The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “All will be well,” Petrescu said. “Trust me.”

  He spoke briefly with the driver, then climbed back inside, and the carriage headed away into the night.

  Hazel’s eyes followed the conveyance and hardened.

  Sam knew Hazel didn’t trust Petrescu. And she wasn’t worried anymore about Marit liking her. She was Marit’s champion, and heaven help the person who stood between her and her twin.

  The town of Vania was aglow with lighted homes and alive with strains of music sounding from pubs. Vania was much larger than Hazel had expected, and after long hours of travel, anxiety, anger at the count, and rage at Renton, the feel of a normal town was soothing.

  Hazel entered the inn’s small reception area and stomped her feet on the rug. Her clothing was warm, but she was glad for the inn’s cheery, warm interior. The establishment was old, but cozy. She felt more at home in it than she had during the luxurious travel in the Magellan or on the train.

  Hazel approached the front table where an older woman was bent over, reaching for something on the floor. Hazel stooped, picked up the thimble, and handed it to the old woman. She met the woman’s eyes as she straightened.

  The woman, old enough to be Hazel’s grandmother, dropped her mouth open in surprise and fell back into a chair, bumping her hip and settling hard.

  Hazel gasped and reached forward for the woman’s hands. “Oh! I apologize. I did not mean to startle you.”

  The woman put her hand to her chest. “Johanna,” she murmured.

  Hazel stilled, her smile fading. “I . . . who?” Her heart beat harder. Dravor had only just told her that her mother’s name had been Johanna.

  A young woman Hazel’s age appeared from the stairway and approached. After a quick check on the old woman at the desk, she looked at Hazel and Sam with a bright smile. “I am glad to help you,” she said in accented but clear English. “I am Elana, and this is Auntie Ursula. How many rooms will you require?”

  Sam stepped forward and relayed the information that the count had already reserved rooms for them. He and Elana discussed the details while Hazel and Ursula stared at each other. After completing the transaction, Elana pointed to the stairs that led to their rooms and told them that, although the supper hour had passed, she would have the kitchen warm a light meal for them immediately.

  Hazel, who still hadn’t found her voice, looked at Elana and her aunt. Elana was a pretty woman, with dark hair that hung in a simple braid over her shoulder and light-brown eyes. She looked as though she could climb a mountain with only a walking stick and a knapsack.

  The girl smiled at Sam. “May I show you and your friends to the dining room, or would you prefer to freshen in your rooms first?”

  Hazel shook herself, and reached out, taking Sam’s arm. “Courting,” she said. “Not friends. We are courting.”

  Elana’s smile deepened, and her brows lifted in delight. “How wonderful! Many congratulations to you. You are English, yes?”

  Sam’s lips twitched as he glanced at Hazel. “We are,” he answered. “And on holiday, visiting family.”

  “Splendid,” Elana said. “I was a governess for the English ambassador living in Budapest. They returned home, but I am here for the season to help Auntie Ursula.”

  Elana reached behind the desk for their room keys. “Follow me, and we will have you settled in no time.”

  Elana was lovely and friendly, and Hazel couldn’t dislike her. Not really. But she kept a firm hand on Sam’s elbow, anyway. Eugene followed them, carrying their bags, as they climbed the stairs behind Elana, who was chattering about supper, the accommodations in each room, and the time for breakfast in the morning.

  Hazel’s nerves were frayed from the strange and tense journey in the confines of the carriage with Dravor, who always seemed to leave her with more questions than answers. Now he was attending to some “business” in the middle of the night, Auntie Ursula had called her by her dead mother’s name, and pretty Elana had beamed at Sam as though she wanted to serve him dinner herself. Hazel’s old insecurities rose with a vengeance, and she was so irritated by it she wanted to cry angry tears.

  Elana indicated their rooms, handed them each an enormous, black iron key, smiled brightly, and bounced back down the stairs.

  Eugene unlocked Sam’s door, entered, and closed it.

  She and Sam were alone in the hallway; the quiet hum of voices downstairs was barely audible.

  Sam took her hand. “Hazel,” he said. “My darling.” He folded her in his arms and placed a kiss on her forehead. Then he pulled back and cradled her cheek in his hand, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  The world had upended itself and dumped her in Romania with one man who had filled her dreams for more than a year and another man who was quickly beginning to haunt her nightmares. She had a sister going mad in a locked room, mysteries and secrets swirling around her at every turn, and a mother at home in England, whom she was beginning to miss quite keenly.

  Sam traced her cheek with his thumb, and she closed her eyes, turning her lips into his palm, kissing him gently.

  He exhaled slowly, and when she opened her eyes, he leaned down and captured her lips with his. He kissed her with such deliberate slowness that she quite forgot she was in the middle of a hallway of a very public inn. When he finally lifted his head, she couldn’t remember her own name.

  “Freshen up,” he whispered and took her key, opening her door for her and handing her the portmanteau. “I’ll knock in ten minutes.”

  She nodded, dazed, and stepped inside her small room with its tidy bed and washbasin. Sam smiled and closed her door, and she stood still for a moment, wondering when she had become Alice who had fallen down the rabbit hole.

  Later that night, Hazel was still awake, braiding her long curls and watching the snow swirling outside her window. It hadn’t stopped for even a moment, and she hoped the carriage would be powerful enough to climb up the mountain the next day. Every time she had closed her eyes, she saw an image of herself with platinum hair, growing progressively, terrifyingly more mad. Unable to sleep, and almost glad she couldn’t, she donned a robe over her nightdress and cracked open her door.

  She winced at the creak, which sounded like an explosion in the quiet of the inn, and made her way down the stairs. She eased her way down the dark hall, following moonlit shadows that indicated windows, until she reached the inn’s small kitchen. She hoped no one would mind if she fixed herself a cup of hot tea.

  When she entered the room, she stopped in surprise. Elana was there, teapot already in hand and a cup on the table.

  “My lady?” Elana asked. “Is something amiss?”

  Hazel blinked. “Oh. No, nothing is wrong. I just couldn’t sleep and—” She tightened the sash of her robe and glanced at the table.

  Elana followed her gaze and smiled. “Would you care to join me?” She set down the teapot and placed another cup next to her own.

  Hazel smiled. “Yes, thank you.” She leaned against a counter and hesitated for a moment. “I also wanted to ask you some questions, but I was unsure . . .”

  Elana filled the two cups and handed one to Hazel. She turned on a small lamp and indicated for Hazel to take a chair next to a table set along the wall. Elana sat opposite her and blew gently across her cup. “Might I assume you have questions about Auntie Ursula and your mother?”

  Hazel nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Auntie was afraid when she saw you, and was rather shaken for some time after you arrived. She recognized you because she knew your mother, years ago, and you look exactly like her. Her name was Johanna, and she was married to a blacksmith from the north. She grew an herb garden and provided remedies for minor illnesses. Auntie often suffered when the weather turned, and she said Johanna always helped her.”

  She paused, and Hazel was grateful for the moment to absorb the
details. “I never knew her,” she said quietly.

  Elana nodded. “I know.” She took a sip of tea. “Auntie said she remembers a rumor about two babies.”

  Hazel’s heart stuttered and then beat hard. “I wish I knew more. The count—my uncle—has told me a little, but—”

  Elana’s mouth hung slack. “Count Petrescu is your uncle? He was Johanna’s brother?”

  “Yes.” Hazel swallowed, wondering if another mystery was about to be uncovered. “You seem surprised.”

  “I suppose ‘intrigued’ is a better description. How much do you know about the history of the Petrescu family?”

  “Apparently not enough,” Hazel muttered.

  Elana refilled her teacup as though settling in for a story. “Centuries ago, after the Crusades, a Hungarian prince established his home here and took the name ‘Petrescu.’ He built a massive home for himself and for his new wife and her child—his stepson. The castle was called Coppergate because he had a preference for the metal.”

  Hazel nodded. That was nearly the same information Dravor had told her.

  “After the prince’s wife died in a terrible accident, he began spending all of his time in the tower, which was situated above the family crypt. These days, the doors at the bottom of the tower are locked tight and sealed with magick, and thorny bushes surround the base and have crawled up the tower itself.” Elana smiled. “As children, we imagined it was haunted. There is a window at the top, and we imagined Lady Petrescu’s ghost wandering in there at night.”

  The words hung in the air, suspended, and Hazel felt as though her breath had been sucked from her lungs. In her memory, she recalled looking through Marit’s eyes over the landscape from high above, as though from a tower window. Hazel swallowed. “Strange to put a tower atop a crypt.”

  Elana shrugged. “His reasons must have made sense to him. People said he grieved her loss greatly. There were other rumors, though; he was quite cruel.”

  “How so?” Hazel asked.

  “When the prince was young, he cut a wide swath across Eastern Europe and beyond. His enemies often referred to him as ‘the Impaler.’”

  “Vlad the Impaler?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Elana confirmed. “But he seemed to have reserved that brutality for his enemies. Once he moved to Vania, he seemed more determined to focus on his magick.”

  Hazel chewed on her lip. “What happened to the stepson?”

  “Prince Petrescu raised the child. He grew to adulthood, married, and sired a child, but during a dark period when the region experienced a wave of attacks from Dark Magick practitioners, the wife was killed, and he vanished. The stepson’s child survived and was raised by his mother’s family.”

  “What was the name of the prince’s stepson?”

  “Dravor. In fact, the current count is named for him.”

  A knot formed in Hazel’s stomach. “What became of the cruel prince?”

  “He was brutally murdered shortly after the Dark Magick attacks. Other than the young child, the Petrescu line had died.”

  Hazel’s breath quickened. “You said the stepson, Dravor, disappeared when his wife was killed?”

  Elana nodded. “He was never seen again. So when this Count Petrescu appeared twenty-five years ago to claim the family seat, most people assumed he was descended from Dravor’s son—the young boy who was raised by his mother’s family. Coppergate was in ruins, even the tower, and he restored the whole of it, even the grounds.”

  Hazel rubbed her forehead, piecing together the information and following the history of her family.

  Elana continued. “We had no idea Johanna and the count were related. Though it makes sense, then, why he took in Johanna’s child when she died in childbirth.”

  Only one child, Hazel thought. The other one was sold to a stranger.

  Elana finished drinking her tea. “Auntie Ursula does not care for the count. She says there is a darkness to him. In fact, she claims that your mother was descended from the son of the original Dravor. Her proof is that Johanna looked exactly like Prince Petrescu’s wife. People believe Auntie is daft, though. Johanna, herself, never claimed relation to the Petrescu name.”

  Hazel’s heart thudded again. “How did your aunt come by that opinion?”

  “From a medieval painting of the princess and her son, Dravor.”

  Hazel grew light-headed. Legends, princes, paintings, her mother—all swirled in her mind until she was able to narrow her focus to one fact. If Hazel looked just like Johanna, and Johanna looked like the original princess, whose painting depicted her and her young son, she didn’t need to see the painting to know the truth of her uncle Dravor’s true identity.

  He was the boy in the painting she’d seen on the Magellan, as he had claimed, and he was more than five hundred years old.

  Sam awoke with a start. Dawn shone clearly through the window, but he’d not heard a word from across the hall. It was possible Hazel had slept through the night without incident, which would be ideal. He’d had to leave Eugene in the ’ton charging room at the end of the hall, which had not been his first choice, but a ’ton without a charge was a ’ton who couldn’t function.

  He rose and quickly made himself presentable, and then crossed the hallway. When knocking on the door produced no response, his concern grew. Rather than wait, he withdrew a small packet of tools from his pocket and maneuvered them in the stubborn lock.

  The mechanism finally clicked, and he opened the door. Hazel’s room was in chaos. Clothes were strewn over her travel trunks, and her portmanteau was gone. The blankets had been rumpled, as if she had risen but not returned to bed.

  The doors to the wardrobe on the far wall were cracked open an inch. Blood suddenly running cold, he crossed the room and yanked it open.

  Eugene had been crammed inside, legs drawn up, and slumped to the side.

  “Eugene!” Sam grasped the ’ton around the middle and pulled him out of the wardrobe. Eugene weighed more than Sam did, and as unresponsive as the ’ton was, Sam struggled to maintain his grip. They both tumbled to the floor.

  He looked around the room, heart beating rapidly as his adrenaline shot skyward. Where was Hazel?

  He gently rolled Eugene onto the floor, face down, and noted the crack in his cranial covering under his hair. His back panel was intact, but a quick examination showed severed mechanisms connecting the head to the torso had been broken.

  Sam stood and ran his hand across his forehead and down to his mouth. Petrescu must have her; it was the only possibility. Sam ran from the room and down the hallway, banging on the door of the room he knew had been reserved for the count.

  “Petrescu!” He pounded the door repeatedly, hard enough to rattle it on its hinges. He tried the knob, surprised to find it open, and peered inside.

  The room was empty, as if nobody had set foot in it.

  Cursing, his fear like a black veil hovering at the corners of his eyes, he ran down the stairs to the main room. Ursula and Elana were there, and looked up at him with wide eyes.

  “Hazel . . .” Sam gasped. “Miss Hughes . . . have you seen her? Where is the count?”

  Elana shook her head. “I spoke with Miss Hughes last night, I would say near midnight, but otherwise I’ve not seen her.”

  Ursula said something, and Elana translated. “Neither of us saw the count at all.”

  Sam ran his hand through his hair and paced away, his mind racing, frantic. “Wait, you saw Hazel at midnight? Where? Why?”

  “She said she couldn’t sleep and had come down for a cup of tea,” Elana said, looking truly nervous. “She asked questions about her mother and about her uncle, the count.”

  “And then she left? Did she say she was returning to her room?”

  “She was with me for thirty minutes or so, and then she left.” Elana lifted a shoulder helplessly. “
This is all I know.”

  He looked around the room, hands on his hips, naturally falling back to the quick decision-making process that had served him so well in the military. “Miss Elana,” he said, “I need tools, anything your maintenance workers use to repair your ’tons. And then you need to tell me exactly what you told Miss Hughes last night.” He paused. “How far are we from the castle? From Coppergate?”

  Elana pointed outside. “An hour by carriage, nearly to the top of that peak.”

  Hazel’s head hurt. She felt as though she were floating underwater and couldn’t reach the surface. A voice, softly singing, pulled her upward. She didn’t understand the language of the song, didn’t recognize the voice.

  She felt a cool hand on her forehead, but when she gasped, the hand was gone as if suddenly yanked back. The song turned to chanting, a litany of fear, worry, and surprise.

  She blinked her eyes open, and the light in the room pierced through to the back of her skull. She groaned and rolled slowly to her side, cautiously peering at her surroundings.

  She saw faded, painted walls that had once been a vibrant forest scene, a multitude of books stacked and scattered, an old toy box, painted stars on the ceiling, and one window with shutters open to the snowy sky outside. She had seen this room in her dreams a thousand times.

  “Marit,” she whispered, and shoved herself upright in the bed she found herself in.

  Standing against the wall was her sister, who seemed equal parts hopeful and terrified.

  “The tower at Coppergate,” she murmured. She looked at her sister—familiar because it was like looking in a mirror, and because she’d seen her in her dreams—and felt her eyes burn with tears. “He has had you locked in the tower for your entire life.”

  What was her uncle’s ultimate purpose? Perhaps he wanted both of his nieces locked away, just like the artifacts he collected. Or possibly he had a task requiring the two of them, and he truly did need Hazel’s help reaching Marit.