Margaret Way - It Happened in Sydney

David received the news first from Marcus’s distraught housekeeper, who found him lying on his side in bed. No sign of life, beyond any doubt. The housekeeper had once been a nursing sister.

From then on he took charge. News of the death of Marcus Wainwright couldn’t be contained. His parents had to be advised. He fully expected them to return on the first available flight. He didn’t tell them when he rang Marcus had fallen in love with a beautiful young woman decades his junior. He didn’t divulge the fact Marcus had given her a magnificent diamond engagement ring. That definitely would have to wait. The entire Wainwright clan had to be advised. A hell of a thing. This was a tragedy that had been waiting to happen. Too late Marcus had come to a decision to take good care of himself.

Then of course there was Sonya.

Sonya was in for a very bad time unless he could control the media.

He knew from long experience he couldn’t. The media would have a field day. And what of Marcus’s will? If Marcus had been so sure he could persuade Sonya to marry him, wouldn’t he have had the family solicitors draw up a new will? Sonya would surely be a beneficiary. He knew in the existing will he had been the principal beneficiary. Marcus had told him. If Marcus had had a new will drawn up it could be argued in court—if it ever came to that— Marcus was a sick man, indeed a dying man, infatuated by a young woman decades his junior. Marcus had been in a state of high confusion. How could a strange young woman of no background lay claim to what could very well be a substantial part of a considerable fortune? The inferences drawn would inevitably be that Sonya had worked on Marcus to change his will.

His mouth went dry at the thought of what his parents would make of it all. Both were formidable people to be approached with nigh on reverence. Grief might very well turn to outrage. Sonya might be an extremely beautiful, highly intelligent young woman with an unmistakable look of good breeding, but he and Rowena between them knew very little about her. One would have thought she was an orphan without family. Once the news broke she would go from an unknown to a high-profile woman. The woman in Marcus Wainwright’s life.

By the time the press finished with her there would be nowhere to hide.

He didn’t want to tell her over the phone. That would be too cruel. Though he couldn’t spare the time he took a taxi to the trendy shopping conclave where she had her florist shop. No time for him to find a park for his own car.

Sonya knew, the instant she caught sight of David, something was very wrong. Her heart began a relentless banging against her ribs. No one was in the shop. She had been busy earlier on, now she was grateful for the lull.

“It’s Marcus, isn’t it?” She searched his brilliant dark eyes. He was noticeably pale beneath his deep tan. “He’s had a relapse?”

“Worse than that, Sonya.” He held her eyes, feeling a heavy sense of guilt along with the grief. He wanted her as he had never wanted anyone before. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Marcus is dead.”

“No, no, dear God, no! “ She staggered, clutching at the counter for support. “How could this happen? They released him from hospital. I spoke to him last night.”

“Heart attacks happen, Sonya, despite everything,” he said with a heavy heart. “This one has been waiting to happen, I’m afraid. We can’t delay. I want you out of here.”

“I can’t stay anyway.” She was clearly in great distress.

“No, you can’t.” His emotions were so strong he found himself speaking too harshly. “You have to shut up shop. I’ll help you. You’ll have to make it until further notice or bring in staff. That can be worked out. You won’t be able to come back once the news breaks.”

“I’m so sorry. So sorry,” she moaned. “You think I killed him?” She had gone whiter than white. Her whole body was trembling. She was near enough to breaking.

“Don’t torture yourself with thoughts like that,” he said quickly. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a savage. No way could he pull her into his arms and offer comfort. His whole being was filled with guilt. “Marcus was a sick man.”

“Where did he die?” She was trying desperately not to cry.

“Get yourself together, Sonya,” he urged, his whole body tense. “His housekeeper found him. He died peacefully in his sleep.”

“Thank God! Does Lady Palmerston know?”

“Sonya, everyone will know if we don’t get a move on. I have to get you out of here. I have to get out of here. People know me. I fear this is going to be a very big story.” He couldn’t think of a worse scenario.

Over the coming days several photographs of Sonia appeared in the papers and on the Internet. In all of them she looked movie-star glamorous.

A real knockout was the general opinion. All of the photographs, on Marcus’s arm—Marcus looking very much older—standing with David, the two of them appearing to be staring into one another’s eyes, sitting at the table with the rich and famous as they had been on that gala night. The night she had been wearing a vintage evening gown and Lucille Wainwright’s glorious emerald and diamond necklace with the diamond chandelier drops. Her expression in all of them was of cool grace, as if she were to the manner born.

Sonya knew, if no one else, she was the image of her mother, Lilla. Her mother in turn had inherited Katalin’s remarkable looks and colouring. Such physical beauty was a gift of the genes.

In New York on a piercingly cold day Laszlo Andrassy-Von Neumann stood in complete silence in Central Park as a tall burly man wearing a greatcoat and a thick dark hat with ear flaps approached him. The man came to a brief halt, withdrawing a manila folder from a deep pocket. Andrassy-Von Neumann had already seen the photographs. They were unmistakably of a woman of his family. To his intense triumph the photographs were of his lost cousin, Sonya. A few more photographs had been taken on the street where she appeared to be in flight from the paparazzi, the rest were the same photographs that had been splashed across the Australian press.

So that was where young Sonya had sought sanctuary! In exchange for the folder he passed his informant a thick envelope containing a substantial wad of money. It was worth every penny. He had now ascertained Sonya was living in Sydney, under the name of Erickson. It was an enormous stroke of luck the man she had been involved with had been a public figure, otherwise it might have taken longer to find her. She had covered her tracks like a professional. In a way he couldn’t help but admire her. America had been very good to his family and him. But he was Hungarian. He wanted to get back to his roots. He had poured so much into his country of birth he now had the estate back: the palace, the title deeds, every last contract signed and sealed.

He was the Andrassy-Von Neumann heir. Katalin and Lilla were dead. He had, however, no real wish to harm Sonya. All she had to do was hand over the Madonna. He would make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Ten million into her bank account? That should do it. Of course, if she were foolish enough to hold out against him? He didn’t believe she would. From a penniless little florist to a millionairess in one bound. Her grandmother and her mother and father were dead. He was certain she would see the good sense in making a deal. The only sense. After all, they were family. He was Count Laszlo Andrassy-Von Neumann. The title to his mind would never be defunct. And Sonya must never be allowed to lay claim to being a countess and the rightful heir of an ancient family’s estates. She couldn’t possibly stand a chance against him. Katalin’s true identity had been destroyed. All reference to her dropped like the plague. Like her father, the old count who had been fool enough to remain in his palace, and her brother, the heir, Katalin had become a victim of war. As for her daughter, Lilla, she was the child of little more than a peasant. The extraordinary thing was he would have recognised his cousin Sonya anywhere. She was without question an Andrassy-Von Neumann.