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CHAPTER ONE
SCOWLING, A LOCK of dark hair falling onto his forehead, Laszlo Cziffra de Zsadany stared at the young woman with smooth fair hair. His jaw tightened involuntarily as he studied her face in silence, noting the contrast between the innocence of the soft grey eyes and the passionate promise of her full mouth.
She was beautiful. So beautiful that it was impossible not to stand and stare. Such beauty could seduce and enslave. For such a woman a man would relinquish his throne, betray his country and lose his sanity.
Laszlo smiled grimly. He might even get married!
His smile faded and, feeling restless and on edge, he leant forward and squinted at the cramped, curled inscription at the bottom of the painting. Katalina Csesnek de Veszprem. But even though his eyes were fixed intently on the writing his mind kept drifting back to the face of the sitter. He gritted his teeth. What was it about this painting that he found so unsettling? But even as he asked himself the question he shrank from acknowledging the answer.
Anger jostled with misery as he stared at the face, seeing not Katalina but another, whose name was never spoken for to do so would burn his lips. Of course it wasn’t so very like her; there were similarities, in colouring and the shape of her jaw, but that was all.
Disconcerted by the intense and unwelcome emotions stirred up by a pair of grey eyes, he glanced longingly out of the window at the Hungarian countryside. And then he froze as he heard an unmistakable hooting. It was bad luck to hear an owl’s cry in daylight and his golden eyes narrowed as he uneasily searched the pale blue sky for the bird.
From behind him there was a thump as Besnik, his lurcher, sat down heavily on the stone floor. Sighing, Laszlo reached down and rubbed the dog’s silky ears between his thumb and forefinger.
‘I know,’ he murmured softly. ‘You’re right. I need some air. Come.’ Standing up straight, he clicked his fingers so that the dog leapt lightly to its feet. ‘Let’s go! Before I start counting magpies.’
He wandered slowly through the castle’s corridors. The wood panelling on the walls gleamed under the low lights, and the familiar smell of beeswax and lavender calmed him as he walked down the stairs. Passing his grandfather’s study, he noticed that the door was ajar and, glancing inside, he saw with some surprise that the room wasn’t empty; his grandfather, Janos, was sitting at his desk.
Laszlo felt his chest tighten as he took in how small and frail Janos appeared to be. Even now, more than six years after his wife Annuska’s death, his grandfather still seemed to bear the burden of her loss. For a moment he hesitated. And then, softly, he closed the door. There had been an almost meditative quality to his grandfather’s stillness and he sensed that Janos needed to be alone.
He wondered why his grandfather was up so early. And then he remembered. Of course. Seymour was arriving today!
No wonder Janos had been unable to sleep. Collecting art had been his hobby for over thirty years: a personal, private obsession. But today, for the first time ever, he would reveal that collection to a stranger—this expert, Edmund Seymour, who was arriving from London.
Laszlo grimaced. He instinctively distrusted strangers and he felt a ripple of dislike for 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 finge
rs: 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.
