Vows Made in Secret. Louise Fuller
Seymour—a man he’d never met, and to whom he had never so much as uttered a word, but whose company he would now have to suffer for weeks.
Pushing a door open with his shoulder, he glanced warily into the kitchen and then breathed out slowly. Good! Rosa wasn’t up. He wasn’t ready to face her gimlet eye yet. Apart from his grandfather their housekeeper was the only other person from whom he couldn’t hide his feelings. Only, unlike Janos, Rosa had no qualms about cross-examining him.
Pulling open the cavernous fridge, he groaned as he saw the cold meats and salads arranged on the shelves.
And then, despite the rush of cold air on his face, and the even colder lump of resentment in his chest, he felt his mood shift and he closed the fridge door gently. Food had been a comforting distraction during his grandmother’s long illness. But by the time of her death it had become a passion—a passion that had led to him financing a restaurant in the centre of Budapest. The restaurant had been his project: it had been a risk, and a lot of hard work, but he thrived on both and he was now the owner of a staggeringly successful chain of high street restaurants.
Laszlo lifted his chin. He was no longer just Janos’s grandson but a wealthy, independent businessman in his own right.
He sighed. Not that he wasn’t proud of being a de Zsadany. It was just that the name brought certain responsibilities along with it. Such as Seymour’s impending visit. He gritted his teeth. If only the blasted man would ring and cancel.
As if on cue, his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. Clumsy with shock, and a ridiculous sense of guilt, he pulled it out with shaking fingers: it was Jakob! Relief, and the tiniest feeling of regret, washed over him.
‘Laszlo! I thought you’d be up. I know you’ll have forgotten, so I’ve just rung to remind you that we have a visitor arriving today.’
Laszlo shook his head. Typical Jakob—ringing to check up on him. Jakob Frankel was the de Zsadany family lawyer, and a good man, but Laszlo couldn’t imagine letting his guard down with him or any other outsider. Not any more: not after what had happened the last time.
‘I know you won’t believe me, Jakob, but I did actually remember it was happening today.’
He heard the lawyer laugh nervously.
‘Excellent! I’ve arranged a car, but if you could be on hand to greet—?’
‘Of course I will,’ Laszlo interrupted testily, irritated by the tentative note in the lawyer’s voice. He paused, aware that he sounded churlish. ‘I want to be there,’ he muttered roughly. ‘And let me know if I can do anything else.’ It was the nearest he got to an apology.
‘Of course. Of course! But I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’ Jakob spoke hurriedly, his desire to end the conversation clearly overriding his normal deference.
Laszlo murmured non-committally. For most of his life Janos’s hobby had seemed a strangely soulless and senseless exercise. But Annuska’s death had changed that opinion as it had changed everything else.
After her funeral life at the castle had grown increasingly bleak. Janos had been in a state of shock, inconsolable with grief. But once the shock had worn off his misery had turned into a kind of depression—a lethargy which no amount of time seemed able to heal. Laszlo had been in despair; weeks and months had turned into years. Until slowly, and then with increasing momentum, his grandfather had become almost his old self.
The reason for his recovery, like all catalysts for change, had been wholly unexpected. A stack of letters between Annuska and Janos had reminded him of their mutual passion for art.
Tentatively, not daring to hope, Laszlo had encouraged his grandfather to revive his former hobby. To his surprise, Janos had begun to lose his listless manner and then, out of the blue, his grandfather had decided to have his sprawling collection catalogued. Seymour’s auction house in London had been contacted and its flamboyant owner, Edmund Seymour, had duly been invited to visit Kastely Almasy.
Laszlo grimaced. His grandfather’s happiness had overridden his own feeling but how on earth was he going to put up with this stranger in his home?
Jakob’s voice broke into his thoughts.
‘I mean, I know how you hate having people around—’ There was a sudden awkward silence and then the lawyer cleared his throat. ‘What I meant to say was—’
Laszlo interrupted him curtly. ‘There are more than thirty rooms at the castle, Jakob, so I think I’ll be able to cope with one solitary guest, don’t you?’
He felt a sudden, fierce stab of self-loathing. Seymour could stay for a year if it made his grandfather happy. And, really, what was a few weeks? Since Annuska’s death time had ceased to matter. Nothing much mattered except healing his grandfather.
‘I can manage,’ he repeated gruffly.
‘Of course...of course.’ The lawyer laughed nervously. ‘You might even enjoy it. In fact, Janos was only saying to me yesterday that this visit might be a good opportunity to invite some of the neighbours for drinks or dinner. The Szecsenyis are always good fun and they have a daughter around your age.’
In the early-morning light the room seemed suddenly grey and cold, like a tomb. Laszlo felt his fingers tighten around the handset as his heart started to pound out a drumroll of warning.
He took a shallow breath, groping for calm. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said finally. His tone was pleasant, but there was no mistaking the note of high-tensile steel in his voice. ‘I mean, our guest may simply prefer paintings to people.’
He knew what his grandfather really wanted, and why he had inveigled Jakob into suggesting it. Janos secretly longed to see his only grandchild married—to see Laszlo sharing his life with a soulmate. And why wouldn’t he? After all, Janos himself had been blissfully happy during his forty-year marriage.
Laszlo’s fingers curled into his palms. If only he could do it. If only he could marry a perfectly sweet, pretty girl like Agnes Szecsenyi. That would be worth more than fifty art collections to Janos.
But that was never going to happen. For he had a secret, and no matter how many dinner dates his grandfather engineered, a wife was most certainly not going to result from any of them.
* * *
‘Now, you have read my notes properly, haven’t you, Prue? Only you do have a tendency to skim...’
Pushing a strand of pale blonde hair out of her cloud-grey eyes, Prudence Elliot took a deep breath and counted slowly up to ten. Her plane had landed in Hungary only an hour ago, but this was the third time Uncle Edmund had rung her to see how she was doing: in other words, he was checking up on her.
Edmund paused. ‘I don’t want to sound like a nag, but it’s just... Well, I just wish I could be there with you...you do understand?’
His voice cut through her juddering, panicky thoughts and her anxiety was instantly replaced by guilt. Of course she understood. Her uncle had built up the auction house that bore his name from scratch. And today would have undoubtedly been the most important day of his career—the pinnacle of his life’s work: cataloguing reclusive Hungarian billionaire Janos Almasy de Zsadany’s legendary art collection.
With a lurch of fear, Prudence remembered the look of excitement and terror on Edmund’s face when he’d been invited to the de Zsadany castle in Hungary. His words kept replaying in her head.
‘The man’s a modern Medici, Prue. Of course no one actually knows the exact contents of his collection. But a conservative valuation would be over a billion dollars.’
It should be Edmund with his thirty years of experience sitting in the back of the sleek, shark-nosed de Zsadany limousine. Not Prudence, who felt she could offer little more than her uncle’s reputation by proxy. Only Edmund was in England, confined to bed, recovering from a major asthma attack.
Biting her lip, she glanced out of the window at the dark fields.