Here's one for those who read it light for sheer delight. The author has a special way with stock characters. In Lord Tarquin Duncatto, we have the Scotch ""peasant aristocrat"" -- with 30,000 acres, loyal servants and a bad case of male monopause. Make it the Christmas season with a big house to fill and put the poor man down next to some shabby genteel ex-Austrian aristocracy, the Grafin Gloria (oh! vampishly intriguing) who comes equipped with a ""jelly bottomed"" monster son. In his rented/demented Castle Baltigg, Lord Duncatto has a mysterious American tenant who is directing the construction of a modern Frankenstein which is smoothly undetectable in the electronic/cosmetic 20th C. This brings on an associate of James Bond, one Tiger Clyde--particular with whiskey, satyr-ic with women. Duncatto, under the acid spray of his hormones and the memory of his warrior Scot heritage conducts a small war and narrates this in the tersest of ""Old Boy"" prose. A tickler for all unguarded ribs. By the author of Geordic among others.