The Veils of the Budapest Palace (Darke of Night Book 3) (28 page)

Zsigmund and I had spent a rather uncomfortable week here so far, for the house was in a shocking state of disrepair. But like a whirlwind of energy, Zsigmund had whipped up labour parties to help him at least make the place windproof and watertight before the winter snows arrived. To my inevitable anxiety, this had involved him going up on the roof, but he’d been sure-footed and efficient, and the men who’d helped seemed inclined to look out for him.

From the window, I could still see the men working on clearing the terrace. The garden beyond was another big job, but there was a limited amount that could be done in the late November frosts. And judging by the growing darkness of sky now, I thought it would snow very soon.

Zsigmund himself had turned most of his attention to the land and the peasants who farmed it, making sure dwellings were in reasonable states of repair, and that food supplies could be eked out. Most of the land improvements he wished to make would have to wait for spring, but that didn’t stop him talking and planning and getting his hands dirty when required. In those first weeks at Orosháza, he was a whirlwind of energy.

Being Zsigmund, of course, he had already renewed his friendships with his noble neighbours, especially the younger, wilder set, but he only saw them after dark, when the work of the day was complete, and he always came home to me before I could worry. A new, responsible Zsigmund was balancing the devil-may-care reprobate who had first charmed me, and who would always exist somewhere in his heart and mine.

Meanwhile, I had set about making the inside of the house a home, one room at a time. Our bedroom and the old count’s had been joint first on our list. Zsigmund and I now had a large, tastefully decorated chamber dominated by the hugest four-poster bed I had ever seen. There was no shortage of bed linen or curtain fabric in the house. Some had been damaged by damp, but the maids and I had saved most of it.

And so now we had a rather charming sitting room too, with a polished floor and an admittedly rather worn and faded Turkish rug in the centre. Despite the blazing wood fire, it was a little chilly since we’d opened the window to dispel the smell of paint and polish. But at least we now had somewhere pleasant to sit together and receive our visitors.

“Beautiful,” the maid Maria said with satisfaction. Although János and Agi and Duclos had come with us from Pest, the rest of our house staff were all local and new, and eager to see the house restored. “So what is next?”

I smiled at her enthusiasm. “The dining room, I think.” My smile broadened as I saw the horsemen riding into view. One of them was Zsigmund, just as dashing in his careless country dress and fur-lined cloak as in his military uniform. With his focus on work and hard riding, he wore good boots and old clothes, usually forgetting his necktie. In fact, especially with his scar, he looked vaguely piratical.

With him were the estate steward, who these days had a new gleam in his eyes, and Varga, Zsigmund’s old sergeant, now officially his valet, although since he went nearly everywhere with his master, he was also groom, bodyguard, and general jack-of-all-work Oddly enough, I’d grown to rather like this villainous-looking individual. He had character and humour, and he was undeniably devoted to Zsigmund, a devotion that I believed encompassed me as Zsigmund’s wife.

Walking closer to the sparkling-clean window, I waved. After a moment, Zsigmund saw me and waved boisterously back, his face splitting into the boyish grin which had first charmed me in Lescloches. It had been noticeably absent during our time in Pest, and it did my heart good to see its return.

Stable lads and labourers—most of them were interchangeable—came rushing to meet him, eager to report progress and problems as well as care for the horses. Sill smiling, I turned away.

“Bring tea, please, Maria,” I said, making my way to the big pillared entrance hall to meet Zsigmund.

He and Varga came in on a blast of cold air, stamping their feet. Zsigmund tore off his cloak and threw it at Varga before embracing me.

“Productive day?” I asked.

“Useful,” he allowed. “I have real hopes this will be the last lean year here. We should always have enough, and in good years, a very healthy surplus. I’ve arranged with Lemenyi to buy enough grain to see us through to spring. We solved the problem of Lazar’s leaking roof too.”

Since I had him by the hand, he allowed himself to be led across the hall to the sitting room. “How have you got on?” he asked.

“Well, I think. You must judge for yourself.”

I threw open the door and led him inside. He took two paces in and stopped, gazing around him.

“You’ve worked wonders!” he exclaimed. “Cosy and elegant and welcoming. What a magician you are!”

No shadow touched his face as he said the word magician. Neither of us had forgotten, but our work here, our lives together, did not allow the past to trouble us. His gaze paused at the window, and then he glanced sharply down at me.

“You didn’t go up the ladder, did you?”

“No,” I said meekly. “I directed operations from the floor and held the lengths of curtains for Maria to hook on. Her arms must be aching, poor girl, but she’s steady on the ladder.”

He put his arm around my waist, ushering me towards the sofa by the fire which burned merrily beneath the big marble mantelpiece. The palm of his other hand rested on my still-flat belly.

“And how is our child?” he asked as I sat on the sofa.

“Happy,” I assured him. I assumed if I was, the baby was, although it was too early to feel it move. The doctor judged the baby would come in the summer. I was sure we’d conceived in Lescloches. Sometimes I thought my weirder fancies in Pest had been due to the early stages of pregnancy. I wasn’t sure I wanted to believe that, but my amazed delight at expecting a child at all eclipsed everything else.

Zsigmund was thrilled. Even the old count had greeted the news with rare signs of pleasure. Zsigmund thought the old man was dying. Certainly he seemed much frailer since the fire which had destroyed his Pest home, and he’d raised no objections to Zsigmund running the estate as he wished. He was busy with his book again.

After the fire, Zsigmund and István had studied the state of the family finances and István had taken a rather charming apartment in Pest. Gizella had taken on Katalin as their housemaid. The apartment had three main bedrooms, one of which we had expected the count to occupy. But when the government had granted Zsigmund permission to retire to Orosháza, the old man had surprised us all by announcing he wanted to go home too. And the true Andrassy home was here. A neighbour’s youngest son acted now as the old gentleman’s secretary and also gave me lessons in the finer points of the Hungarian language.

“How did you find Lazar’s wife when you were there?” I asked as Maria brought in the tea. “Is her fever less?”

“She seemed much better. And without the constant dampness, she should soon recover completely. But she is sure it was your medicine that did the trick. Oh, I nearly forgot. There are letters for you from England.” Zsigmund delved into his coat pocket and brought out a packet of letters which he placed in my lap.

I riffled through them. They seemed to be the usual mix of business, family, and friends’ correspondence. I hesitated over a fat envelope with my name and direction written in Barbara’s hand. It was the first letter I’d received from her since her congratulations on our wedding.

I hadn’t even asked her about Ilona when I’d written, although the fate of my mother-in-law’s spirit bothered me occasionally when I woke in the silence of the night, her son breathing evenly by my side. But stupidly, I imagined I’d brought Zsigmund and Ilona closer in Pest, that she had saved us from being burned in our bed the night of the fire. Now, I didn’t really want to know that I’d imagined it all. I didn’t want Barbara’s letter
not
to mention those strange events from her own point of view.

Zsigmund, who knew what I’d seen, as well as my doubts, watched me as I opened the letter and forced myself to read.

I began to smile. I raised my eyes to Zsigmund’s. “It was all true,” I said. “Barbara had been worried about me and sensed there was something wrong. Somehow, her travelling spirit and Ilona’s met and between them spoke to me. It was, it really was your mother who warned us that night, through Barbara.”

Zsigmund was a sceptic. He’d told me once he didn’t even believe in God. I thought he might now that he’d dealt with Gabor. At any rate, his dark eyes were steady on mine. “Does she say that my mother is at peace?”

I read on. “The fire upset her...thickened the veils between her world and ours, now that there’s no house there to ground her. But Barbara says she managed to communicate with her again, to tell her you were safe and help her move on completely. She’s with your father, Barbara says. And both their spirits are at peace now, where they should be.”

Zsigmund dashed the back of his hand over his eyes and took a forceful gulp of tea. “What a lot of nonsense,” he said unsteadily.

I laid my hand on his thigh and gave a little squeeze. “Utter nonsense,” I agreed.

I settled comfortably into the crook of his arm and smiled, just in case Ilona was watching. I couldn’t help feeling that I owed her my happiness and Zsigmund’s.

... a
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*

N
ow, please read on for an excerpt from
Smoke and Mirrors 
(The Gifted, Book 1), the first of a hot paranormal romantic suspense series.

D
eceit and desire, and a treasure beyond price...

When struggling Scottish writer Nell Black interprets for an arrested arson suspect from her mother's country, she stumbles into a terrifying world of organized crime and paranormal abilities that turns her belief system upside down. Faced with an incomparable thief, hit men who spontaneously combust, gangsters, British Intelligence and a fiery goddess, Nell no longer knows who to trust.

The man who saves her life is a criminal genius to whom deceit is second nature. He has more smoke screens and more plans in motion than anyone else can keep track of. Even his fellow gangsters are afraid of him. So why is he the one man Nell wants to touch her?

*

“s
uspenseful, intensely emotional, and very sexy... an awesome start to Treanor’s Gifted paranormal/romantic suspense series.”
- Bitten by Books.

“Rodion Kosar is...the best kind of bad boy in a book"
– Place of Reads.

“ a fabulous story... fast-paced, intriguing ...kick-ass passion”
- Publishing the Paranormal.

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C
hapter One

Consorting with criminals in the middle of the night had never been part of her career plan. Yet here she was, approaching the desk of Edinburgh’s Gayfield Square police station at half past two in the morning.

That would have been disconcerting enough, even without her unexpected diversion en route, to the office of the mysterious Mr. Derryn. The whole night had become strangely unreal.

“I’m Nell Black,” she told the young policeman who seemed reluctant to look up from the football pages of his newspaper. Clearly, he was inured to the racket made by a rowdy group of drunks behind him. He glanced up at last without much interest, did a double take, and sat up straight.

“Yes, miss?” he said, much more brightly.

Apparently, the extra effort with makeup made a difference after all. “I’m a translator, here to see Detective Sergeant Lamont?”

The young policeman reached for his phone with alacrity, and less than a minute later, Nell was being led through a security door and along a maze of corridors and stairs. A plainclothes man in shirtsleeves with a tie dangling out of his crumpled trouser pocket strode out of a room at the end of one passage and hurried toward them with his hand held out. Somewhere in his late thirties, Nell guessed. His hair receded, greying slightly at the temples. He looked serious, harassed, and not someone you should mess with, however hard you were.

There was no avoiding the handshake, so she got it over with as quickly as she civilly could, which appeared to suit the brisk policeman well enough.

“Miss Black? Thanks for coming.” He jerked his head dismissively at the young copper who effaced himself, though not without a backward glance at Nell.

“I’m Craig Lamont,” the sergeant said, ushering her toward the room he’d just left. “And very glad to see you. I was beginning to think you weren’t available after all.”

“Sorry, I was out late,” Nell apologised, and Lamont cast her a more piercing glance. “I wasn’t drinking,” she said hastily; damned if she’d lose her first job through that kind of misapprehension. “What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“We’re interviewing a suspect in a rather nasty arson case. At least two people are dead, and this bloke was caught bolting out of the building. He claims not to speak any English and is refusing to talk to us without a translator. You guys are thin on the ground.”

“There must be lots of Russian speakers in Edinburgh,” she objected—stupidly. One should never look gift horses in the mouth, and God knew she needed the job.

“Well, that’s the crux of the matter,” Lamont said ruefully. “We have Russian translators we can use, but none of them know Zavreki.”

“Ah.”

“Exactly. Frankly, I’d never even heard of Zavrekestan. Thought he was having us on, but it’s a real country, right enough. One of the ex-Soviet breakaway republics.” He gave a quick, deprecating grin as he said it, as though proud of his research and yet aware he must be teaching his grandmother to suck eggs. “Do they really have their own language?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s similar to Russian, yet too different to be simply a dialect. On the other hand, if your man’s from Zavrekestan, I’d be very surprised if he didn’t speak Russian as well as we speak English.”