The Veils of the Budapest Palace (Darke of Night Book 3) (5 page)

Zsigmund laughed, and even Béla gave a quick grin, presumably at the idea of Zsigmund being respectable enough to chaperone anyone. On the other hand, the hotel was a decent place for a lady to dine in company, and there was safety in numbers, at least so far as my reputation was concerned.

“I imagine you’d prefer to dine with your friends,” I said. “And I won’t take it amiss if you aren’t there. Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Friends? What friends?” Béla was asking as I walked away. “Who else is here?”

****

P
erhaps it spoke volumes for my true loneliness that although I didn’t want to meet anyone associated with home and although I had resolved to have as little to do with Zsigmund as was civilly possible, I actually looked forward to dining with them. In fact, if they hadn’t been there, I would have been disappointed.

I even found myself taking special care when I dressed that evening. I’d never worn strict mourning since arriving in Lescloches, although I had kept to dark colours. Tonight, I wore my rust-red evening gown, which I hadn’t touched since Neil had died. Its colour brought out the reddish tinges in my chestnut hair and suited my complexion. I wore no jewellery to draw attention to any charms I might still possess, but nevertheless, staring at myself in the glass, at my bright eyes and delicately flushed cheeks, at my pale, sloping shoulders and the expanse of skin at my breast, I could almost hear the scandalised criticism from home.

“Out of mourning already, and her husband dead barely three months! There she sat, flaunting herself in a coloured gown and naked shoulders, publicly dining with two men! Rakish young foreigners at that!”

And suddenly, I realised I didn’t care. Nothing I did could hurt Neil now or bring him back. My reputation, like my honour, was entirely my own, as was the rest of my life, and that was more liberating than frightening. I laughed and snatched up the shawl I’d always meant to wear. I just left it loose about my arms.

At the reception desk, I was informed that two gentlemen awaited me in the coffee room. Conscious of a twinge of satisfaction that felt almost like relief, I walked towards the coffee room to meet them. It was generally a quiet place, but on this occasion, they seemed to have it to themselves, for I could hear only the murmur of their distinct voices as I approached.

My shawl slid off my elbow as I reached the door, and as I paused to retrieve and rearrange it, I heard Béla say uneasily in French, “But seriously, Zsiga, you
will
be on your best behaviour, will you not?”

And Zsigmund’s impatient response: “Don’t be ridiculous. I only have one behaviour.”

“No, you don’t,” Béla disputed. “You have perfect gentleman and total bastard. Lady Jordan is a good lady and has been through enough. She deserves the gentleman.”

Zsigmund gave a short, almost savage laugh. “You mean she doesn’t deserve me in either guise. We all know that.”

I curled my fingers around the door handle, just as he added carelessly, “But then, whoever in this world gets what they deserve?”

I opened the door and went in, wondering exactly what he meant by that. I should have been amused by Béla in stern protector mode. In fact, I was rather touched—and more than a little uneasy.

They both turned to greet me, took turns to kiss my hand. Béla wore the evening suit I was sure he’d borrowed from Arthur Haggard; it was very slightly too small for him. Zsigmund wore his usual faded dress uniform. There was an edge, a glitter to Zsigmund’s eyes that made me wonder if he’d been drinking. As his lips touched my fingers, I was sure I felt the moist touch of his tongue, so swift and brief that I could easily have been mistaken. Apart from the reckless smile in his eyes.

Béla, I thought, as we crossed the foyer to the hotel dining room, had upset him. Which did not bode well for a comfortable meal.

However, it seemed I misjudged him, for just as on our walk the previous day, he proved an excellent and entertaining companion. Along with the constant banter between him and Béla, we discussed many things, from art and books to politics and gossip. They were both astonishingly well-read for such young men who’d already spent so much of their lives in the upheavals of revolution, war, and exile, and if the worrying gleam didn’t quite fade from Zsigmund’s eyes, at least it didn’t appear to affect his behaviour. He never once overstepped the bounds of civility. In fact, of the two of them, it was Béla who treated me with more familiarity, appearing to regard me almost as an elder sister or favourite aunt.

“I gather you served together in the war,” I said.

“We met up from time to time,” Béla said casually. “Zsiga was in a regular regiment. I was with the
honvéd
, the revolutionary army.”

Reminded, I turned back to Zsigmund. “Did your grandfather give you any good news in his letter?”

And that, I realised, was behind the restless glitter. The letter had upset him, made him long for home more than ever, but being who he was, he’d never say so.

“Oh no,” he said, now, topping up all the wineglasses. “He never sends good news. He did say if I showed him proof I could settle down, he could arrange for me to come home. And if I proved I could care for the Pest estate, he’d arrange for my free travel to Orosháza—the country estate.”

“Can’t you do either of those things?” I said, hopefully.

“And give in to the manipulative old—” He broke off with a grin. “Forgive my temper. My grandfather and I always bring out the worst in each other, even over a thousand miles.”

“Send him the money you won at gaming the other night,” I said, inspired. “A man who can look after himself in exile to that extent must surely have settled down. Providing you don’t tell him how you acquired it.”

“Excellent idea,” Zsigmund said. “I’ll think about it.”

I regarded him. “You’ve spent it all, haven’t you?”

He smiled into my eyes, and for an instant, I couldn’t breathe. The man was devastating. It took me several moments to realise Béla was also gazing at him with odd consternation.

Ignoring him, Zsigmund summoned the waiter and ordered another bottle of wine.

“How long do you plan to stay in Lescloches?” Béla asked me.

“Oh, not long,” I said vaguely. “My plan is to visit my stepsister in Silberwald.”

“Now there’s an interesting place,” Béla enthused. “Did you read Patrick’s articles on it? And his account of the mad duke’s coup?”

I lifted one eyebrow. “My sister married the mad duke, so you should refer to him with greater respect.”

“Oh, I have every respect for a man who marries in the teeth of the formidable Mrs. Darke.”

“I don’t believe Barbara tried to stop the wedding. She merely advised a period of waiting, which I would have done myself. Although, of course, I couldn’t have slain the castle ghosts.”

“Is that what she wouldn’t tell me?” Béla asked, clearly entertained.

Zsigmund glanced up from his food, and the sudden desperation in his eyes caught at my breath. It was as if an old, almost cold pain had surged up from forgotten depths to burn him afresh. “You have a friend who slays ghosts?”

“Well, she sees things a little differently,” I said cagily. “And has a definite knack of solving problems. Why, do you have a ghost who needs to be laid to rest?”

Zsigmund laughed, a short, savage sound as his eyes turned stern and fierce. “I have a house full of them. Or a mind full. Who cares? Pass the wine, Béla.”

Béla made some comment on the quality of the wine, moving on at once to a shared wartime memory on the subject. Zsigmund threw himself back in his chair and laughed, all fun and amiability. I could have imagined that odd, black instant. He just had the kind of face that collected shadows. And speculation.

But for some reason, his words stayed with me:
You have a friend who slays ghosts? I have a house full of them. Or a mind full.

After our main meal, I enjoyed a delicious pastry and the men shared cheese and biscuits.

“So what would you like to do now?” Zsigmund asked me. “A stroll? A short visit to the assembly room for a glass of wine and a coffee?”

“The count finds me predictable and dull,” I told Béla.

“No, he doesn’t,” Béla said with such unexpected certainty that I blinked in surprise. He smiled hastily. “No one could.”

Perhaps fortunately, the waiter chose that moment to present the account. He set it before Zsigmund, but I caught his eye to tell him it was to be added to mine.

“Thank you, madame,” he said. “It is taken care of.” And he bowed and departed.

“Come on, let’s go for a stroll,” Béla suggested. “Will you be warm enough, Lady Jordan?”

“Quite,” I said distractedly. I could not tactfully bring the subject up, but I’d finally realised what Zsigmund had spent the last of his winnings on. I didn’t know whether to feel bad for him or proud, angry or grateful. To an exile with no income, dinner here was a ridiculous expense. To me, it was nothing.

Béla, unexpectedly perceptive in his own way, murmured to me as we left together, “Zsigmund has always been generous. And proud.”

I couldn’t dispute it but took the hint and decided that, whatever the personal cost to Zsigmund, I could never try to give him that money back.

The three of us strolled sedately around the town, which was pretty in twilight, as far as the seafront, where we halted for a little. From farther along, where I was aware a rather disreputable establishment conducted its business, several young men were waving dementedly in our direction. There were girls in their midst, no doubt including the one who’d been with Zsigmund the night I’d met him. Neither of my companions appeared to see this noisy group, which I found quite touching.

“Well, gentlemen,” I said, “it has been a lovely evening for me, and I thank you for your company. I believe I shall return to the hotel and leave you to your own pleasures. Good night!”

“We’ll walk with you,” Béla said at once.

“I think you’d be better attending to the gentleman waving his arms off at the end of the road,” I said kindly. “But thank you for the offer. It isn’t far.”

“Go and calm him down, Béla—he’s been looking forward to seeing you. I’ll escort Lady Jordan and find you later.”

“There is no need—” I began, but since Zsigmund merely pushed my hand through his arm and began to walk, I broke off with good grace and bade Béla good night. He did me the courtesy of appearing reluctant, but at least he didn’t seem to suspect Zsigmund of ungentlemanly designs. Now we were alone, I didn’t know what to suspect him of.

W
e walked a little way in silence, our footsteps echoing along the cobbles until the church clock began to chime ten. As the last chime faded, Zsigmund said intensely, “You think your life is over.”

I blinked. “No, I don’t. It quite obviously isn’t over.”

“In any way that matters,” he said with a quick, impatient wave of his free hand. “You think because your husband is dead and you have no children, all that’s left is to devote yourself to such family as you do have, and merely observe the rest of the world from a safe, impenetrable distance.”

I frowned at him. “You think that’s what I’m doing here?”

“I know it is. And I know it’s what you think you
should
do, not what you want. In fact, it bores you. Which is why you came to Lescloches, a little risqué, a little seedy, to liven up your boredom. What is the point of doing so if you never join in?”

I raised one eyebrow. “Without being overly haughty, I doubt I’d be comfortable in your little party at the seafront. Besides, even if it’s true, am I not entitled to wallow a little in my own isolation?”

“It will become a habit,” he said, almost angrily. “And that would be unforgivable.”

“By whom?” I said tartly. “You?”

“No, you!” His step quickened, so that I had to hurry, almost running to keep up. “I’m sorry your husband is dead, but you are
not
. Don’t waste your life, Caroline, fill it with everything you want, because one thing I have learned is that you never know what’s round the next corner, you never know when everything, your very life, might be taken from you.”

He slowed, as if finally realising the furious pace he’d set, and cast me a quick, flashing glance. “You think that’s just my excuse for my disgraceful lifestyle?”

“Isn’t it?” I said.

He shrugged. “Excuse, reason. It harms no one but me, and it’s all experience. I choose it because I want it.”

“And I don’t choose it because I don’t want it,” I said lightly. “I chose to come here to observe and learn to pick the pieces of my life back up.”

“And yet you don’t pick up the pieces that are offered. You don’t dance, though you clearly love to. You sit alone, when you love company. You reject a lover when you want love.”

“I do
not
want love,” I said indignantly. “And if I did, I would not look for it in Lescloches!”

“Lust, then.” Without warning, his hand covered mine on his arm, his fingers slipped around my wrist. “You feel something for me, as I do for you. What stops you from acting on it?”

“Common sense,” I said, trying to snatch my hand out of his hold. “And free will.”

He cast a quick glance around the quiet street, including over his shoulder, then abruptly tugged me into the deep shadows of an alleyway. “Not fear?”

My heart was thundering. “Not until now.”

At once his grip loosened. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said impatiently. “I just need to make you understand. Live every moment as if it’s your last, Caroline, because it just might be.”

There was more, much more here than an impatient young man’s attempt at seduction. There was a genuine desperation, a panic in his voice that chilled me, reminding me of the black moment during dinner. Zsigmund was plagued by ghosts of one kind or another.

I peered into his face, but the shadows seemed impenetrable. “What’s made you like this?” I asked. “The war?”

He shrugged impatiently. “I’ve always known death stalks us. The war just taught me there are worse things than dying.”

Without thought, I reached up and touched the scar on his face. The long ridge of it felt cool and hard. “Suffering?” I whispered.