Margaret Way - It Happened in Sydney

“Excuse me, do you have to? She was wearing Lucy’s emeralds! Not something I’d expect of Marcus.”

“Maybe she promised to take them off when the night was over.” Rowena gave him an arch smile.

“Do you suppose she stayed over?” The idea dismayed him. Not a good sign.

“Come on, my dear. You sound dismal. It’s the twenty-first century. Marcus is still a fine-looking man. She could well have.”

“Then he’s a lucky son of a gun,” he said, with a twist in his smile.

“Sure you weren’t a bit taken yourself?” She reached out to touch his hand.

“I’m a man, Rowena,” he said very dryly.

“Very much so. What about that Paula of yours?”

He ran a hand over his brow. “Rowena, you know perfectly well Paula is a long-time friend. It’s not serious.”

“God, I hope not!” Rowena heaved a grateful sigh. “And that mother of hers!” She closed her eyes. “I bet she never gets off her knees praying for a match. But enough of the Rowlands. No wonder poor George spends his entire time at work.”

“I like him.”

“So do I.” Rowena smiled. “A diamond in the rough.”

“Ms Erickson is no rough diamond,” he pointed out. “She has the aristocrat down pat. She’s highly intelligent. And ultra cool. But she doesn’t love Marcus. That’s the big worry.”

“How would you know?” Rowena’s gaze sharpened on his face.

“I know,” he said and glanced away.

“So you’re worried where this is going?”

“The short answer, Rowena, darling, is yes. I’d be a fool not to be wary of Ms Erickson.”

“For what it’s worth, I like her. I really like her.”

“Your opinion is worth a lot. But what’s her story?” he asked tersely. “She has one, of course.”

Rowena nodded sagely. “One wouldn’t have to be a mastermind to sense that. She has a very graceful flow of conversation. Pick a subject. Any subject. She speaks fluent French. I once put a question to her in French about the extraordinary arrangement she was working on at the time, a blend of burgundy and pale pink calla lilies. She answered, switching automatically from English to French. Polished accent. Better than mine. The one thing she doesn’t talk about is herself. She appears so self-contained yet I feel she’s terribly alone. There’s a sadness there, don’t you think?”

“Maybe that’s part of her role of woman of mystery?” His tone was highly sceptical. “She could be a consummate actress.”

Rowena negated that with a shake of her silver-streaked head. “She’s genuine.”

“But genuine what, Rowena dear? I’ve made a few enquiries on the side. Couldn’t come up with anything much. I might try Interpol.” It was only half a joke.

“She’s only been in the country for around five years,” Rowena supplied.

“Yes, I found out that much. There’s a trace of an accent that isn’t French.”

“Hungarian,” Rowena said with some certainty.

“Hungarian?” He set down his wine glass to give her a long look. Rowena and her husband had lived for many years in Europe. “The land of Liszt, Bela Bartok, Kodaly, Franz Lehar? I’ve even heard of the gorgeous Gabor sisters and their equally gorgeous mother. You know I haven’t visited Budapest, which you assure me is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, but you and Sir Roland knew it well. Or did you ask her straight out?”

“No, love.” Rowena sat back. “But I have an excellent ear for accents. Besides, Sonya is a very private young lady. Her inbuilt cautions, insecurities if you like, have something to do with her former life. Somehow she has developed—”

“A mask?” he supplied. “So what is the mask hiding?”

Rowena sighed. “I’m having one of my buffet luncheons next Sunday. I’m asking Sonya. Would you care to come?’

He decided on the spot to seize on the invitation. Worry about the collateral damage later. “Is Marcus coming?”

“I wanted to speak to you first, before giving him a call. I always ask Marcus. He comes if he likes the people.”

“Oh, God, Rowena,” he groaned. “I advise extreme caution. I have the feeling the beautiful Sonya is going to wheel out a trolley full of tricks.”

“Possibly,” Rowena considered. “But I like her and I do love a mystery. So do you.”

“If only she were older!” he lamented. “More suitable.”

“No, no, no to Tara Bradford.” Rowena threw up her hands in horror.

“Tara wouldn’t break his heart,” he pointed out rather grimly.

“What a blessing.” Rowena allowed herself a touch of malice. “Only Marcus has no romantic interest in poor old Tara. Wishful thinking on her part. She’s a splendid woman in many ways, but she does have thunderous legs.”

“All the better to hold her up,” he offered vaguely. “I haven’t seen Sonya’s legs yet. I bet they’re perfect.”

Rowena nodded. “I have and they are .”

The following afternoon he stopped by Marcus’s house with its millions-plus view of Sydney Harbour. He’d been extremely busy all week with meetings plus endless piles of paperwork his father usually handled. His father, a notoriously secretive man, and CEO of Wainwright Enterprises, trusted few people outside his immediate family. These days he was leaving more and more to his only son and heir, adding to his already heavy workload. As a consequence he hadn’t had a chance to catch up with his uncle, who headed up the property department. Considering the properties owned by Wainwright Enterprises, it was a huge job in itself. As well, he and Marcus, both of them holding Law and Economics degrees with first-class honours, sat in on major meetings with the legal department. They did work in the same building, Wainwright Towers, but not on the same floor. Made a surprising difference as it happened.

The house Marcus and Lucy had lived in for so many years had been left to Lucy by her maternal grandmother, Lady Marina Harnett, a great philanthropist and art collector. To Holt’s eye it was one of the prettiest houses in the city. Not grand like the Wainwright ancestral home he had been raised in, but smaller and more welcoming to his eye, especially in the days when Aunt Lucy had been alive. She was the sweetest, kindest woman imaginable and she had to die. That was the trouble with life; there was always death at the end. The enemy that couldn’t be overcome. Death did despicable things. He remembered his mother had been grief stricken when at long last Lucy had passed away. She and Lucy had been great friends. The family had taken Lucy to their hearts. No one could take her place.

So what now, with a very possible candidate for the second Mrs Marcus Wainwright on the scene? Would it be seen by the family as a betrayal of Lucy? Everyone wanted Marcus’s happiness, but a beautiful young woman like Sonya Erickson could only inspire suspicion. God help him, he was already dealing with his mistrust of her.

He stepped out of the car, glancing briefly at a small blue hatchback nosed into a corner. Looked as if the estate had bought the housekeeper a new little runabout. The gardens were looking superb, ablaze with flowers. He started across the paved circular drive to the sandstone house. It had been built in the mid-1850s to a very high standard. Regency in design, it was perfectly symmetrical. The only concession to the Australian climate was the broad verandah with its series of white elegant pillars and fretwork. A lot of the original land had been sold off over the years—too valuable for one family to keep to themselves—but the original servants’ quarters, beautifully maintained and updated, were still at the rear of the house along with storerooms that looked more like bungalows. He had spent such a lot of time here, for a moment he was overwhelmed by nostalgia.