The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  The count nodded, studying her carefully. “Indeed. Has been since birth.” He smiled faintly. “Her nursemaid told me it would darken with time, but it did not.”

  “She bears my features in every other way, yes? Except for her eyes, which are a deep blue.”

  “What you say is true, but may I ask how you know such details?”

  “I’ve seen her in dreams all my life.”

  There was a stillness to him while he studied her. His direct gaze both drew her in and made her uneasy. The silence stretched to the point of discomfort.

  “I find this incredible, Miss Hughes, and I am filled with a sense of hope for the first time in . . . such a very long time.”

  On Lady Hadley’s balcony, the count had told Hazel that her twin, Marit, was ill, and had asked if Hazel would receive him in the morning to discuss the matter in detail. Hazel had known she wouldn’t sleep a wink, so had invited him home that very moment.

  “What is your relationship to my sister?” A thought struck her, and she added, “To me?”

  He took a breath, and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. His expression was paternal, and he hesitated.

  “Please. Do not keep me in suspense. I would rather know all, and immediately.”

  He tilted his head in acquiescence. “Of course. Miss Hughes, your mother was my sister. I am your uncle, and I have raised Marit from birth.”

  Hazel frowned. It made no sense. How on earth had she come into Rowena Hughes’s care, and as her daughter?

  The question was logical, and he anticipated it. “There was an issue with the midwife.”

  She arched a brow, and she was struck by the thought that her expression mirrored his. “What sort of ‘issue’?”

  “Your birth mother struggled in the delivery. We were unaware she carried twins—indeed, I did not know of it until recently—and after the midwife delivered both of you, your mother passed. Your father was beside himself with grief. With the help of her daughter, the midwife spirited you away. I do not know her original intent, but in the end, you were sold to a traveling English merchant and his wife who had always wanted a child.”

  Hazel’s mouth was dry, and she tried to swallow. “My mother—Rowena.”

  He nodded. A muscle worked in his jaw. “You can imagine my dismay when I realized my own flesh and blood had been sold, and to a foreign merchant.”

  Hazel hadn’t realized she’d clenched her fists tightly in her lap until her fingers protested the grip. “What happened to my father?” She straightened her fingers slowly. They were chilled despite the warmth of her gloves and the heated carriage interior. She was cold everywhere.

  “He passed shortly after your mother. They were soul mates from youth, and he was bereaved beyond consolation at her death.”

  His expression was sympathetic, but there was a thread of cynicism running beneath his statement that had Hazel questioning his sincerity.

  “That was when you took in my sister?”

  “Yes. Raised her as my own.” He frowned. “I have done everything in my power, but she is not . . . well.”

  “You mentioned that earlier. What ails her?”

  “Nothing modern medicine can cure. I have brought in experts from every field. Her problems stem from her mind, and I am at a loss.”

  Hazel’s heart thumped, and she looked out the window. Dream Hazel—Marit—had been slowly growing mad. Hazel’s own dreams of late had become increasingly dark, full of fear, hopelessness, and a desperate sense of loneliness.

  “You know something,” Count Petrescu said. It sounded almost like an accusation.

  Hazel looked back at him and hoped her fear didn’t show on her face. “I wish I did. I wish I knew how to help her, but frankly, you must understand my skepticism about this entire situation.”

  He smiled. “You doubt my claims?”

  “I do not doubt my sister’s existence; I feel as if I have always known it. I do not, however, know anything about you.”

  “Let us speak with Rowena. I’ve no doubt she’ll verify my story.”

  They fell into silence, and Hazel looked at Miss Tucker, who sat as far in the corner of the seat as she could manage. The girl seemed desperate to remain invisible.

  Hazel felt a stab of sympathy. “You’re newly employed by the count?” She gestured toward the nobleman as she addressed Sally.

  “Yes, miss. Only just.”

  “Have you family here in Town?”

  “Yes, miss. A mother and five younger siblings.”

  Hazel smiled. “A full house, then.”

  “Indeed.”

  Hazel took in the young woman’s tidy but worn clothing, and her pale features. Work was often hard to come by, and employment with a Romanian nobleman would be a boon to a family consisting of so many hungry little mouths.

  The conveyance carried them through the streets to Hazel’s home. Her head swirled with thoughts; she imagined her brain had been replaced with feathers that blew topsy-turvy around her skull.

  She peered outside the window at the inky world beyond. A light rain had begun, and now gathered strength, pattering on the carriage roof. Her heart beat in time with the drops, and she absently shook her fingers against the chill that had shot through her extremities when Count Petrescu had turned her reality on its head.

  She was afraid, horribly afraid, that Rowena would confirm what he’d said. If she was a twin, one mystery would be solved. But it would also open several more. Why had she been abducted? Why had Rowena never told her the truth? And ultimately, what was wrong with Marit?

  When they reached the cottage, the ’ton driver flipped the steps down and helped her alight. She turned back to Sally and bid her good night, and then made her way to the door, aware of Count Petrescu murmuring instructions for the driver to wait and to keep the heater on so Sally could wait in warmth and comfort. Hazel hesitated, her hand poised over the door handle. As soon as they entered and confronted her mother, everything would change.

  Count Petrescu stood a respectful distance behind her, but his presence crowded Hazel against the small home. She took a shuddering breath and opened the door, calling for her mother and motioning her guest inside. “Please, come in. To the left is the parlor,” she said. “Take a seat near the fire, and I will locate my . . . my mother.”

  Rowena Hughes descended the stairs, then froze. “Hazel?”

  Hazel clasped the stair railing and looked up at her. “We have a visitor from Romania, Mother.”

  Rowena sat slowly, heavily, on the step, and her face had leeched of all color. Hazel wondered if her mother would faint.

  So it was true. It was all true.

  On shaking legs, she climbed the few steps to Rowena and clasped her limp fingers. “We should offer our guest some tea,” Hazel said quietly. “And then perhaps we have some things to discuss.” She was amazed her voice remained steady. Everything felt wobbly, from her head to her feet.

  Rowena’s mouth worked, but no words formed. She swallowed and looked rapidly from the count to Hazel and back again. “Hazel,” she finally whispered. “I . . . I . . . you must go . . . you cannot . . .”

  “Come.” Hazel tugged on Rowena’s hand and pulled her up. “Is Celina already charging for the evening?”

  Rowena licked her lips and shook her head, following Hazel slowly down the stairs. “I was just about to shut her down.” Her voice was a thread of sound.

  “You instruct her to prepare tea,” Hazel told her, “and I shall hang the count’s wrap.”

  Their guest had remained silent since entering, and he watched Rowena with a flat expression. Hazel grew defensive for her mother. As much as Rowena exasperated her, she loved her and had always been secure in Rowena’s love for her.

  Rowena made her way down the short hallway to where their automaton servant, Celina, worked in
the kitchen. Hazel took a deep breath and wordlessly hung Petrescu’s coat on the stand by the door.

  She gestured for the count to enter the parlor again, hearing Rowena’s hushed instructions to Celina for tea. It was odd, really. Rowena wasn’t usually the quiet sort. Shorter and rounder than Hazel, she’d always had the verbal volume of a giant, and friends had often laughed at the difference between mother and daughter.

  Rowena joined Hazel and the count in the parlor, and they sat in furniture that was comfortable but faded. The home was cozy and tidy, and spoke of Rowena’s penchant for herbal remedies and minor Light Magick concoctions. Hazel viewed it through Petrescu’s eyes, now, and again felt a surge of defensiveness.

  Petrescu crossed one leg over the other and placed his hands together on his lap. He regarded Hazel with one brow raised, waiting as if in deference to her, allowing her to assume the role of host. It felt strangely farcical, almost a mockery, yet his expression was pleasant, his features a mask of patience and compassion. Even sitting near the fire, Hazel felt cold.

  Hazel cleared her throat. “Mother, this is Count Dravor Petrescu. Have you, perhaps, met him before?”

  Rowena swallowed, looking at him with wide eyes. “I do not know him, but perhaps I might have met a fellow countrywoman, years ago.”

  Petrescu inclined his head. “Indeed, Mrs. Hughes. You were acquainted with Mrs. Romanescu, a midwife, were you not?”

  Rowena blanched further, something Hazel wouldn’t have thought possible.

  Hazel reached over and took her mother’s hand. “My lord, perhaps you will tell my mother what you’ve shared with me.”

  “Of course. Years ago, Mrs. Hughes, your husband traded in wools and textiles, and you traveled with him to Romania on a business venture. The final evening of your journey, at a village called Vania, in the Carpathian Mountains, you were approached by Mrs. Romanescu, a midwife.”

  Hazel looked at Rowena, who nodded. All Hazel knew of her father was that he’d died before she was born. Rowena never spoke of him.

  “Mrs. Romanescu approached you with a strange proposition. The midwife had just aided a young villager who had given birth to a daughter and then died. She knew the infant would face scorn as the bastard child of a fallen woman, and she said the baby was yours if you wanted her.”

  Rowena cleared her throat. “We had always wanted a child. Of course, we said yes.” Her fingers tightened on Hazel’s. “Mrs. Romanescu told us the mother had been a practitioner of Light Magick and a Medium, and I knew it was a sign, as I am also from a witch family.”

  Petrescu nodded sympathetically at Rowena, wincing slightly. “I regret to inform you, dear lady, that you were told a lie.” He gestured elegantly to Hazel. “Your daughter’s mother was a respected woman who died giving birth to twin girls. Mrs. Romanescu spirited away one infant, telling their grieving father nothing and, instead, selling her to you.” He raised a brow, his manner grave. “You paid handsomely, did you not?”

  “She . . . she seemed desperate and terrified . . .” Rowena straightened, color returning to her face. “We paid her all the gold we had, keeping only enough to return home.” Her voice rose in pitch, and she spoke quickly. “She told us to go, that we must run and never return to the village because the poor dead mother’s family wanted to kill the child!” Rowena’s breath came faster. “She said we might even be followed, that we should hide. We sold our farm, our business, everything we had and moved here. Then Mr. Hughes fell ill that winter and died, leaving me alone with the baby.”

  Hazel’s emotions veered from sorrow to frustration. “Why did you never tell me this?”

  Rowena looked at Hazel, eyes wide. “To keep you safe, of course. I couldn’t tell you!”

  “Mother, I am not a child anymore. You ought to have told me.”

  Rowena looked back at the count, who seemed content to watch the drama unfold. “When you entered my front door tonight, I thought you meant to kill my child.” Her eyes filmed over, and Hazel felt sick for her.

  “On the contrary,” Petrescu soothed. “And I did send a letter some weeks ago, but never received a response from you.”

  Rowena swallowed.

  Hazel murmured, “Mother, did you receive a letter?”

  “I did.” Rowena lifted her chin. “And I burned it. I was not about to allow my child to travel to a place where her life would be at risk, to be with strangers we had never met.”

  “I certainly understand your concern, Mrs. Hughes, but I believe your daughter has a mission to fulfill.”

  Hazel looked at Petrescu. “Helping my sister,” she said quietly.

  “Yes. I fear the time is already upon us.” The count looked to Rowena. “Mrs. Hughes, Hazel’s sister, Marit, is ill. She is from a Light Magick family—in that much, Mrs. Romanescu did not lie—and I believe Hazel’s tie to Marit as her twin will be beneficial. I am hoping Hazel will help me find a cure.”

  “You’ll not involve Hazel in this madness.” Rowena’s eyes flashed. “I have kept her safe all these years!”

  “And an admirable feat it has been,” Petrescu said, his voice soft.

  Rowena’s grip on Hazel’s fingers relaxed, and Hazel looked sharply at the man. His attention was focused entirely on Rowena, and Hazel felt the subtle but unmistakable surge of energy emanating from him.

  She felt seeds of anger take root, and she welcomed the emotion. Who did he think he was, coming into their home and using some sort of mind control on her mother?

  “Mr. Petrescu,” she said, deliberately omitting his title and pulling his attention to her. “As I said, I do not doubt the existence of my sister. I still do not, however, have any proof of your tie to her or to us.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pouch. He opened it and slid into his palm a delicate platinum chain fastened with a clasp. “You wear a gold chain around your wrist, like this one.” He looked at Hazel for confirmation.

  She nodded, swallowing.

  “That chain was a talisman your mother placed around your neck when you were born.” He glanced at Rowena. “Hazel was still wearing it when Romanescu gave her to you?”

  Rowena nodded wordlessly.

  “This one belongs to Marit.” He extended his hand to Hazel. “Here.”

  She took the platinum chain and sucked in a breath, stunned. The bracelet seemed to stretch toward her wrist and her own chain, like metal filings to a magnet, but where her gold bracelet always gave her a tangible sense of calm and comfort, a mellow glow, the platinum was uncomfortably warm and unsettling.

  Petrescu watched her closely, one corner of his mouth lifting in a triumphant smile. He extended the open pouch, and she dropped the platinum chain into it. She rubbed her palm with her fingers, her heart thudding.

  “Why do you have that?” she asked hoarsely.

  “She gave it to me, temporarily.”

  Hazel’s lips tightened. She was never without her bracelet. It was a familiar comfort, and on the rare occasion she removed it, she noted its absence. She couldn’t imagine Marit was content without her bracelet.

  “Perhaps this will provide the best proof.” Petrescu replaced the pouch in his breast pocket. “You have a tiny birthmark shaped like a star on the inside of your left wrist.”

  Hazel stared, and she placed her finger on the birthmark she’d had her whole life.

  Petrescu nodded and pulled his cuff back to reveal an identical star. “It is a family trait that lands on some and avoids others,” he told Hazel. “Miss Hughes, I am truly your blood relative.”

  Sam sat in his carriage, watching the Hughes’ home from a distance as though he expected something to happen. He wondered if he was losing his mind. Hazel had left the ball nearly an hour before, after emerging from the balcony with the count, whom he did not trust as far as he could throw.

  Hazel had been white as a ghost, and
Sam was sick with worry. He’d followed them as they left the ball, Eugene driving the automated carriage, a canopy cover protecting him from the rain. The carriage’s Talk function activated, sounding with a ding in the carriage interior before Eugene spoke.

  “Still raining, Doctor. Quite impressively. Perhaps you were wondering.”

  Sam counted to ten. “I am aware, Eugene. And you are in no danger from it.”

  “You sound as though you would benefit from some intelligent conversation.”

  “Which I am unlikely to get from you.”

  “My, my.” Eugene said, and Sam could practically see the ’ton arching one eyebrow. “Perhaps your contact with Miss Hughes outside a professional setting ought to be limited. You’re ever so surly.”

  Sam closed his eyes. “Silence, Eugene.”

  A sniff. “Very well.” There was a pause, and Sam braced for the parting shot. “You’ll see that I am correct, though, and my earlier observation stands. Miss Hughes has no need of your protective nature and may well be enamored of the Romanian nobleman. In fact—”

  Sam flipped a switch, terminating the conversation on his end. He wasn’t about to admit Eugene may have the right of it. But Hazel had no male relatives to watch out for her, and her mother was flighty, at best. He wiped the window clear of the fog from his breath and stared again at the cottage. That man was still in the house, and the sense that all was not right sat heavily in Sam’s gut.

  His telescriber dinged with a message from Oliver. The words scrolled across the device, the text similar to that used in typewriting machines.

  Dravor Petrescu is an antiques collector. No criminal record. Old Romanian family, has business interests with British museums. Will advise if anything nefarious surfaces.

  Sam frowned. Oliver’s report should have put him at ease, but there was something indefinable about Petrescu. He looked again at the cottage, raindrops on the carriage window distorting the gaslight and shadows on the small front garden. The house was quiet, there was no screaming to be heard, lights glowed in the parlor—Sam had no legitimate reason for lingering.