“Do you suppose she’ll heed your advice this time?” He nodded toward the door that had just closed behind the patient.
She smiled and untied her apron. “I do believe she might. Consistent nighttime pain when she needs to sleep seems to have worn her down. The tea makes all the difference in the world if she would only drink it.”
“Are there further instructions for me, Miss Hughes?” Nora, the office ’ton, asked from the reception desk.
“If you’ve finished labeling the new files, I have nothing further. Dr. MacInnes?”
“No, the cleaning service will arrive in a few hours, and if everything is ready for morning, you may dock in your charger, Nora.”
The ’ton tipped her head and left the room, efficient but not nearly as advanced as Eugene. Hazel also left the reception area, saying over her shoulder, “Eugene is in my office perusing a tailor’s catalog.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sam shook his head. “Is he still looking for a new uniform?” He followed Hazel to her office, where he found Eugene standing next to her desk and making notes in a book that bore pictures of trousers, shirts, vests, and coats. “Eugene,” he said firmly. “You have four full sets of clothing and are never at a loss for a clean ensemble.”
As a ’ton, Eugene was of average height and weight, with dark hair and eyes, and his pleasant features could truly be called “handsome.” Now, he frowned. “If you are content with your valet resembling a working-class assistant, then I suppose my current wardrobe will suffice.”
“You are a working-class assistant.” Sam gestured to Eugene’s nondescript black trousers, durable jacket, and white shirt. “Your appearance is perfectly respectable.”
Eugene looked at Hazel with a flat expression and set the catalog on her desk. He capped his fountain pen and tucked it into his interior jacket pocket, then straightened his lapels. “One could hardly ask for anything more than respectable. Shall I bring the carriage ’round, then?”
Hazel snorted but covered it by clearing her throat and moving out of Eugene’s path.
“Yes, Eugene, and make haste, please.” Sam looked at Hazel once Eugene left the room. “He is trying my patience.”
Her lips twitched, and she scratched the side of her nose. “He is dreadfully entertaining. You cannot deny his brilliance as an assistant.”
It was true. In surgical procedures especially, Eugene was worth his weight in gold. His processors allowed for him to gain additional knowledge through experience, and the ’ton had learned to anticipate Sam’s needs before they arose. “No, I cannot deny it. It is a steep price to pay, however.”
She smiled. “Isla says the same thing, or rather, Daniel does. Samson is a brilliant first mate, but subtly insolent.”
“When will they return from Port Lucy?”
Hazel folded her apron and set it in the bin to be laundered, and smiled. “Next month. With Lucy and Lord Blackwell also on holiday, I find myself quite friendless.”
Sam leaned against the doorframe, reluctant to leave. “You are the sort of person who will never be friendless, Hazel Hughes. In a related vein, I have it on good authority that Lady Hadley’s final ball of the season is this evening, and that you have received a coveted invitation.”
Hazel scrunched her brow. “You did hear me say that my friends are out of town, did you not? I would be entirely out of my element without them. Besides, those in your circles invite me only to court the favor of the famed Dr. Isla Cooper Pickett and Lady Lucy Pickett Blake. The invitation for tonight’s event was sent before the esteemed hostess realized my friends would be unable to attend.”
Sam frowned. “You’re uncomfortable at such social events?”
She leaned against her desk and folded her arms. “Do not dare to suggest you are unaware of the chasm between your status and mine.”
He looked at her carefully, but her expression gave nothing away. “I do not ever think of it. I suppose I view us as . . . colleagues. Employer and employee.”
She nodded.
“Friends, I should think.” He certainly hoped she felt the warmth of friendship with him. “As it happens, I also have an invitation to Lady Hadley’s ball, and my mother insists I attend. If I must go, so must you.” He paused. “Unless you are fatigued, which, given your injuries this morning—”
She sighed and dropped her arms, bracing her hands on the desk by her hips. “I am not fatigued, and the head pain is nearly gone. The Gladwells, however, are hosting a book discussion this evening.”
Of course. He’d seen her at intellectual and academic gatherings, soirees and events that embraced a variety of people and stations. Professionals, mostly, who worked for a living. Sam had a foot in both worlds. His father was a Scottish textile merchant with more money than nearly anyone but the queen—and thus held society’s reluctant respect though he had made, not inherited, his money—and his mother was the British daughter of a viscount. After spending a year of military service in India, he’d returned home with a simplified mind-set. Securing society’s good graces had fallen to the bottom of his priority list. His parents’ friends and associates thought him daft, but his resolve to continue his career as a surgeon only solidified.
He had the advantage of being a man who could take high society or leave it. Hazel had no such advantage. In fact, because of her association with Isla and Lucy, she’d been elevated to a strange place somewhere on the fringes. She never showed discomfort at society events, certainly hadn’t voiced it, and he’d not considered she might be uncomfortable. Rather obtuse of him, really. He had grown fond of her in the year since that fateful evening at Blackwell, and he admired her greatly. Anything beyond that friendship, however, was inappropriate because she was his employee. Still, he’d thought he knew her relatively well. Apparently he’d missed some cues.
He tried again. “The Gladwells will have their book group again next month, but this is the last major event of the Season. I am dreading it, and misery loves company, so you must attend. We will have a drink and some refreshments, bow and curtsy to those we must, and then wash our hands of it. I know for a fact that your mother would rather you make a showing at Lady Hadley’s than the Gladwells’.
She rolled her eyes. “My mother is easily impressed with shiny objects.”
“Your mother was my mother’s favorite confidante, still is.”
“Because she is highly strung enough to be entertaining, but not so much as to lock away in Bedlam.” She sighed. “She means well, and I love her, but she doesn’t understand certain events are quite . . . awkward.” Hazel looked at the toe of her boot and tapped her foot for a moment before stilling and looking back at him. She rarely fidgeted. “You belong there. I do not.”
He felt an ache in his chest, and he absently rubbed it with his fingertips. “The last thing I would do is see you uncomfortable, Hazel. Forgive my insensitivity.”
She waved a hand and laughed, but it lacked true mirth. She crossed the room to the coat-tree, where she retrieved her outerwear. “I shall make a showing this evening at Lady Hadley’s, as a gesture of gratitude for her gracious invitation—and for the fact she did not rescind the invitation when she realized my friends of consequence were away. Then, I’ll go to the Gladwells’. That way I shall conclude the evening on a pleasant note and still be home early enough to be rested for tomorrow morning. We all need good sleep, after all, and mornings are unpleasant enough for me as it is.”
He looked at her carefully. She was rambling, something else she rarely did. Hazel was well and truly uncomfortable, and he was torn between sympathy and a tender sort of humor. His lips lifted, but he kept any comments to himself, instead holding her cloak for her as she slipped her arms into it. A few of her golden curls had fought their way free of her hair pins and caught on her collar. He lifted the strands, rubbing them between thumb and forefinger and marveling at their softness.
; The last time he’d had that mass of hair in his hands, he’d been afraid for her life. He released the curls, which fell in a spiral down her back. Hoping she hadn’t noticed his presumption or the inappropriate intimacy such a gesture implied, he shoved his hands in his pockets and backed against the doorframe while she secured her hat atop the silky mass—barely wincing as she bumped the knot on her head—and pulled on her gloves.
“May I drive you home?”
She smiled and shook her head. “My thanks, but no. I’ve some shopping to do first; I’ll catch a hack.”
“You’ll take care, of course?”
“Of course. Isla taught me to shoot, and I carry my ray gun in my reticule.”
He choked on a laugh. “You do?”
“I have a permit.” She frowned at him. “I am a rather excellent shot, as well.”
“I would never doubt it.”
The front door opened, and Hazel stepped into the hall to peer around the corner. She looked back at him with a grin. “Your ’ton and his respectable clothing are ready to take you home.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “At least let us drop you at your shopping destination. The evenings grow dark earlier, now.”
“Dr. MacInnes, I manage quite well on my own every day. I have for a year.”
“Your employer has not done well by you.” He meant it sincerely. He’d been so consumed with work, keeping his mind busy so he wouldn’t dwell on gruesome memories of battlefield surgery and the soldiers he’d tried—but failed—to save, that he’d not paid much attention to those around him. He had gone through the motions, maintained his charm, put on a bright face, but now it felt as though he’d been drifting along in a fog.
“My employer has allowed me to be a woman of independent means.” She tipped her head to him with a smile, and he returned it, regretting the loss of her company before she even left. “You are generous with both salary and opportunity, and I am grateful.” She opened the door and added on her way out, “I shall see you tonight at Lady Hadley’s. I am already holding you accountable for my miserable time.”
He stopped himself from calling after her to save a dance for him, and instead lifted a hand in farewell.
He walked through each room to be certain the lights were switched off, gathered his work satchel, and his hat, coat, and gloves. He locked the front door and stepped to the curb, turning back as he always did to admire the nameplate next to the entrance. Doctor Samuel MacInnes, Surgeon. He had worked long hours and sacrificed sleep and entertainment to achieve his goals. Now that he was finally, truly settled, he might turn his attention to other facets of life, even consider the benefits of sharing hearth and home.
He climbed into the carriage, and Eugene closed the door behind him and then guided the automated carriage into traffic.
The trouble with entertaining such domestic notions, however, was he couldn’t think of a single woman in his social sphere who piqued his interest. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Hazel’s comments about the differences in their stations.
She was right, of course. She was trapped in her odd circumstances as effectively as was he. His only advantage was that he’d already bucked convention by pursuing a career when he could have easily lived on the family money, taking up a few charitable causes to justify a gentleman’s lifestyle. Nobody expected him to fall in step like the rest of his acquaintances and marry a woman of good breeding and acceptable status for convenience or title or for the sake of checking off the next item on the list. He’d always chafed at the notion that he was not fully in control of his life. No, his choices were his own to make.
He wouldn’t go looking for a wife; he would allow events to progress naturally. Perhaps he might attend social functions with a broadened perspective, be open to the possibility that he was ready to consider sharing himself with someone who would interest him.
Friendship, he decided, was an element he wanted in a potential companion. Someone with common interests and a sense of humor. A subtle sense of humor, an intelligent wit. Someone who could grasp nuances and see that people were often quite ridiculous. Someone who worked diligently toward her own goals, who found satisfaction in helping others, who looked beyond herself and saw the world for the amazingly complex feast it was. Someone who cared that there was a world beyond London worth exploring, who kept an open mind to possibilities. Golden hair, perhaps, and a good head for fashion might also be pleasant.
He looked out the window at the rapidly darkening city and hoped Hazel concluded her shopping quickly. He should have insisted that she allow him and Eugene to see her safely home after work. The home she shared with her mother was in a smaller section of town on the outskirts, quiet and respectable, but a world away from his townhome on Charrington Square. He wouldn’t mind the extra time it would require if it meant keeping her safe. The city was full of miscreants who would find her easy prey, ray gun or no.
Rowena Hughes had raised Hazel by herself since Hazel’s infancy when Mr. Hughes contracted an illness and passed away. Rowena was an exceptional seamstress and had taken in projects, quickly making a name for herself among some of society’s more exclusive households. Sam’s mother had been captivated by Rowena’s odd charm and what she referred to as her “quirky” personality, and the two had been friendly acquaintances for years.
In some manner, Sam felt he was responsible for Hazel’s accident last year at Blackwell. Rowena had told Lady MacInnes that Hazel was most certainly a Medium, claiming something vague about her blood or birthright. So, when Miles had told Sam he needed someone to communicate with the lingering ghost of his sister, Sam had suggested Hazel. Miles had sent for her, and the rest had unfolded disastrously. The only bright spots, he supposed, were that now he and Hazel worked together, and Hazel had formed a warm friendship with Lucy Pickett Blake.
He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. The thought of freshening up for a formal social event was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d promised his mother, though, and figured it was the least he could do since he’d not yet come close to providing her with a daughter-in-law and grandchildren. His elder brother, Scott, had done his duty, adding to the family pedigree chart with a wife and, subsequently, three precocious little girls. His mother dropped subtle hints at Sam, however, and he dreaded the day when they became less than subtle.
Eugene pulled alongside the curb in front of Sam’s house, but remained in the driver’s seat. They’d argued about it all week. Sam insisted he could climb out of the carriage on his own, so Eugene should remain in place to park the vehicle in the carriage house around back. Eugene had told him he was happy to act as driver, but a man of status should never perform menial tasks, and the neighbors would surely find him substandard if Sam didn’t allow him to conduct his duties properly. Now, as Sam stepped down and approached his front door, he glanced back at Eugene, who pointedly did not look at him as he drove the carriage away with his nose in the air.
Sam’s ’ton butler opened the door, took his hat, coat, and gloves, and said, “You have a visitor in the parlor, sir.”
“Oh?” Sam entered the parlor to find Oliver Reed, a detective-inspector with Scotland Yard, who had also served as Sam’s captain during their India service. Sam smiled, surprised, and crossed the room to the sidebar. “Wasn’t expecting you today, Oliver. Would you care for a drink?”
“Yes.”
Sam looked over his shoulder as he poured two glasses. “Must be something serious for you to actually accept, Detective-Inspector.”
Oliver shook his head and rubbed his eyes, taking a seat near the hearth. Sam grew concerned. Oliver was professional, steady, and had nerves of steel. He rarely allowed anyone a glimpse of weakness, emotional or otherwise.
Sam handed his friend the glass and raised both brows high when Oliver tossed back the drink in one swallow. “Well, now I am concerned.”
Oliver looked at the glas
s for a moment and then at Sam. “I am going to kill Emmeline O’Shea.”
Sam took a seat opposite Oliver. “What has she done now?”
Oliver sighed. “She intercepted a message meant for my office concerning activities across the northern border.”
Sam blinked. “Activities?”
“I am not at liberty to share details. But she has evaded me for three days, and the powers that be are growing angrier by the hour.”
“One would assume the matter relates to the Predatory Shifter Regulations Committee.”
Oliver lifted his empty glass in acknowledgment.
“You’re certain she has it?”
Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. “A reliable source believes she does. The chief inspector now questions my ability to objectively investigate this issue, as it may have ties to my brother. The case may be reassigned.”
That surprised Sam. Oliver was the best in the business, an undisputed expert at investigation. He worked day and night to uphold his reputation, and he had an uncanny ability to intellectually insert himself into a criminal’s mind to reason through their motivation and intention.
Sam studied his friend, realizing that in all the years of their acquaintance, he’d never seen Oliver so outwardly frustrated or affected. One year ago at Blackwell Manor, Sam, Oliver, and Daniel had helped Miles defeat an enemy, but in the process, they’d learned that Oliver’s estranged brother was a vampire who was climbing through the ranks of the criminal underworld. Oliver had grown quiet, introspective, and had never discussed the matter with his friends. Now, Sam realized Oliver must be pursuing elements of a crime that somehow involved his brother, and Emme O’Shea stood between Oliver and pursuit of his goal.
“I don’t imagine you’ve ever had a case reassigned,” Sam observed, hoping Oliver would divulge more information.
Oliver shot him a dark look. “Of course not.” He took a breath and blew it out slowly through his nose. “The O’Sheas have been at their country estate, but their staff here in Town have been frantically readying the house for an early return.”
The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance) Page 3
