The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance) Read online

  © 2019 Nancy Campbell Allen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®, at [email protected]. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Proper Romance is a registered trademark.

  Visit us at ShadowMountain.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Allen, Nancy Campbell, 1969– author.

  Title: The lady in the Coppergate Tower / Nancy Campbell Allen.

  Other titles: Proper romance.

  Description: Salt Lake City, Utah : Shadow Mountain, [2019] | “A steampunk Rapunzel”—Publisher’s website. | “Proper romance”—Publisher’s website.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019002128 | ISBN 9781629725543 (paperbound)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mental illness—Fiction. | Twin sisters—Fiction. | Rapunzel (Tale)—Fiction. | Romania, setting. | LCGFT: Steampunk fiction. | Romance fiction. | Action and adventure fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3551.L39644 L33 2019 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019002128

  Printed in Canada

  Marquis, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  COVER ART CREDITS

  Cover photo by Butch Adams Photography; © rphstock/Shutterstock.com; © Manachai/Moment/Getty Images

  Book design: © Shadow Mountain

  Art direction: Richard Erickson

  Design: Heather G. Ward

  Other Proper Romances

  by Nancy Campbell Allen

  My Fair Gentleman

  Beauty and the Clockwork Beast

  The Secret of the India Orchid

  Kiss of the Spindle

  For Karin and Julie.

  Your resilience is a source of strength for me.

  How I love you both.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Dr. Samuel MacInnes lay on his back in his bed at Blackwell Manor, arms behind his head, and looked at the night sky. Rather than a traditional guest room, his accommodations were in the third-floor observatory, complete with a domed glass ceiling. He preferred this room to other guest suites at the manor when he visited his good friend, Miles Blake, Earl of Blackwell. While other rooms boasted luxury and comfortable amenities, the observatory offered an enormous view of the night sky, and since his time spent on a battlefield in India, when the night closed in, he wanted to see the stars.

  There were no stars out tonight because a storm raged. Even that was comforting, though, because it mirrored how he felt inside of late. Since his return from India, he had achieved enormous professional success as a surgeon at the forefront of his field, and as an inventor of transplant organs for the wounded or terminally ill, but his social life still remained on the back burner, where he’d tossed it upon coming home. He’d lost all desire for meaningless pursuits, and attending balls and soirees only when his mother insisted.

  His current worries consisted of perfecting the heartclock he was crafting for Miles, and caring for his patients. Miles was living on borrowed time, and Sam felt a sense of urgency about completing the device. Strange things were afoot at Blackwell Manor, most notably the continued sightings of Marie Blake, the ghost of Miles’s sister. Her angry spirit, combined with an odd illness afflicting Miles’s sister-in-law that had Sam baffled, created an unsafe environment for Miles.

  Sam closed his eyes, tired, but determined to enjoy the comfort of the observatory with its crackling fire that provided the only light. As he felt himself sliding into the mesmerizing fog of sleep, he thought he heard a crash. His eyes flicked open, and after a long moment, he heard a roar.

  He sat up on the narrow bed, frowning. His telescriber dinged, then, and his heart thudded. He grabbed his scriber and saw a new message from Miles.

  Library. Med bag. Accident!

  He quickly dressed and seized his medical bag before running down the three flights of stairs to the main level. As he entered the library, he found Miles crouched on the floor next to an unconscious woman. With Miles was Lucy Pickett, a houseguest and sister to their good friend, Daniel Pickett.

  “ . . . vampire in black mist form,” she was saying to Miles.

  Sam noted, with alarm, Lucy’s upper back, where her dress was torn to shreds and bloodied. Angry claw marks slashed down her spine and shoulders. The wounds were beginning to show a faint green tinge, confirming her statement about a vampire.

  He looked at the woman on the floor, and his heart jumped into his throat.

  “Miss Hughes?” he asked.

  He’d not seen Hazel Hughes in years, but he would know that head of honey-gold hair anywhere. At his mother’s suggestion, he had recommended her as a Medium to Miles. He quickly squatted down next to her and began his examination. She was unconscious, her clothing was singed, and blood seeped onto Lucy’s dress where she cradled Hazel’s head.

  “A vamp?” he addressed Lucy. “Then we must treat your back immediately. We will need a mix of Abelfirth and Chromaxium. We shall have to rush you to the airfield and head straight for London—I don’t have any with me.”

  Lucy shifted, sliding her hand from beneath Hazel’s head, and Sam braced the wounded woman’s neck. “I have some upstairs,” Lucy said, wincing.

  Sam’s jaw dropped, as did Miles’s, and he stared at her. “How on earth do you have a supply of anti-vamp? It’s all I can do to secure some, and even then I must jump through a series of hoops that make it nigh impossible.”

  “I am part of the botany research team. I told you this.” Lucy looked down at her hands, which were red and would soon blister, and cradled them to her chest. Sam considered Hazel’s singed clothing and realized Lucy must have batted out the flames with her hands.

  Sam looked down at Hazel. He monitored her breathing and felt her pulse, while flipping open his bag with one hand and grabbing a cloth. He gently turned Hazel’s head and assessed the damage, while Miles and Lucy began a familiar argument about whether Lucy’s
brother was entitled to limit her dangerous activities.

  Sam had thought the entire house had turned in for the evening. What on earth had the two women been doing?

  Lucy sat back on her heels, and winced.

  Sam turned Hazel slightly to inspect her back where her clothing had burned away. His jaw tightened. He was glad for her sake that she was unconscious; the pain when she awoke would be unbearable. He would need to take her to London immediately for proper treatment.

  He glanced up at the other two, and said, “We must apply the anti-vamp immediately. Have a ’ton bring it down, Miles.”

  “No,” Lucy said and struggled to her feet. Miles stood with her and caught her elbow when she stumbled. “I can’t have just anyone rummaging through my things. I’ll do it myself.” She paused, looking down at Hazel. “Will she be well?”

  “I hope so,” Sam said, trying to slow the bleeding. “Where is Oliver?” he asked Miles and reached back into his bag for a bandage he could secure around Hazel’s head.

  Miles told him their friend, Oliver Reed, an Inspector with the Yard, had been called to London, and Sam cursed inwardly. Something was happening at Blackwell, and Oliver’s calm head and resources would have been hugely beneficial.

  “Help Lucy.” Sam thumbed back one of Hazel’s eyelids and shone a light across her pupil.

  Lucy’s face was pale, and a light sheen of sweat had appeared across her forehead. She wobbled on her feet, and Miles, for the first time since Sam had known him, seemed frozen in place.

  “Hurry,” Sam barked.

  Miles picked up Lucy and carried her quickly from the library, and Sam hoped they wouldn’t be forced to tell Daniel his sister had been killed in a vampire attack.

  “Miss Hughes . . . Hazel,” Sam said as he secured the bandage around Hazel’s head, pleased that the bleeding was gradually slowing. “Awaken for me, won’t you?” The blood was a garish contrast to her golden-blonde hair, and he winced.

  He cleared his throat. “I do hope we shall avoid cutting some of your hair away,” he said, speaking nearly as much to break the silence as to bring her around. “The wound will require stitching, but fortunately for you, I am quite proficient with a needle.”

  Hazel moaned and turned her head.

  “There we are! That’s a good girl. Can you open your eyes?”

  She winced and squeezed her eyelids, then fluttered them open. She squinted against the muted light. “Hurts,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “I should think so. Where do you hurt?”

  “Everywhere.” Her eyes were gold, like her hair, and had flecks of green in the irises that magnified as tears gathered. “My head . . . my back—”

  “I am taking you to a hospital in London. We’ll contact your mother, and we will get you well.” He paused, realizing she may not recognize him. “I am Dr. MacInnes—Sam. We met several years ago, our mothers are friends—”

  She nodded and sucked in a breath of pain at the movement. “I know who you are.”

  He fished his telescriber from his pocket to contact the airstrip. He’d need a Traveler brought around from the garage first. Movement at the doorway caught his eye, and he glanced up to see Mrs. Farrell, the housekeeper, blinking in confusion and wearing a housecoat.

  “Oh, good,” he said. “Please have Martha Watts deliver a Traveler to the front door.”

  Her eyes widened, but she nodded and hurried away.

  Hazel groaned and tried to move. Tears flowed, and he helped her roll to her side to ease some of the burden from her back.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked her gently.

  “I am the world’s worst Medium,” she mumbled and closed her eyes. Tears dripped across the bridge of her nose. “I did not conjure a ghost. Somehow, I drew the attention of a vampire.”

  A door slammed down the hall, and the sound of running footsteps grew louder until Martha Watts, Blackwell’s vehicle and stable mistress, entered. She was of middle age, striking in her appearance with long, curling black hair. She wore breeches, always, and was one of the most efficient people Sam had ever met.

  He quickly explained everything to her, all the while gently holding Hazel’s head. He needed to clean Hazel’s back before applying a burn salve, but her head wound worried him. When her eyes fluttered closed, his worry increased.

  “You’ll remain here for a moment?” he asked Martha. “I must leave quick instructions for Miles.”

  “Of course. And I’ve brought the fastest Traveler to the front yard.”

  He nodded his thanks, made sure Hazel was comfortable, then grabbed paper and pen from his medical bag, before running upstairs to the South Wing. He stopped at Miles’s suite and knocked a pattern they’d used in India, and then began scribbling on the paper. Miles opened the door, and Sam glanced up after a moment, handing him the paper.

  “I need to take Miss Hughes to London immediately,” he said. “I’ve scribed ahead to the airstrip. They have an emergency airship at the ready. Miss Watts will take us.”

  “How badly is Miss Hughes hurt?”

  Sam shook his head. “I’ll know better when I get her to the hospital. I’ve written instructions for Lucy’s care.” He pointed to the paper he’d handed Miles. “Scribe me immediately if her fever spikes above the red line. She should have a thermometer with her other medicines.”

  Miles nodded. “Travel safely.”

  “I will scribe as soon as Miss Hughes’s condition is stabilized.” Sam clasped Miles’s hand and then jogged quickly down the hallway. He made his way back to the library, where Mrs. Farrell and Martha Watts hovered over Hazel.

  “I’ll drive, so you can sit with her inside,” Martha Watts told him firmly.

  “Thank you.” He scooped up Hazel, who had lapsed again into oblivion, and shifted her as high against his chest as he could to keep from exacerbating the wounds on her back. “Mrs. Farrell, will you have my belongings in the observatory shipped to my London address?”

  The woman nodded, her eyes still huge. Martha Watts picked up his medical bag and carried it to the front door, which she opened wide for Sam.

  The gleaming, black vehicle with the Blackwell crest emblazoned on the door waited for them. The Traveler looked like an elaborate carriage without horses to draw it. The engine was running, steam releasing from a large pipe on top. The driver’s seat was situated out front, slightly lower than a horse-drawn perch to facilitate efficient maneuvering.

  Sam carefully lifted Hazel into the conveyance and climbed in after, pulling her partially across his lap and switching on an interior Tesla torch while Martha Watts secured the door and settled herself in the driver’s seat. As the Traveler moved forward through the rain and the wind, Sam heard the mechanism engage that controlled the external canopy, covering the driver from the elements.

  “Hazel,” Sam murmured. “I will care for you. You are going to be fine.” As blood continued to seep through the heavy bandage, he held another to the back of her head, which rested on his leg, and wrapped a long curl of her hair around his fingers. It was thick, and as soft as spun silk. Light from the interior torch glinted off the locks; they gleamed gold with hints of bronze. He rubbed the strands between his fingers and tipped his head against the seat, tired.

  “You will be well,” he whispered as the carriage sped and bumped along the road to the airstrip, under a tunnel of trees with thick branches that met overhead. He thought of the procedures he would need to perform to close the gash in her head and treat the burns on her back, and he hoped he was right.

  One year later

  The dream had always been the same. Hazel looked in a mirror and saw her reflection, yet it was not exactly her. Hazel’s hair was golden, like honey. The reflection’s hair was so blonde it was nearly silver. And the eyes—Hazel’s were gold and green, while the Hazel in the mirror had eyes so blue they s
eemed purple. The curls were the same; the smile was the same. And when she tilted her head, the reflection tilted her head as well, but something was off. The reflection wasn’t quite right.

  The dream had begun in childhood, and as Hazel aged, the reflection kept pace. Dream Hazel was always in a beautiful room, with a lovely forest scene painted on the walls and a canopy of stars on the ceiling. There were toys and books, and clothing rich in color and design—much fancier than anything Hazel ever wore in her real life.

  She’d once mentioned the dream to her mother, but Rowena Hughes was an easily excitable woman who reacted to Hazel with a dismissive wave of her hand. Dreams were nonsense, so why on earth would someone dream about having different hair and eyes, and more to the point, why would someone be foolish enough to dwell on it?

  Hazel never mentioned the dreams again, but they continued. The sense that something was missing—some vital part of her—grew alongside the strange images until Hazel, as an adult, accepted that there must be a piece of herself missing and she would know it when she saw it.

  But something else disturbing had developed over time. The dream was changing. Dream Hazel was slowly going mad.

  Hazel Hughes lay on her back and stared up at the early morning sky, waiting for the world to stop spinning. She hoped it would stop, and soon, before a crowd gathered. Landing flat on her back in Hyde Park because she fell off a horse while racing with a pair of dandies would not endear her to her social betters. I must be mad, she thought.

  “Hazel!” Mr. Landon Price’s face came into view, eyes large and freckles pronounced. Her childhood friend hadn’t changed in appearance through the years, except to grow bigger. “Oh, Hazel! Are you— Can you move? Blast it all, Trent, you said that mount was harmless!”

  Lord Trent was Landon’s old school chum and the third son of an obscure baron who held onto high society’s coattails with clenched hands. He hurried over, leading his and Landon’s horses by the reins. “Is she dead?” he asked, breathless. He sounded nearly as breathless as Hazel felt; her quick, violent contact with the cold, hard earth had forced all air from her lungs, and sharp pain radiated through her abdomen and chest.