you know. I can keep this up all night—along with other, more interesting and pleasurable things," he boasted.

Eve dropped her fists, feeling foolish, frustrated, and past infuriated. "Just who the bloody hell are you? And how did you know about my pretense? My father put you up to this, didn't he?"

"Why, I'm your
husband
, my dear! Let's save the explanations for when our guests leave."

"Of all the bloody nonsense." Eve sighed. "I don't know you from Adam."

Her new hubby threw back his head and burst into laughter. "You're about to, my darling Eve. You're about to."

As the group made its way to the patients' rooms, Eve held her breath, wondering what outrageous thing Adam would say next. For the moment, he was behaving. Still, she knew better than to trust a placid demeanor, rather like the calm at sea before a storm. A tad impatiently she waited and watched, which made her even more annoyed.

"This is Sir Loring's room," she announced as they entered the large chamber where the vampire resided. A massive coffin twenty feet by fifteen lay in the center. Sir Loring, his fangs slightly exposed in his homely face, was standing beside it. Lovingly he patted some of his native soil, letting the grains run through his bony hands and into the bottom of the coffin. He glanced up, his long, lean face tense.

"Good evening, Sir Loring," Eve began, her voice quietly reassuring. "These are the doctors I brought to visit with you. Remember we discussed their visit earlier?"

Dr. Crane started to close the door, but Sir Loring gasped, dropping the soil in his hands, his writhing fingers rising to create havoc amongst the pomaded gray curls atop his head.

"Don't close it, please. Sir Loring likes a great deal of space," Eve warned. "He is paranoid about closed-in areas."

"Evidently," Dr. Crane remarked, his owlish eyes wide with interest. He stared at the coffin. "I take it that was specially made for the circumstances of his phobia? The workmanship is quite impressive."

The lanky vampire, with his slightly red eyes and long, sharp incisors, fidgeted nervously. "Yes, it is beautiful, a lovely coffin, and it's mine. You can't have it!" He flashed his fangs as an afterthought.

"We won't take your coffin; I promise," Eve remarked. She soothingly patted the vampire on the arm, while Adam took up a protective stance at her side. She glanced at him in surprise.

"Claustrophobic," Dr. Sigmund pronounced.

"Yes," Eve agreed. "Sir Loring can't abide riding in carriages and won't even go near a wardrobe."

"You are only catering to his whims" Count Caligari scoffed. "That coffin is enormous. It's more fit for an Egyptian King than this baronet. I find this placating treatment unusual and
affettivo
—pathetic. Spare the rod and spoil the vamp."

"This is not some childish whim we are talking about, Count Caligari, but a debilitating fear. Once inside a closed-in space, Sir Loring begins to shriek and lose his breath. Er, I think we should continue this discussion outside," she added coolly, noting the increasing agitation of her patient. Perhaps she had made a mistake, and these guest doctors were too much for Sir Loring's skittish nerves. She certainly didn't want to send the vampire into one of his fits.

Outside, in the dank limestone hallway, Count Caligari continued his criticism in the guise of advice. "How can you tell he loses his breath? He's undead. Perhaps you have overreacted to his fear," the count suggested patronizingly.

His question raised Eve's ire, yet she betrayed very little of her agitation. She might not have the age or experience of the Italian count, but she was nobody's fool. Still, the count's criticisms were worrisome. If the good doctors also thought her methods were unworthy, would funding be denied?

She replied with false civility, "Before he came to me, Sir Loring hadn't slept in ages. He was cranky, off his feed, and thoroughly agitated. Once he had his new coffin, he slept for four months. Upon awakening, he was in a much more pleasant mood. Less… snappish."

"Balderdash, my good woman! How will he overcome his fear if you cater to his whims?" the count asked again, peering out from behind his jeweled monocle. Before she could answer, he continued with his unsolicited advice. "The mad should never be mollycoddled, but instead punished for their transgressions. Strict punishment results in better behavior."

What a scary man
, Eve thought reproachfully. The blood had rushed to her cheeks in vexation. She felt a great sorrow for his patients; after all, one didn't throw out the vampire with the coffin.

"Hmm. I believe it is possible that Sir Loring could have a mother fixation. His need for her lost love and nurturing transformed with his vampirism into a fear of closed-in places," Dr. Sigmund remarked thoughtfully.

"Why, yes! It is
semplice
—simple, no? Perhaps at his mother's breast he felt smothered when she fed him, like a plump white pillow," Count Caligari suggested, nodding.

Eve narrowed her eyes. Wasn't that just like a man? Everything concerned breasts.

"I don't think that is the answer to why Sir Loring is claustrophobic," she said. "I think it relates to an incident in his childhood when he was locked in a closet for a day and night."

"Was he searching for his chamber pot?" Dr. Sigmund questioned. When everyone stared at him, he shrugged. "Perhaps Sir Loring has a case of coffin envy. Apparently his must be bigger than any others," he amended.

"I'll certainly take that theory into consideration," Eve replied.

She wanted to roll her eyes. If men weren't talking about breasts, they were all up about that other major concern of their lives. Men, she thought snidely, their arrogance and their strange preoccupation with that hanging appendage between their legs were beyond her. Frankly she wondered what all the fuss was about. Dr. Sigmund was way off course in thinking any sensible female would ever envy the ridiculous-looking appendage. In fact, she would rather walk the plank than have that thing sticking out between her legs, leading her about, pointing the way like a deformed compass.

"I think the massive coffin is quite ingenious," Dr. Crane remarked, clearly hoping to curry Eve's favor, and Adam found himself fighting a real urge to box the man's ears. Deciding that a bit of friendly intimidation was in order, he stepped up behind Eve and began glaring at the wereowl over her shoulder. Dr. Crane stepped back a few paces.

Oblivious, Eve smiled at Dr. Crane, and at her behest the small group walked up a slight incline to another room. She fought her annoyance, her thoughts tumbling chaotically in her brain. She was extremely proud of her work. Sir Loring had made remarkable progress since she'd started treating him. Unfortunately, Dr. Sigmund—whom she truly admired—and Count Caligari—whom she found rather despicable—both seemed less than inclined to give her work a glowing recommendation. At least Dr. Crane showed interest in and respect for what she was attempting here at the Towers.

Noticing Eve's bleak expression, Adam moved to stand near her. "My wife has been writing to me regarding her progress with Sir Loring, and I am astounded at how much better the vampire is doing. Before she treated him, he would run screaming from a room if he even saw a coffin inside."

Eve glanced askance at him. She had never written any such faradiddle to him, since she had never written to him in her life. How did one correspond with a figment of one's imagination?

Adam only winked. "Since his family makes coffins, this was killing the old family business, I must say."

Eve pinched him under the arm, and he whispered with aggrieved dignity, "There's absolutely no need for violence, my dear."

She pinched him harder, a steely glint in her eyes. But he ignored her and finished, "Now Sir Loring can not only enter a room with a coffin, but sleeps in one! My wife has worked miracles with her chimney-sweeping cures—or rather, with vampires, we call her sessions
coffin
sweeping."

"Chimney sweeping?" Dr. Sigmund echoed curiously. He studied Eve, a perplexed furrow between his brows. "Please explain, Dr. Griffin. You must relieve an old man's curiosity."

Eve's smile was brittle. Tiny slivers of apprehension flooded her, because she had no idea what this demented stranger was babbling about. Chimney sweeping? If she were one of her patients, she'd diagnose a full-blown case of hysteria.

"Oh, please let Dr. Griffin explain," she said. "He is, after all, the one who helped me craft these theories."

Adam shot her a glance. "My wife is too modest. It was her theory first."

"But you have a way with words, Adam. You tell them."

He acknowledged her avoidance with a wink, wanting to kiss her senseless. He had known Bluebeard's daughter could handle a tricky maneuver or two. He was no doctor, yet he couldn't let Eve be made to look a fool; that was why he'd spoken up. Fortunately, he was blessed with the Irish gift of blarney. "Er, well, it's like this. 'Chimney sweeping' is cleaning the mind of all the cobwebs—rather like sweeping out a chimney, only in this case we are brain sweeps. It's a repeated therapy where the patient talks all night or day, simply conversing for a long, long time."

As Eve listened, she couldn't help but be a tad impressed. This Adam character certainly had a way with words. Whoever he was or wasn't, he was quick on his feet, just like her good old da.

"I see. Then it's much like your wife's Verbal Intercourse treatment," Dr. Sigmund remarked. He gave a nod of his head, pleased at making the connection so swiftly.

Adam caught a glimpse of his wife's fleeting admiration. Even so, he felt some little demon urging him to provoke her further. He found he couldn't resist. "I know, and I must say that my wife's intercourse therapy has always aroused my interest. It keeps me up nights, I must say."

Hold steady
, Eve told herself silently;
don't fire your cannons yet
. "Lord love a duck," she muttered to herself. Boiling in oil, walking the plank, fifty lashes tied to a mast, and being fed to the sharks—absolutely none of these punishments was enough for the devious, demented deviant before her.
Just get through the dinner party and then you'll get the answers you need
, she added. Totally ignoring Adam, she marched up to the next patient's door and inclined her head toward the heavy oak. "Here we go."

All eyes swung to the door. "And this room is held by whom?" Dr. Crane asked.

"This particular patient is a werewolf who has delusions. Mr. Pryce sometimes thinks he's a common housefly," Eve explained.

"I can imagine he's quite the
desperate
housefly," Adam remarked with a strange gleam in his eye. "One night you're a four-footed wolf running free; the next you're a flying pest."

Eve knocked on the door, wishing it were Adam's fat head. "Mr. Pryce, we're here to see you. I have brought the guests I spoke to you about."

Opening the door, Eve walked in. The room was disorderly, but the others followed closely behind, their curiosity piqued.