The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Hazel managed a nod and tried to swallow the lump still lodged in her throat.

  “He has confessed, then?” Sam asked.

  The count’s eyes flicked to him and back to Hazel. “He has. Apparently, he was indeed the cause behind the young woman’s flight that led to her accident with the suit of armor. He’d expressed . . . interest in her that she was disinclined to return. He knew I would be angry, as this is not the first time such an incident has occurred.”

  “And still you kept him in your employ,” Hazel noted.

  “Regrettably, I was unable to hire a new assistant and train him before embarking on the journey to retrieve you. Renton gave me his word that his rash and impulsive behavior was an anomaly. Clearly, that was a lie.”

  Hazel wondered if Renton’s “impulsive behavior” was indeed a recent development, but she let the matter rest.

  “Was Renton responsible for Miss Tucker’s unconscious state following her surgery?” Sam asked.

  The count nodded. “He procured a spell and the accompanying ingredients from my office upstairs. He confessed to that as well, just now.”

  “And then we moved the patient here, and he no longer had easy access to her,” Sam said.

  Petrescu nodded. “He attempted to permanently dispatch her once before you moved her. He had programmed one of the nurses to do it, though I interrupted the act unwittingly when I checked on the young woman myself. Once you moved Miss Tucker, Renton took matters into his own hands and disabled your ’ton long enough to move her and—”

  “Kill her,” Hazel finished.

  “I would do anything to spare you this ugliness, my dear, and I am pained that you are distressed because of someone who worked for me.” The count shook his head. “He can never truly make amends, but he will be brought to justice.”

  Hazel nodded. She was drained of energy, but beneath her fatigue and horror, a steely thread of resolve formed. The time had come to fully embrace not only her gifts, but her brain. Her uncle was not what he claimed, and she would learn his secrets one way or another. Something wasn’t right about Marit’s madness either, something Hazel couldn’t divine, but she would. She hadn’t been able to save Sally, but she would save her sister—or die trying.

  The count turned his gaze on Sam. “Have you medicine that will help her rest?”

  “I have herbs of my own,” Hazel said.

  Sam ducked his head and scratched his nose, and in her periphery, she caught the twitch of a smile on his lips.

  Petrescu’s brow arched, but he inclined his head. “I’ll instruct the kitchen to deliver fresh tea, if you’d like.”

  She nodded and forced her spine to straighten. “That would be lovely.”

  Petrescu nodded once more and withdrew.

  Eugene closed the door behind him and cleared his throat in what she recognized as purely a human affectation. He had no actual throat, of course, but it was one of the many things that made him less machine and more human.

  “I will remain here through the night,” Eugene said. “If you will permit me, Hazel.”

  She nodded. “I would appreciate that very much.”

  Sam touched her hand. “If you will permit me, I would like to sleep in Sally’s room tonight. I’m reluctant to leave you alone, even in Eugene’s capable company.”

  It was on the tip of Hazel’s tongue to insist that would be unnecessary, but then she looked at the open door into Sally’s room and sighed. “Perhaps it would be best. Should I go wandering off again in my sleep, there will be two of you to corral me.”

  Sam pulled her close again and kissed her temple. “Shall we send for someone to help you change?”

  She shook her head. “I can manage.” She lay a hand on his knee. He was solid and comforting. “Thank you, Sam. I was quite out of my head.”

  “You were magnificent.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Even in the face of such horror, you were well on your way to dispensing justice of your own.”

  She managed a smile, but it felt sad. “A moment longer and he’d have had me by the throat.”

  “And I’d have removed his.” He kissed her temple again and stood. “I’ll retrieve my things, and Eugene will wait in the hallway for the tea.”

  He paused, looking down at her, and she reached for his hand. He grasped her fingers and sandwiched them between his hands before finally closing his eyes and placing a kiss on her knuckles. “We will solve this— whatever it is. Then, we are going home.”

  Sam pulled his collar up against the wind. The air in Romania had a sharp bite, and the scent of winter enveloped the train station. Hazel stood next to him, quiet, and he clasped her gloved hand in his. Her appearance was impeccable as always, and the only signs of the trauma from two nights before were light smudges beneath her eyes.

  A strange entourage waited to board. Renton had just been taken into custody by local officials. Dravor had rained down fire and brimstone upon him and the Magellan’s staff and crew. Renton would pay for his crimes, Petrescu declared, and he vowed to dismantle the female ’ton who had attempted to kill Sally.

  Sam had wanted desperately to call Petrescu a liar, but Hazel’s insistence that they let the matter alone for the moment had held him back. She was more determined than ever to find her sister, and she was convinced the most effective way was to play her uncle’s “game of chess.” She’d been quiet for most of the final leg of the journey from Greece to Romania, and he watched her closely. She was pale, still upset, but clear-headed in her resolve.

  Petrescu conducted business for the group, translating for them and obtaining tickets, guiding them through the passport checks, and facilitating a seamless transition from one spot to the next.

  Eugene remained either at Sam’s side or hovered behind, blissfully quiet. Sam wondered if Eugene still “felt” remorse for his inadvertent part in Sally’s demise. The ’ton also remained close to Hazel, as though protecting her from further distress. Sam understood that desire; he wished he could take her back to London, where she would be safe.

  Sam had used his full strength to pull Hazel off of Renton when she’d attacked, although he would dearly have loved to let her continue. The man deserved every scratch and bruise Hazel had inflicted upon him, and had the man not been a hair’s breadth from shoving Hazel through the opposite wall, Sam might have waited another moment or two before restraining her.

  Petrescu handed them their boarding passes with a sympathetic, paternal gaze at Hazel. “I am aghast that something so horrid would happen in my realm, and sorrier still that you were frightened and harmed.”

  Wind blew a curl of hair across her eyes, and she moved it aside with her fingertip. She was beautiful, and so incredibly sad. Sam swallowed, fighting his own emotion, and figuring he would do her little good if he were weepy. What he truly wished he could do was punch her uncle in the throat.

  “Thank you, Uncle.” She took the ticket with a gentle smile. “I cannot express how grateful I am that you contacted the authorities when we arrived. It gives me comfort knowing they are seeking justice for Miss Tucker. Will you keep me apprised of their progress?”

  “Of course, dearest. Board the train, now, and warm yourself.”

  Hazel released Sam’s hand and embraced her uncle. Sam didn’t know who was more stunned, himself or Petrescu. It was the first time Sam had seen the man genuinely taken aback. His arms closed around her, and he kissed the top of her head.

  Hazel pulled back and offered Petrescu a faint smile, then turned to Sam and motioned toward the train. “I would like Eugene to ride with us, not in the ’tons’ car,” she told him. “I find comfort with him close by.”

  Sam watched her climb the stairs into the train car. “Eugene, you heard the lady. It seems you’ve received an upgrade.”

  The train whistle blasted, and Sam extended his hand to the count. “My thanks
for the ticket.”

  Petrescu’s grip was swift and crushing. Sam wasn’t a small man, and he had always been athletic, strong, and fit, but the pressure the other man exerted had Sam fighting a wince. Sam vowed he would live aboard the blasted Magellan for the rest of his life before giving Petrescu the satisfaction of acknowledging the other man’s brute strength.

  “It is my pleasure to welcome you to my corner of the world, Doctor.” Petrescu held his grip on Sam’s hand. “I wager you will enjoy it so much you will never want to leave.”

  “As long as Hazel remains, so shall I.” Sam smiled, but squeezed back, refusing to be cowed.

  Petrescu finally loosened his grip, indicating for Sam to enter the train car. “I shall be right behind you,” he said. “I must see to it that trunks from the ship have been transferred.”

  Sam managed a tight smile and entered the train. It was lavishly appointed, appeared new, and promised to provide comfortable travel. Sconces with visible filaments glowed warmly, and appointments and fixtures in gleaming copper and brass adorned the corridor. He found Hazel in a semi-private compartment that contained two high-backed benches opposite each other and a small table by the window with a stuffed ottoman beneath it. He sat next to Hazel, and Eugene settled opposite them.

  The train sounded a long, loud whistle and rocked on the tracks as the journey began. Hazel lifted the corner of her mouth in a half-smile and said, “Was it too much?”

  “When—with your uncle?”

  She nodded. “I want him to think I trust him.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Angry.”

  “Justifiably.”

  She’d removed her snug-fitting overcoat to reveal breeches, boots, a white collared shirt, a dark vest, and a gentleman’s tie. She now removed the matching gloves and hat, placing them on the seat beside her.

  Hazel met his eyes again and must have seen something there, because she blushed, but her lips twitched in a smile.

  “Would you like to see the sketches I’ve added to my book?” Hazel asked, indicating the leather-bound journal that contained her drawings of Petrescu’s artifacts.

  “Absolutely.”

  She moved closer to him and flipped to the pages she and Eugene had written on. She pointed to some of the additions Eugene had made regarding the artifacts’ regions or cultures of origin. “You’ll notice the incorporation of elements from the Orient, as well as from as far away as New Zealand.”

  She turned the page and showed him Eugene’s neat handwriting detailing the story behind each artifact’s history. Beneath each anecdote, he had written a few suggestions for spells or powers that might have aided the party involved in the artifact’s discovery.

  Sam took the book from Hazel’s hands. According to Eugene’s list of “Informed Suppositions,” Petrescu possessed items that could potentially levitate an object, facilitate speed in running, freeze an opponent’s movement for a short time—“Likely no more than ten seconds”—distort sound waves, and render an object invisible.

  The remainder of the objects on the lists all involved some sort of life preservation or the ability to add time to one’s life. One object, a relic from the Caribbean, contained symbols that hinted at Reanimation of lifeless organic creatures, and Eugene’s final note regarded an aquatic fossil, found along the South American coastline. The animal that had left the impression was reputed to contain elements of amorterium, a substance that was most potent when added to an elixir with other specific elements derived from a plant called fiserate.

  Hazel tapped her finger on the words. “Fiserate is rare. Found anciently on the African continent, but supposedly extinct.” She chewed on her lip and glanced up as one of the count’s ’tons walked through the compartment, pausing to offer a deferential head bow.

  “What is it used for?” Sam asked quietly. “The elixir?”

  Hazel hesitated. “It is said that it could infuse an unborn child with Resurrection skills.”

  “An unborn child? What has he been doing?” Sam considered the implications. “What has he done?”

  Had Petrescu somehow manipulated events concerning an unborn child? Or children? Perhaps even—twins?

  Sam had never seen an actual Resurrectionist at work—their activities were greatly restricted in modern cultures—and he had only heard exaggerated stories about the zombies they produced, stories meant to scare children at bedtime. As a physician, he had encountered the history of the practice, but precious little documentation was available.

  The most he had been able to ascertain was that a true Resurrectionist could reunite a deceased body with a shade of that person’s spirit. The body itself would reanimate for a time and appear whole, but the mind was at the mercy of the one who ordered the act, behaving as a puppet until the body collapsed forever.

  The compartment door opened, and another ’ton entered, offering a light tea, which she laid out on the side table under the window. With a soft whirring of her processors, she looked at each of them, then left the compartment.

  “Her recording is visual as well as auditory,” Eugene said. He looked at the fixtures in the compartment, adding, “There may be listening devices in here.”

  Sam nodded. He knew Petrescu had watched their every move through the ’tons aboard the Magellan, and he wouldn’t be surprised to discover the count’s eyes and ears would follow them on land.

  He flipped the page back and looked at a drawing of the rebirth item. “Egypt,” he murmured.

  Hazel nodded. “I suspected, but Eugene confirmed it.”

  “May I add something to your notes?”

  She handed him a pen, and he scrawled, I hate to jump to conclusions, but some of these make me wonder . . .

  She nodded. “Yes, I agree.” She met his eyes, and hers were wary, concerned.

  Supposition only, though. Eugene is theorizing.

  She smiled and took the pen, underlining the words “Informed Suppositions” Eugene had written at the top of the page.

  He rolled his eyes. What could an untrained Resurrectionist produce?

  She grimaced. A menace. I’ve never seen it done, but supposedly the zombie is uncontrollable, and the body doesn’t regenerate.

  Sam had seen his share of death and stages of decay both during the war and in his work. His clinical approach had hardened his nerves over time, but the thought of the deceased walking and wreaking havoc wasn’t a pleasant one. He frowned and wrote, How long does a zombie “live”?

  She twisted her lips in thought. If the R is skilled and experienced, then a few weeks, I believe. If untrained—hours.

  Have you witnessed the process? Seen a zombie?

  She shook her head. Research only.

  He smiled and took the pen. What would prompt you to research Resurrectionists?

  Knowledge is power. She shrugged and smiled. It is the one part of my life in which I’ve had confidence. I can learn anything.

  He paused, and she arched a brow, which made him smile. A demonstration of ego, no matter how subtle, was uncommon for her. You have many, many gifts that lend themselves to confidence. You ought to be the most conceited person of my association.

  She rolled her eyes and took the book from him. Then she smiled, and leaned back against the seat. He settled close to her, resting his arm and shoulder comfortably against hers, their legs on the seat aligned. She crossed her leg over her knee, bringing her booted foot nearly up against his shin.

  He’d never been more comfortable or uncomfortable in his life. He wished he had a magical artifact that would clear the train of people and automatons. He gave her a side glance and a grin, which she returned, but as one they seemed to remember Eugene. They looked across to see him studying them, mouth pursed in contemplation.

  “Well,” Hazel said and cleared her throat. “Thank you for your insights, Sam. I’
ll just . . .” She put her journal in the portmanteau, then pulled out another book and gestured at it. “I believe I’ll read for a time.” She paused, her expression clouding.

  He wished he could say something useful. Something that would fix everything.

  He reached for her hand and gave a little squeeze instead before also retrieving a book. He tried, and failed, to focus on it. He was too distracted by his concerns, and as the train carried them deeper into the heart of the country, farther away from anything familiar, he considered the cold, foreign land rushing by outside the windows and felt a definite chill.

  Hazel propped her legs on the ottoman in the train compartment and wondered if she’d ever again have a regular night’s sleep. She fought napping the entire day, despite the comfortable rock of the train that was perfect for lulling one into oblivion.

  Throughout the day, her uncle had been in and out of the train car. Hazel was still angry with him and strangely hurt that he wasn’t someone she could come to love. She’d known instinctively from the beginning that something was wrong. Dravor was secretive, he seemed to have an agenda that served only his own interests, he collected objects imprinted with magical spells, and he practiced group hypno-control. Clearly he was a person who was untrustworthy and quite unlikable.

  But she had still wished desperately for it to be otherwise. Hazel sighed.

  The sky outside was darkening, and the tall, thick trees on either side of the tracks would soon be invisible. The interior of the car showed in the window reflection, and she saw, behind the pale image of herself, Sam appearing from yet another foray around the train. He was restless and had paced the train cars multiple times over the last several hours.

  Eugene was charging in the ’ton car at the train’s rear, so Sam sat down across from Hazel on the vacant bench. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees and tapped her booted foot, which still rested atop the ottoman. “A pound for your thoughts,” he said.