“Elise?”
She turned at the base of the stairs. “Yes?”
“Blake … he’s one of the few people I trust. He’s a good man. Remember that, okay?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that fact. He’s been good to me, too.”
Rook looked like he wanted to say something else, but finally, he just nodded and went to the fire.
She frowned and headed upstairs. What in the world had Rook said that for? What would make her forget that Blake was a good person? She shook her head and yawned. Maybe she was overthinking it. Shewastired, and morning was many hours away.
CHAPTER 15
The evening air was cool as Blake climbed the broad steps of the townhouse, a paper box tied with twine balanced in one hand and a small bag of candies in the other. The street was lined with chestnut trees, their leaves already tinged with autumn gold, and the house itself bore the quiet weight of wealth. He’d glimpsed high ceilings through lace curtains, ornate ironwork on the balcony, and polished brass fixtures.
He rang the bell, and the melodic sound of Westminster chimes reached him muted but beautiful. When the heavy wooden door opened, an elderly woman with a neatly pinned bun and a cashmere shawl peered out. Her sharp eyes softened the moment she saw what he carried.
“Can I help you? Are you from my son?” she asked in Hungarian, her voice touched with hope.
Blake offered a small, warm smile. “Of course, I am. Who else but your son would send you treats like these? He knows you love them.” He lifted the box of pastries and the glossy red bag of sweets. Guardian had dug deep and found her most ordered candy and pastries from her online grocery account.
“You know him well, then?”
“Of course. We’ve worked together for years. My name is Max. Has he spoken of me?”
Her expression faded and then bloomed into delight. “I’m sorry, my mind isn’t as sharp as it once was. I don’t remember him mentioning you, but please, come in! I’ll make coffee or tea, if you prefer.”
“Coffee is perfect. Are you sure it isn’t too much trouble?”
“No trouble. No trouble at all. I don’t get visitors often. Please come in.” Inside, the townhouse smelled faintly of beeswax and rosewater. The carpets were thick, the furniture carved and upholstered in fine brocade. Gilded frames held oil paintings of Hungarian countryside landscapes, and a chandelier glittered faintly overhead. Clearly, her son spared no expense in keeping her comfortable.
She led him into a sitting room, where porcelain cups already rested on a lace runner. While she busied herself with a silver tray, Blake set the pastries on the table and opened the bag of candies so she could see them.
“Oh,Túró Rudi! And Szamos marzipán! He knows these are my favorites. You must tell him how happy I am.”
Blake inclined his head, keeping his tone casual. “I’ll be sure to. It’s been a while since I’ve been back, and when I saw the request for these, I wanted to make sure they got to you quickly. I haven’t checked in yet.”
She placed the steaming cups on the table and settled into a chair, sighing contentedly as she reached for a chimney cake slice. “So sweet of him. Always so thoughtful, my boy.”
Blake leaned back slightly, watching her reaction as he asked, “Will he be coming home soon?”
Her brows lifted, and she gave him a pointed look. “Shouldn’t you know that?”
“As I said earlier, I’ve been away,” Blake said smoothly, taking a sip of coffee. “Just got back.”
She chuckled, her eyes twinkling as though amused by his supposed ignorance. “Well, then, yes. They’re coming home early. The day after tomorrow. My son will be very busy for the first two days, but after that, he’ll be here. And I will be sure to thank him for the wonderful treats.”
Her words hung in the air, casual, unguarded, and exactly the confirmation Blake needed.
Ilona Brzek brushed crumbs from her lap and leaned back in her chair, clearly enjoying both the company and the excuse to talk about her son.
“You know,” she began, stirring sugar into her coffee with slow, deliberate circles. “My Januse has always been so serious. Even as a boy. Other children ran wild in the streets. He brought me home his report cards and asked if I was proud.” She smiled faintly, her gaze sliding to a framed photograph on the sideboard—a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit, stern-faced beside her in a garden of roses.
Blake followed her eyes and asked gently, “He takes after his father?”
“No.” Her voice softened with an old ache. “His father was careless. Weak. Januse promised me he would be different, and he is. He has worked hard, and he never, ever forgets me.” She gestured to the townhouse with its gleaming wood floors and rich carpets. “All of this, he insists upon. He says I should never want for anything.”
Blake nodded, letting her keep talking, listening as much for what she did not say as for what she did.
