The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “I’ll need to delve deeper into the country’s history,” she admitted quietly to Sam, not wanting to ask the ’tons for help, knowing Dravor had access to the information recorded on their tins. The count would assume she would be looking for more information on the family history, but she saw no need to prove it easily. “He is very thorough by nature, so I would assume the books are organized by subject. I will begin searching for anything relating to the Petrescu name over here. Perhaps you’ll take the other end?”

  Sam nodded, and Hazel began tracing her finger along book spines, moving from shelf to shelf, climbing atop ladders and examining titles. Some of the volumes were so old she felt she ought not touch them with anything short of gloves. The pages smelled divine. Flowers were beautifully fragrant, certain desserts made her mouth water even from a distance, but the smell of old books, old paper, was her favorite by far.

  Several minutes passed, and she was forced to admit a cursory review of the collection was not going to yield any information on the Petrescu line. She felt a measure of relief when the ’tons left the room for their scheduled charging time.

  “I could just ask him,” she mused aloud.

  Sam shook his head. “Not yet, if you don’t mind. Let’s see if Oliver finds any new information.”

  Hazel put a hand on her hip and looked at Sam, who stood across the room, flipping through the pages of an old book. “You told Mr. Reed to gather information—more information?”

  Sam looked up, his expression changing from interest in the book to wariness. “Yes,” he admitted slowly. “I did not think you would object to learning as much as we can from whatever sources we have at our disposal.” He crossed the room toward her. “You’ll forgive me if I overstepped my bounds, I hope.”

  Hazel scowled, feeling churlish. “I do not mind, of course. I suppose I had hoped . . .” She bit her lip, uncertain of her own wishes.

  She climbed two rungs on the ladder and replaced a book she’d taken from the shelf. Sam leaned a shoulder against the bookcase, and because of her position on the ladder, they stood eye-to-eye. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, until she finally huffed, “Well, what!”

  “Accepting help from others does not mean a person is weak or lacking. It means that person is wise and uses the resources available.” He raised a brow. “I’m certain you would agree, if you were offering counsel to anyone other than yourself.”

  Hazel released a quiet breath and looped her arm around the ladder. “There is no disgrace in holding myself to a higher standard.”

  “There is if it’s foolish. You know that’s true. And a desire to solve one’s problems without accepting help from those who offer it does not constitute a higher standard.”

  His eyes were so blue, and right there in front of her. If she were the adventurous and experienced sort, she might loop her arm around his neck instead of the ladder. Feeling a keen sense of disappointment that her mad bravery was unpredictable, she contented herself with the fact that the space between them wasn’t large at all.

  She closed her eyes briefly. “I do want information about this whole affair,” she said quietly, waving a hand at the room, “but I find myself wishing he were trustworthy. I need to believe that he is not a fraud when he says he is family and that he cares enough for me and my sister to travel the world and bring me home.” She lifted a shoulder. “I have no family except for Rowena, and she has not always been the easiest of mothers.”

  “Perhaps he is everything he claims to be and has only the best of intentions,” Sam said, also lowering his voice. “If we find that to be the case, so much the better. We are not left wondering if there are secrets. But Hazel,” he said gently, “you must know there are secrets. There is something, an undercurrent to Petrescu, and I believe you feel it as keenly as do I.”

  Hazel agreed, as much as she’d like to insist otherwise. She paused, swinging a tiny bit on the ladder. “What are you reading?” she asked, motioning to the book Sam held.

  He looked down at it. “Oh, yes. A history on Romania’s traditional flora and fauna, as well as early animatronic creations in the region.”

  “That book looks much too old to contain any information on cyborg animals.”

  “It’s rudimentary, at best,” he agreed, “but it also lists regional plants for healing purposes. Might serve us both well, as our fields do tend to overlap.”

  She laughed. “I do not have a field.”

  He looked at her again, his expression serious, but the tiny lines around his eyes showed a lifetime of smiles. “You are a Healer, Hazel Hughes, and a very, very good one. With your natural abilities and my training, we make a formidable pair.”

  Her breath hitched, and she was mortified he stood close enough to note it.

  “Would you not agree?” He smiled.

  “I suppose,” she said, fighting the urge to place her hand on his shoulder and pull him closer. All intelligent conversation fled, and she found herself mentally stammering as he had done verbally the night before. Just desserts, she supposed. She had quite enjoyed his scene of awkwardness and discomfort. But despite her own feelings for him, she’d never stammered or stumbled or otherwise made a fool of herself. Hiding her feelings had allowed her to protect herself. That her awkwardness and insecurities were now making an appearance meant she was either losing control of her ironclad will, or she realized on some level he might be interested in her and as a result had lowered her own guard.

  “Never a good idea,” she muttered.

  His mouth quirked at one corner. “What is never a good idea?”

  “Opening one’s jacket to reveal the target painted beneath.”

  “Is that what you’ve done?”

  She bit her lip. “I’ve no idea, really. I am not well-versed in . . . in . . .”

  He smiled. “Flirtation?”

  “Is that what this is?” She felt breathless, as if she’d run laps around the submersible.

  “Oh, I believe that is most definitely what this is.”

  “I must find a book on the topic,” she said, more to herself than to him.

  He laughed, and the delighted sound warmed her heart. “I’m certain you would make a good study of it from a publication, but there are some things that are better experienced.”

  Be brave, Hazel.

  She placed a tentative hand on his jacket lapel, her palm over his heart. He covered her hand with his and traced his thumb along her knuckles. He watched her carefully, patiently, and simply waited. But she had no idea what to do next. She wanted a kiss but dared not instigate the contact on her own.

  Noises sounded in the hallway—a stumble, a crash, a scream.

  Sam released her hand and tossed the book onto a nearby table. Hazel jumped down from the ladder and dashed from the room on Sam’s heels. A cacophony echoed up the stairwell from Deck Two, and Hazel ran down the stairs after Sam to see a handful of ’tons and human servants standing beside Sally, who lay unconscious on the floor, having apparently crashed into the medieval suit of armor that stood at attention on the landing.

  Renton stood over her, eyes wide, and breathless. “She . . . I . . .”

  Blood seeped crimson from a puncture wound on Sally’s hip where she’d fallen on the suit of armor’s spear.

  “Your ’ton—” Renton managed, pointing at Sam. “He tried to kill her!”

  Renton bent over Sally, who was still sprawled atop the suit of armor, and placed both hands around the hilt of the spear buried in her hip.

  “No! Don’t pull out the spear!” Hazel shouted in horror, just as Sam lunged forward and stopped him.

  “We must get her to the infirmary.” He looked up at Hazel. “Please, retrieve my medical bag from my suite. Eugene will find it.”

  “That thing tried to kill her!” Renton’s face was an angry red.

  “Impossible,
” Sam said to him grimly. “I left Eugene in my cabin.” He looked at the iron spear that extended from Sally and then gingerly placed his arms beneath her small, inert form.

  Petrescu descended the stairs. He took in the scene, looked at Hazel’s shocked face and clenched fists, and fury flashed across his features.

  Hazel took an involuntary step back, uncertain where his anger was directed.

  “What has happened?” he asked in a low tone, which was somehow more frightening than if he had yelled.

  “I must get her to the infirmary,” Sam said.

  “I . . . that automaton . . .” Renton looked up at his employer and swallowed.

  Hazel watched the exchange in amazement. Renton was easily the larger, stronger of the two men.

  “What are you suggesting?” Dravor asked him. “Did he stab Miss Tucker with that?” He gestured toward the spear.

  Renton swallowed, then muttered, “Chased, chased her . . .”

  Hazel held her breath as the count regarded his assistant for a moment. His features gave no hint of his emotions. “We cannot have a ’ton running amok in the ship,” he said to Sam.

  “I shall address the ’ton,” Sam snapped as he lifted Sally carefully in his arms. “Be useful and open the lift.”

  Hazel bit her lip. Sam had no use for inefficiency during an emergency. In that moment, she figured he could easily take both men single-handedly. Anger flowed around the scene like a palpable thing.

  Her uncle raised his brows high, but opened the lift.

  Hazel took in the whole, strange scene, trying to understand what hadn’t been said. She would stake her life on the fact that Eugene had certainly not tried to kill Sally. She looked at Renton, who straightened his lapels and smoothed back his hair. The calm, calculating look on his face chilled her, and she wondered if he were the sort to protect himself at all costs.

  She rushed over just as Sam was entering the lift. “What is Eugene’s neutral code?”

  Sam frowned. “‘Halt.’”

  “Original,” Hazel muttered and dashed past Dravor, who entered the lift with Sam and Sally. She ran past Renton, down the hallway, coming to a breathless halt at Sam’s door. She knocked loudly. “Eugene! It’s Hazel.”

  The door opened. “Miss Hazel?” He held one strand of the delicate twinkle lights and another draped around his neck. “One of the bulbs is out,” he said.

  She shoved past him and slammed the door shut, locking it. “Did you have any interaction with Sally just now?”

  He frowned. “I did not.”

  “Did you hear anything unusual?”

  “I detected movement in your cabin, but reasoned it was your maid.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “There was a murmur of voices, but nothing detectable.”

  “A deep voice?”

  Eugene paused. “Yes. Why? What has happened?”

  Hazel swallowed, seeing Sally’s still, pale face. “We must take Sam’s medical bag to the infirmary. Miss Tucker has met with an accident.” She paused. “Renton said you tried to kill her.”

  Eugene frowned and set the strands of lights on the bed. “That is untrue. I did not attempt to end her life. I’ve been nowhere near her for at least three hours.”

  Hazel nodded, but couldn’t help the twitch of a relieved smile. “I did not believe you did. Your programming is unparalleled. Where is the doctor’s small medical bag?”

  Eugene crossed the room. “This is the smaller of the two.” He handed it to her. “I’ll carry the trunk.”

  Hazel nodded. “Before we leave, however, I must temporarily neutralize your advanced programming. Dr. MacInnes has told me your neutral code, and it should take no time at all to examine your history tin to show you did not assault Miss Tucker. I do not want anyone accusing you of a crime and insisting you be permanently discharged.”

  Eugene nodded. “I am fully compliant, so you needn’t bother with the neutral code. I’ll caution you, however, that should you forget to replace that which you remove, I’ll be boring. My simulated thought patterns and uncanny sense of humor will be absent, and I’ll not resemble at all the entertaining, nonhuman companion the doctor has come to know and love.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, and Hazel, despite the sense of urgency, laughed.

  “Eugene, that would perhaps be the most tragic thing this world has ever known,” she said, rummaging through the medical kit for the small tool used to open the access panel to Eugene’s programming.

  “The saying goes, ‘Sarcasm doesn’t become you,’” Eugene said, “but I would submit that sarcasm becomes you nicely, Miss Hazel.”

  “That is because excellence at sarcasm is surely the most prominent feature of your programming, thus you’ve an above-average appreciation for it.” Hazel smiled and finally found the tool. “Come, then. We must hurry. And you have my word, I’ll examine the tins straightaway. You’ll not be boring for long.”

  Eugene frowned and unbuttoned his shirt. “Suppose the doctor prefers a bland Eugene to a witty one.” He slipped his shirt from his shoulders and turned around, giving Hazel his back.

  She located the access panel, stunned at the material that housed the cyborg. It was warm, and felt as much like skin and muscle as any person she’d ever touched. “I am most certain,” she said as she opened the panel, “that the doctor adores ‘witty Eugene.’”

  Eugene sniffed. “I am not certain that is true.”

  “Put your fears to rest. Doctor MacInnes appreciates your personality, and you have my word I shall restore you to your full, sarcastic glory.”

  Hazel ran her finger along the multiple tin slots behind the panel, gently pulling the correct ones from their slots. The quality was excellent, and she sincerely doubted Eugene had malfunctioned at all, and certainly not because of faulty hardware.

  “Eugene,” she said after closing him up and gathering the supplies Sam needed, “please follow me to the infirmary, and bring the doctor’s large medical chest.”

  Eugene nodded. “Yes, Miss Hughes.” His movements were still smooth and fluid, but there was a flatness to his tone. What a funny thing it was, Hazel mused, to miss a simulated personality.

  She led Eugene to the Grand Staircase and down one deck to the infirmary, where Sam had already washed his hands, donned a clean smock and gloves, and was in the process of sedating Sally.

  Dravor stood to one side, watching with detached curiosity, and it bothered Hazel. She turned her attention to Sam, who motioned to her with his head.

  “Set the small bag here, please,” he said to Hazel. “Eugene, place the trunk over there for now, and then clean your hands and dress in that smock by the sink.”

  “Yes, sir.” Eugene did as he was told, and Sam paused while checking Sally’s breathing.

  “What is wrong with you?” he asked the ’ton.

  “I am functioning properly, sir. An initial diagnostic test indicates an absence of errors.”

  Sam looked at Hazel.

  “I pulled some tins.” She set the medical satchel on a tray near his elbow. “I shall examine his history to determine any potential involvement in this accident with Sally. I also removed the advanced personality programming until we have better answers. If there is cunning or independent thought involved, we are better served having him neutralized for now.” She glanced at Dravor, whose face showed a flash of annoyance.

  “We shall identify the problem, Uncle,” she offered, again wondering at his irritation. “I do not believe Eugene intentionally caused Sally harm or distress.”

  “You believe Renton to be lying?”

  Hazel blinked. “I believe Renton to be mistaken.”

  Sam cursed, and Hazel looked at the source of his distress. He was preparing to remove the spear from Sally’s hip, and blood pooled around the wound in alarming volume. Sam barked a few technic
al questions at Eugene to test the remaining knowledge base. Satisfied, Sam instructed the ’ton to stand near his side and assist.

  “I need you here,” Sam said, glancing up at Hazel.

  She nodded, already crossing the room. She pulled a gown from the shelf and removed her form-fitting jacket, glad she’d donned a short-sleeved corset blouse that morning.

  Sam again probed Sally’s wound. “Eugene, what is her heart rate?”

  Eugene was quiet for a moment. “Fast. One hundred thirty beats per minute.”

  “Pulse strength?”

  Eugene placed two fingers alongside Sally’s throat. The soft click of gears sounded as he processed information. “Weak, sir.”

  “Blood volume insufficient, surely.”

  “Initial scan shows significant internal bleeding.” Eugene’s voice lacked the quality that had made him so lifelike.

  “Prepare to quickly hand the stack of cloths to me,” Sam said. He glanced up at Dravor. “She will need a transfusion. Do you have a blood supply aboard? I noticed a cooling box.”

  Dravor shook his head. “It holds elixirs and medicines. I fear I cannot donate, as I have a blood condition that would harm her as efficiently as that spear.”

  Sam glanced up, and Hazel knew what he was thinking. The count was likely unaware that one person’s blood did not necessarily match another. Sam and Hazel, with Eugene’s analysis, had only just discovered it themselves.

  And more to the point, what sort of “blood condition” did he have?

  Hazel frowned as suspicions crowded her head. “Sam, I can help. When we conducted our experiments on blood interaction with several samples under a microscope, my blood was consistently compatible with each different sample.” She spoke over her shoulder as she scrubbed her hands and arms.

  Sam hesitated. “I remember. I would rather not, but it appears we have no choice.” He finally nodded. “Eugene, please set up the second gurney.”

  Eugene complied, and Hazel pulled on the gown, then climbed atop the makeshift table next to Sally. Sam instructed Eugene to collect supplies from the large trunk. While he did so, Sam looked at Dravor. “I’ll need three of your medical ’tons. I’ll have one of them alert you if I require additional help.”