The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

“Now think of a happy memory, something in your life that happened, or perhaps a person who brought you great joy. Something that thrills you or prompts happiness or a sense of peace.”

  To her relief, he seemed to follow her instructions. He inhaled and exhaled quietly through his nose, his eyes still closed, and after a moment gave a small nod.

  “I have it.”

  “Keep thinking of it, and gently pinch your thumb and forefinger together.”

  He obeyed. “Now what?”

  “Continue for a few more moments. Repeat the same thing. Think of the memory and pinch your fingers gently together.”

  He inhaled and exhaled again, this time more deeply than before.

  She thought of her own sense of comfort she felt when she touched the delicate gold chain on her wrist. Warmth suffused her skin where the bracelet lay beneath his hand and filled her with a familiar peace, and she imagined with her whole heart that the tiny bit of precious metal could help him, too.

  He inhaled and exhaled a third time, then opened his eyes and looked down at their clasped hands. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but then closed it and lifted his eyes to her face.

  Her heart beat faster. “Now,” she said quietly, “whenever you feel that sense of panic, pinch your thumb and forefinger together and think of the good memory. The concept is that, after a time, the mere physical action of that small pinch will help alleviate stress.” She smiled and lifted a shoulder. “I’ve used it myself with a fair degree of success. It certainly doesn’t take away all the discomfort, but I do notice a difference.”

  His face relaxed by degrees, and he curled his fingers around hers. “Is it the method that works so well, or the one teaching it?” He paused. “It is an incredible sensation to be on the receiving end of your healing art.”

  She flushed. “Parlor tricks.”

  He gave her hand a small squeeze. “It is not parlor tricks, and you are fully aware of that. Do not diminish your talent, or bury it in insecurities.”

  “I . . .” She frowned. “I do not fully understand it. There are times I wonder if I even have control over it.”

  “You harness it during surgery without a second thought.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps. I know the gift is there, but I feel I have so much to learn and nobody to teach me.”

  He watched her for a moment longer and then lifted her hand. He touched her wrist, examining the gold chain. “You wear this always.”

  She nodded and swallowed. “Now that I know that my mother—my birth mother—gave it to me, I think that perhaps deep down I knew it was a connection to her. Gives me a sense of comfort when I need it.”

  He drew his brows together and gently lifted the chain, softly rubbing it and then smoothing it against her skin. “What were you thinking about just now? When you were helping me?”

  She shrugged again, feeling self-conscious and awkward. “Just wishing for you to be well.” She looked away and tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it and ducked his head to recapture her attention.

  “My mind is clearer when you are present during procedures in the clinic. We’ve known it for some time.”

  She nodded.

  “Those abilities, combined with a brain like yours—a person might hone some formidable talents.”

  She laughed and shook her head, and this time when she shifted, he released her hand. “A good memory does not formidable talents make.” She rose from the floor and dusted her skirt.

  He looked up at her, and she stilled. Her chuckle faded, as did his smile, and they studied each other for a moment.

  “Everything about you is gold,” he murmured, “from your eyes, to your hair, to your heart.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. He couldn’t look at her like that, couldn’t say things like that, because though he meant them as friendly tenderness, she wanted nothing more than to pull him close and hold tight. If she misread even one little gesture, he would unintentionally break her golden heart into a million golden shards.

  She forced a bright smile, reached for a nonchalance she didn’t come close to feeling. “Well, Doctor, that was lyrical. Perhaps you’ve missed your calling as a poet.”

  Something flickered in his expression—disappointment, perhaps—then he cleared his throat and stood, running a hand along the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle. “Thank you for helping me. My apologies for being a burden when I am here to help you.”

  Eugene muttered something from across the room, where he continued to unpack the trunks and put away clothing.

  “What did he say?” Hazel asked Sam.

  Sam shook his head and eyed the ’ton warily. “I wouldn’t want to guess.”

  She frowned, studying the servant. “For all that he’s supposed to be attuned to your biorhythms, he did nothing just now to aid you.”

  “I calculated that your abilities to help Dr. MacInnes surpassed mine, Miss Hazel,” Eugene said without turning around. He shook out one of Sam’s shirts and hung it in the wardrobe. “Short of giving him a sedative, there was little else for me to do.”

  Hazel shot him a flat look. “For the love of heaven, Eugene, that is no help at all.”

  The ’ton muttered something inaudible, and Sam rubbed his forehead. “Every day I consider wiping his programing tin. Life with a bland servant would be much simpler.”

  Hazel’s lips twitched. “Where does his name come from?”

  “Eugene was my uncle, and the world’s nicest man.”

  Eugene looked over his shoulder. “You couldn’t have chosen a more fitting name for me. Sir.” He turned fully toward them and eyed Sam from head to toe. “You’re decidedly mussed. Should you desire an upper hand with your host, you must freshen immediately and change.”

  Hazel raised a brow at Sam. “You desire an upper hand with our host?”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I hadn’t verbalized it as such, but yes.” He looked at her. “There is something not quite right about him, Hazel. We need every advantage we can get.”

  Hazel felt defensive—much as she had had for her mother—but wasn’t certain why. She’d not known Dravor long enough to feel any kind of loyalty. “Perhaps he is nothing more than my uncle, who has no nefarious intentions.”

  Sam paused, his silence telling. “Perhaps. My cynicism surfaces now and again, regrettably. We likely have nothing to fear.”

  Sam followed Hazel down the hallway to the Main Room for dinner and tried to collect his thoughts. Hazel’s little trick seemed to be helping. He had nearly succumbed again to panic after she’d left his room, but he’d pinched his fingers together and visualized his happy memory, and his heart rate and breathing had slowed a bit.

  He’d allowed Eugene to him dress for dinner, and the ’ton had commented on the peculiarity of it. Sam did not usually require much help—especially since his days in battle when life had been boiled down to its essence of things that truly mattered. He liked to live as self-sufficiently as possible, and he’d only decided to use Eugene as a valet after the ’ton commented on his appearance at the clinic one day about how a helping hand with a cravat was sometimes useful.

  Eugene had refrained from any sarcastic remarks after Hazel left, which struck Sam as amazing. Apparently the automaton was advanced enough to know when to keep his thoughts to himself. Sam was sure the explanation was simple enough. Eugene monitored Sam’s vitals constantly and would temper his behavior accordingly. If Sam’s blood pressure and heart rate were soaring, combined with an elevated rise in temperature and a decided lack of casual conversation, Eugene would know.

  Hazel looked over her shoulder at Sam and slowed her step. She smiled, a little uncertainly, he thought, and why wouldn’t she be? He’d fallen apart spectacularly, and she’d had to put him back together. It was disconcerting, especially when he’d fashioned himself as her protector
.

  “Oh!” she said suddenly. “Is Eugene still in your suite?”

  “Yes,” he said, puzzled. “He should be stationary since I didn’t leave him with instructions. Although, come to think of it, that might have been a bad idea.”

  “Will you wait here? I have something I’d like him to do for me.”

  He tilted his head. “That sounds mysterious, Lady Hazel.”

  Her lips twitched. “Wait here.” She ran lightly back down the long hall to his door and knocked. Eugene answered, and she spoke to him for a few minutes, gesturing occasionally. She eventually nodded and left, Eugene closed the door, and Sam watched the entirety of it, baffled.

  “What business do you possibly have with my ’ton?” he asked when she returned, a little breathless.

  She smiled. “None of yours, yet.” She gestured toward the double doors. “Shall we continue to supper?”

  He inclined his head, glad to see her more relaxed than she’d been since the night of the ball when they’d met her new uncle. He held out an arm to her, and she tucked her hand inside the crook of his elbow, her fingers resting lightly on his arm. She smiled up at him, her cheeks flushed, and for a moment he forgot the subtle vibration of the engines, the strange person they were about to dine with, and the fact that they were farther beneath the surface of the ocean than he’d ever wanted to be.

  “You are a ray of light,” he said, feeling inane, but meaning every word.

  She laughed and nudged him forward. “And you are silly.”

  As they neared the Main Room, she paused and lowered her voice. “I’ve not been gracious enough, Sam, and for that I apologize. You’ve sought only to keep me safe in the midst of all this strangeness, and I’ve acted quite the spoiled girl. I did not even request time away from the clinic. I merely told you what my plans were without a second thought. I am mortified you have so drastically rearranged your life to accommodate me, but I am grateful you would. You truly are a good friend.”

  He placed his hand over hers. “It is my honor.” Something about her face seemed different to him, perhaps it was the light. When they’d first met, she’d seemed young. She was of courting age, and had been for a couple of years, but the innocence that had been so clearly part of who she was had blinded him to the fact that she was, in fact, a woman.

  In the year since, he’d come to rely on her professionally and enjoyed their easy banter. She’d occasionally gone on her mad “bravery” escapades despite his protestations, and perhaps her experiences had instilled some maturity she’d not had before. She even seemed leaner, her jawline more defined. Everything in her face was in clearer focus.

  “What is it?” she asked, frowning, and he realized he must be staring.

  He blinked. “Nothing. Shall we?”

  Employer, employer, I am her employer.

  He gestured with his head toward the room where murmured conversation sounded.

  She nodded. “I am not surprised to see placards at each door. This place is rather like a hotel.”

  “‘Main Room,’” he quietly scoffed. “That was the best he could do?”

  She laughed. “Why complicate things when simplicity suffices?”

  He shook his head as they entered. “That would make sense except nothing about this contraption is plain,” he murmured.

  The hallway bustled with ’tons, going about the business of keeping the giant ship running smoothly. The Main Room also contained several servants who carried in, and prepared to serve, the meal.

  Their host was seated to the far right of the large room with his assistant, Renton. The room itself was appointed with lavish rugs, lightly paneled walls, and shelves with books, plants, and mementos from varying cultures. To the left was a large table, set for dinner, and a glittering chandelier hung suspended from the high ceiling, which was adorned with wooden rafters. The room might have been one Sam would have seen in a fine Colonial house in India. The only element missing was stuffed game posed in threatening, snarling positions in each corner.

  Hazel exhaled and looked around the room, clearly as taken in by the grandeur as he was. She blinked, looked at Sam for a moment, and then her uncle.

  Petrescu rose from his chair and smiled broadly. “You’ve arrived!” He gestured toward the table. “I am pleased—you must be famished.”

  Sam was anything but famished. He doubted he would ever find himself relaxed while on the submersible and wondered if his lack of appetite was due to his discomfort with the mode of transportation or the person with whom they traveled. The air was thick with tension; he figured Hazel noticed it as well, because she tightened her fingers on his arm.

  Hazel smiled at Petrescu. “The food smells delicious,” she said. “I fear I’ve not eaten much in the last two days.”

  Petrescu chuckled and indicated Hazel’s chair, which was to his immediate right. “It certainly is not a daily occurrence to meet family one never knew existed.” He looked at Renton. “That is all for now. I believe I shall be safe enough while dining with family.”

  Renton nodded once, made unflinching eye contact with Sam, and then left the room.

  Sam held the chair out for Hazel and took the place next to hers. “Is your safety often a cause for concern?” he asked the count.

  Petrescu signaled two servers to bring food from a sideboard, and the meal began with a bowl of warm soup. It smelled good, even to Sam’s queasy stomach, and he was relieved when he was able to eat it slowly without issue.

  “I am not usually in danger, no, but there have been occasions when I’ve found the presence of a large, brutish guard to be a satisfactory deterrent to any bent on mischief.”

  They ate in silence for a moment before Petrescu spoke again. “I hope your accommodations are to your liking?”

  Hazel nodded. “Everything is exquisite. I would never have believed such a craft existed had I not seen it.” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Where is your suite?”

  “Here on Deck Two, at the bow.”

  Hazel nodded, and the group lapsed again into uncomfortable silence. Sam fought the urge to fill it, and instead observed Petrescu, who was watching his guests with a shrewd eye.

  “Tell me, dearest Hazel, how would you describe your life with Rowena? You seem fond of her, or at least indulgent,” Petrescu said, leaning back in his seat, his fingers steepled.

  Hazel tipped her head and nodded as she set her spoon down and again dabbed her mouth. She sat up a bit straighter, and Sam wondered if she were stalling. “My mother was very loving—is very loving. She has always had a nervous temperament, but I’ve never doubted her affection and care for me. She had dreams for me, and I don’t know that I’ve fulfilled those expectations to her satisfaction, but I hope to, one day.”

  “What sort of expectations?” Petrescu signaled to the ’tons to serve the next course.

  Sam looked at his host’s bowl. Not a drop of soup remained, but Sam didn’t recall seeing the man eat. His gaze shot to Petrescu’s face, and he narrowed his eyes, looking for something amiss. Everything seemed normal about the man, and yet that was part of the problem. Fiends now hid in plain sight.

  “My mother was certain I would be a Medium,” Hazel continued, and leaned back to allow the ’ton to set the next course before her. “She insisted it was in the family, and in truth she did have a cousin who was an effective Medium, but now I realize she must have been making inferences from the information given her at the time of my . . . adoption.”

  Petrescu nodded. “The midwife told her the family were Light Magick practitioners, which is true. Rowena must have decided your skills would include communion with the deceased. This was a mistake, of course. How would you define your skills?”

  Hazel stilled and cleared her throat. Sam fought the urge to snap to in her defense; if he’d learned anything about her in the past year, it wa
s that she was learning to fight her own battles.

  “I do not know that I possess many skills beyond an exceptional memory and a desire for knowledge.” She smiled and glanced at Petrescu. “I hope I do not disappoint if my blood family is indeed exceptional. I fear I am rather ordinary—perhaps a touch of Healing ability, but nothing extraordinary.”

  She was hiding the depth of her abilities from her uncle. Sam wondered if she sensed something off about the man, as he did.

  Petrescu glanced at Sam as he speared a piece of meat on his plate, cut off a small bite, and deliberately ate it. Clearly the count had not missed Sam’s earlier attention to his empty soup bowl. Sam filed the information away for later perusal. To the best of his knowledge, mind reading was not a phenomenon common beyond the closest of family ties, which meant Dravor Petrescu was exceptionally observant.

  “I heard,” the count continued, “that you had an episode of some concern at Blackwell Manor last year?”

  Hazel’s fingers tightened on her silverware, and Sam frowned. “How do you know that?”

  Petrescu regarded him evenly. “I have made it my business to learn as much as possible about my niece. I am certain you understand my concern that something dangerous happened to Hazel while she was attempting to work magick.”

  Sam opened his mouth to retort, but Hazel cut him off. “I wasn’t attempting to work magick. I was attempting to summon a ghost that was haunting the manor and the Blackwell family. I did not, in fact, summon a ghost. I summoned a vampire.” Hazel’s smile was tight.

  Petrescu leaned forward, eyes focused. “What were you doing? How did you do it?”

  Hazel shook her head. “I am mostly jesting. I did not actually summon anything. The vampire had been stalking the family, and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Petrescu kept his gaze on Hazel, unblinking, until he finally sat back in his chair again. A hint of a smile appeared on his lips. “You are too modest, I believe.”

  Hazel shrugged, a little helplessly, it seemed, but then straightened her spine. “I would dearly love to believe I have some special gift.” Her tone strengthened as she spoke. “But the fact is I simply do not.”