Sup with the Devil
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘SO when do the bulldozers move in?’

Robin Lincoln flushed angrily. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Courtney! It won’t be that bad.’

‘No?’ his sister queried ironically. ‘Judging by these—–’ she swept a contemptuous hand over the pile of plans and folders lying between them on the living room table ‘—it’s about as bad as it could be. You surely can’t imagine the local people are going to stand for anything like this? Why, they’ll be up in arms as soon as the news gets out!’

‘Well, I don’t happen to share your opinion,’ Robin said defensively. ‘I admit it may take them a while to accustom themselves, but…’

‘A while?’ Courtney’s echo was derisive. ‘When they hear that Hunters Court—the house that’s been looked on as the manor all these years—has been bought up by a consortium who want to turn it into a cheap country club?’

Her brother glared at her. ‘There you go again—sitting in judgment. Just because it’s poor old Monty!’

‘Hardly an apt description—or one that he would appreciate.’ Courtney raised her eyebrows. ‘Wealthy middle-aged Monty would be more to the point.’

Robin’s mouth turned down sullenly. ‘You really dislike him, don’t you?’

‘I’ve hardly made any secret of it,’ Courtney returned crisply. ‘I think he’s a repulsive little creep, and that this—scheme he’s dreamed up is typical of him. The only thing I can’t understand is how you ever got involved with him in the first place.’

‘Oh no, you wouldn’t understand,’ Robin said savagely. ‘You don’t like success, do you, Courtney? You’re frightened of it. Ever since we lost Hunters Court and Father had that second stroke you decided it was safer to settle for this—rabbit hutch, and a dull future just ahead of the breadline, rather than make any attempt to recoup what we lost, but I’m not prepared to do that, and you don’t like it.’

Courtney sat down wearily on one of the elderly chairs which flanked the table. ‘Rob, that’s not true! Do you think I haven’t dreamed as you have of getting Hunters Court back somehow? But I’ve always known it wasn’t possible. Even before that—other business, Father was having a job to keep it going. You know that. Houses like Hunters Court eat money, and their appetite gets bigger every year.’

‘Of course I know it,’ Robin said shortly. ‘Why do you think I agreed to act for the consortium? Because it’s a way—probably the only way that we’ll ever get Hunters Court back.’

‘But we won’t be getting it back,’ Courtney argued. ‘It will belong to them. All you’ll be is the manager—a paid employee. It won’t be the same. It can’t.’

Rob shrugged. ‘Then it will have to do,’ he said. ‘I’m not dogsbodying at Carteret’s for the rest of my life. I’m sick of being treated as a charity case. Sick of the whispered remarks. “Lincoln? Lincoln? Any relation to the man whose partner embezzled all that money?” ‘

Courtney sighed inwardly. Three years ago Geoffrey Devereux had been arrested at Heathrow, after a spot audit had revealed discrepancies in the handling of clients’ money. He had been charged with embezzlement, and bail had been opposed while further enquiries were made, but he had died of a heart attack while on remand, leaving James Lincoln, the head of the firm, facing ruin, and the knowledge that his friend and partner of many years’ standing had betrayed him.

When the full amount of the liability that Devereux had created became known, James Lincoln himself had become ill, suffering two strokes, the second of which had left him semi-paralysed and hardly able to speak.

Within a matter of weeks Courtney and Robin found their world had turned upside down. Geoffrey Devereux had died without making any kind of confession, or even a hint as to what he’d done with the thousands of pounds he had stolen. But it had to be repaid somehow, and Hunters Court, which had been the Lincoln family home for generations, was put on the market.

Robin’s dream of becoming a racing driver died there and then, under the necessity of earning some kind of living, and he reluctantly accepted his godfather’s offer of employment in his merchant bank.

Courtney, in the middle of an A-level course at her expensive boarding school, abandoned her plans for university, and thanked heaven for the shorthand and typing option she had taken instead of the needlework she loathed. She had to leave school because there was no more money forthcoming for fees.

The cottage, offered to them by the owner of the neighbouring estate, Colonel FitzHugh, was a godsend, even if it did seem like the rabbit hutch of Robin’s description after the spaciousness of Hunters Court. And because the Colonel was an old friend of their father’s, they only paid a minimum rental for it.

She said gently, ‘Rob, mud sticks, that’s inevitable, but it will pass. The job at Carteret’s may not be very exciting, but it’s security. Don’t throw it away for some chancy scheme put forward by a man you hardly know.’

Robin looked mutinous. ‘We knew Geoffrey Devereux, or thought we did, and a lot of good it did us. All you have against Monty is sheer female prejudice.’

There was a certain amount of justice in that, Courtney was forced to concede. She knew no actual harm of Montague Pallister and the companies with which he was associated, but instinct told her that he was a speculator, whose genial manner concealed a ruthless determination to squeeze the last penny out of any project with which he was connected, and the thought of such a man getting his hands on Hunters Court frankly nauseated her.

It had hurt when the Hallorans had bought the estate, but they were nice people and had looked after it well. Courtney was disappointed that they too were being forced to sell, but she understood that Mrs Halloran’s health demanded a warmer winter climate than Britain had to offer. She had hoped that some like-minded people would come along and buy Hunters Court, but the economic recession had made many potential buyers rethink the wisdom of acquiring a country estate, however modest, and Courtney had come reluctantly to realise that when Hunters Court was put up for auction, it would probably be bought by some commercial concern—as a small private hotel, perhaps, or a nursing home.

She had not then associated Montague Pallister’s arrival on the scene with the sale of Hunters Court, and looking back, she supposed she had been naïve.

At first she had accepted Robin’s airy explanation that he had met Monty through the bank, and that he had given him some advice over investments. Robin certainly seemed to have more money at his disposal these days, and Courtney wished she could have felt more gratefully disposed towards Monty Pallister, but it was impossible. He was too well-dressed, too opulent, and the way she had seen him looking at herself when he thought he was unobserved made her feel ill.

Because he was ostensibly a friend of Robin’s, he often visited the cottage, although it was too small for him to actually stay there, to Courtney’s relief. Instead he stayed at the local inn, which had a good reputation for its food and accommodation, and when he was at the cottage Courtney could usually find an excuse to be elsewhere. After his visits, she always imagined that there were traces of him round the place, as if he left a trail like a slug.

But there had been no clues that he wanted Hunters Court, she thought bitterly. That had been a well-kept secret, even though he must have had architects and surveyors working on the project even before the estate had been put on the market if the volume of material they had produced was anything to go by. She had sat up the greater part of the previous night reading it, trying and failing to come to terms with what was planned. The house itself would survive, in spite of internal alterations to extend the dining room, and provide at least two bars. But the stables and outbuildings would vanish, to be rebuilt as mews-style cottages to be offered for sale on a time-share basis. The sunken garden would disappear too, and be replaced by a swimming pool. The small park would be transformed into a nine-hole golf course, and the walled rose garden would turn into tennis courts.

On paper, it did not sound so bad, but Courtney had seen glossy brochures advertising other projects in which Monty Pallister had been involved. A quick financial return rather than quality seemed to be the underlying principle, and Courtney could not bear to think of the house which had been her home for seventeen years being sacrificed to that. It was a foolish thought—as if stones and mortar could bleed—but last night as she’d read the reports and looked at the plans and sketches, she hadn’t felt foolish at all, just blazingly angry.

This morning, she’d tried to explain to Robin how she felt, but she’d known from the start that it was useless. He didn’t want to understand.

All he knew was that at tomorrow’s auction he would be bidding for Hunters Court on behalf of the consortium, and just for a while he could pretend that he was buying it back for himself, his birthright. The reality, Courtney thought, would be very different, but then a sense of reality was not Robin’s strong point, and never had been.

He’d complained that his job at Carteret’s was a dead end, but Courtney felt that if he’d settled down to it, Philip Carteret would have seen that he was properly rewarded. As it was, over the past weeks Robin had hardly been there, and she had no idea what excuses he made for his absences, if he even bothered.

Now, she said quietly, ‘Rob, why did you never tell me what was going on?’

He shrugged, ‘I was going to tell you today, as a matter of fact, only old FitzHugh beat me to it. How the hell did he find out, I’d like to know?’

She shook her head. ‘This is a small place. A rumour doesn’t take long to get round. And he’s a friend of Frank Mottram the auctioneer. He probably mentioned that you were interested. Anyway, what does it matter? They don’t know the truth.’

She’d been on her way home from the office early yesterday because the man she worked for was going away to a conference, and had offered her a few days off while he was away to compensate for a lot of extra work she’d done recently. She had agreed with pleasure. She wanted to decorate her bedroom, and she’d bought the paper and paint several weeks before. She had stopped at the village store to buy some bread, and Colonel FitzHugh had just been coming out. He had paused smilingly.

‘Well, my dear, this is great news! The Lincolns belong at Hunters Court, and I wish Rob every success at the auction. I don’t imagine he’ll have much competition—certainly not from local people anyway.’

Courtney had said something in reply, and driven straight home, the bread forgotten. Just for a while, she had enjoyed her fantasies too. Rob was going to buy Hunters Court. They would be home again. Father could leave the nursing home at last, and come to live with them again. But the euphoria was only momentary. Then the questions began. Where was Rob getting the money? She knew that, through Monty Pallister, he had been dabbling in the Stock Market, but surely he hadn’t made enough through his transactions to meet even the quite modest reserve the Hallorans had placed on Hunters Court. Or had Uncle Philip by some miracle offered to lend him the money? It didn’t seem likely. Philip Carteret was a shrewd financier, who had once described Hunters Court and houses like it as ‘albatrosses’. He and James Lincoln had almost quarrelled over it.

She had intended to phone Rob at Carteret’s, but she didn’t have to, because he was there at home. He’d been telephoning, as it happened. He was just replacing the receiver as she walked in, and looking incredibly pleased with himself.

Courtney had stood for a long moment looking at him. She felt frightened suddenly, although she didn’t know why.

She said, ‘Colonel FitzHugh tells me you’re going to bid for Hunters Court at the auction on Friday. It can’t be true. We—we can’t afford it. You know that.’

Rob said, ‘We don’t have to.’ There was a kind of triumph in his voice. ‘Sister dear, we’re going to have all the comforts of home—and none of the expense. It’s all fixed.’

He had told her the whole story there and then, going out to the car and bringing in the briefcase full of files and plans that she had never seen before.

She had listened to him numbly, wondering how he could bear to refer to Hunters Court in such terms, her emotions in shock, rejecting every persuasive phrase as it fell from his lips.

‘A country club—leisure facilities—sauna and gym—a first class restaurant.’ His voice had risen with excitement, his hands gesticulating as he sketched out the fate Monty Pallister had designed for Hunters Court.

Her immediate reaction had been, ‘It will never work. Local people don’t go in for that sort of thing.’

He looked impatient. ‘It won’t just be for locals. Haven’t you been listening? The people who buy the cottages will use it mainly, although it will be open to outsiders. Monty opened a similar place in the southwest two years ago. It’s been incredibly successful, and this will be too. He has all the right contacts.’

Courtney’s mouth moved stiffly. ‘And he has you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He had glared at her.

‘So this is what he wanted. You—to act as front man for him. I suppose he thought if the word got out that he wanted the estate, the price would go sky-high.’

‘Well, naturally. And he has business rivals. He doesn’t want any of them getting ahead of him.’

‘Oh, naturally,’ Courtney said bitterly.

They had argued all evening, and she’d sat up for most of the night going through the file over and over again, trying to derive some crumb of comfort, but in vain.

And it looked no better in the pallid sunlight of a February morning.

She said, ‘What are you going to tell Daddy?’

‘I’ve already told him.’ Another flash of triumph.

She looked at him helplessly. ‘And how did he react.’

Robin shrugged. ‘Generally in favour. He knows what it will mean for all of us. And he’ll get out of that damned nursing home. On the salary I’ll be getting for managing the country club, I can afford a live-in nurse for him.’

Courtney said drily, ‘It all sounds too good to be true.’ And it did. What did Rob know about managing anything that could justify the kind of salary he was talking about? ‘And when you say “all of us”, please don’t include me. I don’t want any part of this, or anything else that Monty Pallister has dreamed up.’

He gave her an impatient look. ‘Don’t be a fool! Of course you’re included. There’ll be plenty of secretarial work once it gets started—reception too, if you fancy it.’

‘The hostess with the mostest,’ Courtney said ironically. ‘But I don’t fancy it, Rob. I don’t want any of it. I like my job, and I’ll stick to that, thanks.’

He stared at her. ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘What makes you think that?’ She gave him a straight glance. ‘I’d have been against this scheme if a complete stranger had been involved, and the fact that it’s you makes no difference at all. When the news gets out locally, everyone will be against you. Don’t you realise that?’

He said savagely, ‘If you think I’m going to stay a loser all my life just to please the neighbours, then you can think again. Where were they when we needed them?’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Courtney in a low voice. ‘We’ve received a lot of kindness—this cottage, for example. And although he’s not a neighbour, Uncle Philip …’

‘Uncle Philip!’ Robin was derisive. ‘You sound like a child! I suppose if Geoffrey Devereux were to walk in through that door now, you’d call him “Uncle” too.’

Courtney sighed. ‘I probably would at that. I can’t just shake off the habit of a lifetime. And he always was like an uncle to us, after all.’

There was a trace of malice in Robin’s smile. ‘And his nephew who was such a constant visitor in the old days. How would you greet him? As Cousin Blair?’

For a long bleak moment a disturbing image rose in Courtney’s mind—a lean, tanned face cast in bitter lines, hard hazel eyes, glittering with anger and contempt, and on one high cheekbone, a trickle of blood. Just for that moment it was as if Robin’s words had evoked him, and he was there in the room, a physical presence rather than a figment of her imagination. And just for that moment she was back in the study at Hunters Court, her father slumped greyfaced in the chair beside her, while she screamed, ‘Get out of here! Get out! Leave us alone. Haven’t you done enough harm? Can’t you see he’s ill?’

And his voice—not the faintly amused drawl she had always hated, but harsh and raw. ‘He deserves to be ill—and more.’

It had sounded like a curse, as if he was predicting some future vengeance, and it had frightened her. And when James Lincoln had collapsed with his first stroke not long afterwards, she had always remembered.

She controlled a shiver. Why had Robin had to remind her of him now? It was a long time since she’d allowed herself to think of Blair Devereux.

Aloud she said coolly, ‘I think not. I was never prepared to go to those lengths, even in the old days. I dislike Blair Devereux more than I do your friend Mr Pallister, and that’s saying something.’

It had always been there, she thought, ever since Blair had come into their lives. Not so much dislike at first as a bewildered resentment. Geoffrey Devereux had been a childless widower, and over the years he had become a close part of the family. He came and went at Hunters Court as if it was his own home, and Courtney in particular saw him as a surrogate uncle.

Blair’s arrival on the scene had been a shock and a disappointment. She’d been used to thinking of Uncle Geoffrey as being alone in the world, and now it seemed he had a nephew with a prior claim on his time and attention, because Blair’s parents were dead.

If he’d been a child like herself, she could have understood, perhaps, but he was already a man, ten years older than herself, seven years older than Robin. An attractive man, she had come unwillingly to realise as time passed, tall and slim with thick tawny hair which curled slightly, and hazel eyes mocking under heavy lids.

When Blair was at Hunters Court, together with her father and Geoffrey Devereux, he seemed to complete a charmed circle from which she and Robin were excluded as children. Courtney didn’t want to feel excluded. Because she and her brother were at boarding school, their time at Hunters Court was limited, and Blair’s visits during the holidays always seemed to cast a shadow over her happiness.

Nothing seemed to work—either behaving outrageously in order to attract attention, or pretending that he didn’t exist. Whatever she tried made little difference. The most reaction she ever got from him was a bored, ‘Don’t be more of a brat than you can help, Courtney.’

She simmered with loathing of him, and it wasn’t helped by Robin undergoing a type of adolescent hero-worship for him, making her feel more isolated than ever.

That passed, of course, and as she herself moved through her own adolescence towards womanhood, she found reluctantly that her feelings towards Blair were becoming more ambivalent. But his abrupt arrivals were always a shock, setting her at odds with herself, overturning her fragile girl’s poise. She had come to think of him as a kind of bird of ill omen, hovering and dangerous on the corner of her life, and later, as that life had crashed in ruins about her, she had realised how accurate that perception of him had been.

But he had been the sole shadow in the last golden summer before everything had slid so suddenly and frighteningly away. She’d been having such a wonderful time. She’d been reckless with invitations to stay and Hunters Court had been filled with her school friends. Patterson who looked after the grounds had fixed up a badminton net on the lawn at the side of the house, and they’d played desultory matches in the heat, then lounged with cold drinks beside the small lake, talking about everything and anything—their forthcoming examinations, their dreams and aspirations.

Then Blair had arrived, and all that closeness and empathy had been shattered. She saw it happen, saw the other girls looking at him, sidelong glances at first and then quite openly. Saw the focus of attention slip away making them all not so much friends as rivals. Saw him spoil everything.

Once again she felt that she was the outsider, and she hated him for it. It made no difference that he never actively encouraged any of them. He was civil, but aloof, and not even the most blatantly flirtatious advances did anything to penetrate the wall of reserve he seemed to have built round himself. One by one they all tried to get through to him and failed, and were resigned or sulky or despondent according to temperament.

Courtney didn’t know which side she despised the most, or even why. She sat miserably listening to the electric silence which descended whenever Blair appeared, watching them watching him, and realising that charmed circle of girlhood had gone for ever.

Then she found they were watching her and speculating, and that was the worst of all.

‘You never mentioned him,’ Anna Harper said one afternoon, when they were all by the lake. ‘Not once.’

Courtney shrugged, feeling awkward. ‘It never occurred to me.’ She tried to explain several times that to her he was simply Blair, Uncle Geoffrey’s nephew, and a thorn in her flesh, but she knew they hadn’t believed her.

‘He behaves as if we’re invisible!’ someone else wailed.

Kate Lydyard, who was trailing her fingers in the water, smiled, her eyes going slyly to Courtney. Kate was the oldest in the group, already eighteen, with an extra confidence and self-assurance. Courtney had always admired her, and her cool blonde good looks, but since Kate had been at Hunters Court, she had discovered she didn’t really like her very much.

Now Kate moved her hand sharply, sending a spray of glistening droplets into the air. She said softly, ‘That’s because he’s waiting for Courtney.’

They were all looking at her, suspicious and envious at the same time.

She said sharply, ‘Then he’ll wait for ever.’ Her voice rang clearly through the warm afternoon. She saw a movement on the terrace and shading her eyes realised that he was there. She could have screamed with vexation, but consoled herself with the reflection that he was too far away to have overheard the entire conversation, so that her final comment, if he’d picked it up, would have been meaningless. At least she hoped so.

But later when they met in the drawing room for tea, she wasn’t too sure. Each time she glanced up, Blair seemed to be watching her, and while there was amusement in his eyes, there was speculation too, which she found frankly alarming. She was beginning to wonder whether her words of angry refutal to Kate hadn’t lit some kind of slow fuse, and ask herself what she could do to evade the inevitable explosion.

But as time passed and nothing happened, she told herself on a rising tide of relief that she had been mistaken, that she’d read altogether too much into the situation.

Blair left the next day, and by the end of the week her party had broken up too, somewhat to her relief, she realised unhappily. The golden days had taken on an acid tinge, although some of the old camaraderie had returned following Blair’s departure. Things would improve, she thought optimistically, when they all met again at school in September.

A few days later, she had been in the rose garden cutting some blooms for her father’s study, when some sixth sense warned her that she was no longer alone. She looked warily over her shoulder and saw Blair standing in the arched gateway watching her. She met the cool, assessing glance he sent her with an uneasiness she was incapable of concealing.

‘What a charming picture.’ He walked unhurriedly towards her. ‘The young English maiden among the roses.’

There was nothing she could take exception to or even deny in his actual words, but the jibing tone in which they were uttered was a different matter. She turned away deliberately, flushing with annoyance, totally on edge. He’d never sought her out like this before—so why …?

She went on cutting roses and putting them in her basket, almost at random, only too aware of Blair at her shoulder, wishing there was something other than the murmur of the bees to break the tension of the silence between them.

At least he said, ‘How old are you, Courtney?’

She shot him a startled look. ‘Seventeen.’

‘Then I’m a year out,’ he said. ‘I’d have said sixteen.’

‘In other words, I’m young for my age. Thank you so much!’

‘That’s not what I meant at all,’ he returned. ‘There’s a well-known saying about being sixteen which I’d say applies to you. And before you start bristling, it has nothing to do with the age of consent,’ he added, his mouth twisting in the mockery which always caught her on the raw.

‘I know the saying you mean,’ she said tightly. ‘It’s a bit old hat these days, surely. We are in the nineteen-eighties.’

‘Only just. Although what difference the decade we live in is supposed to make I fail to understand. If it was the year 2001, it wouldn’t make you any less nervous. And it confirms what I just said.’

‘What do you mean?’

He took the basket from her slackening grip and put it down on the gravelled walk. The hazel eyes weren’t laughing now. They were curiously intent, and Courtney swallowed, aware of the oddest aching sensation in the pit of her stomach.

He said quietly, ‘That this has never happened to you before.’

His mouth on hers was warm and firm and incredibly sensuous. She stiffened instinctively, her hands coming up in open panic to thrust him away, but he made no attempt to draw her into a closer embrace. And before she could marshal her thoughts sufficiently to decide on some form of protest, the kiss was over.

‘How dare you!’ she almost choked.

He smiled down at her lazily. ‘You’ll find I dare quite easily. For ever is a long time, Courtney. I merely decided I’d waited long enough.’

So he had heard, and drawn totally accurate conclusions. She breathed inwardly, but refused to let him guess. She shrugged.

‘I presumed you feel you’ve made some kind of point. Please don’t expect me to be grateful.’

‘No, I won’t do that.’ He handed back the basket, his smile widening into a grin. ‘I’d prefer something warmer in the way of emotion than mere gratitude.’

‘What a shame,’ she said too sweetly. ‘I think you must be confusing me with some of my friends.’

‘Now what do I infer from that? That you’re immune?’

A glint in the hazel eyes warned her in time that affirmation might be reckless. Her thoughtless words to Kate Lydyard had already provided him with one challenge; she didn’t want to compound the offence. Besides, she wasn’t altogether sure any more that she could plead immunity or even indifference. She was still shaking inside, and her mouth felt soft and tremulous. She tried to explain away her acute vulnerability by telling herself she was ashamed because Blair had so easily guessed her total lack of any kind of experience, but she knew it wasn’t as simple as that. She had a confused feeling that nothing might ever be simple again.

She couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and when she saw him move, take a step towards her, she panicked, backing away straight into a rose bush. The thorns caught her in an instant, fastening themselves into the thin cotton blouse and the brief denim skirt.

She said, ‘Oh, hell!’ in a low, furious voice, and twisted trying to free herself.

‘Keep still,’ Blair directed. ‘You’ll tear your clothes, if not your skin, if you struggle like that.’

His hands were sure and expert as they released her, but she was in an agony of tension, and not because she was afraid of being scratched by the murderous thorns.

When he had finished, she said, ‘Thank you,’ staring down at the neatly raked gravel at her feet.

He said mockingly, ‘That really caused you some grief, didn’t it, Courtney?’ He sighed with a trace of impatience. ‘But you don’t have to worry. You’re not going to be rushed into anything you’re not ready for—I promise you that.’

Her heart began to thud slowly and uncomfortably, as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said. Why did he talk about promises, and about not rushing her? He couldn’t pretend that one sunlit kiss had made any real difference to a man of his age and experience, no matter what effect it might have had on her. A totally calculated effect, as she now realised.

She said hurriedly, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you’ll have to excuse me now, please. I have things to do.’

‘Flowers to arrange, for one thing,’ he said, sounding amused. He reached to one of the bushes beside him, the lean strong fingers moving among the stems. He said, ‘Keep this one for yourself.’

It was the most perfect bloom, just beginning to open from its bud, creamy white with a hint of pink in the furled centre. Courtney stared down at it as if she was transfixed.

He went on, ‘You don’t have to invent chores and run away, Courtney. I’m going now. But I’ll be back.’

And that was a promise too, she thought, as she stood in the sunlight, and held the rose he had given her.

Even though three years had passed, Courtney could still remember the welter of emotion which had assailed her. What a child she had been! How accurately Blair Devereux had assessed her.

She had kept the rose in a crystal vase on her dressing table. It had been the last thing she had seen as she closed her eyes at night, and the first thing she had looked for too. Probably Blair had known that too. That would have been his intention. A constant reminder to keep her on her toes, and make her count the passing of the summer days.

But before the rose had begun to fade, that magic golden time was over for ever. The realisation that something was terribly wrong had dawned on her slowly. She had seen her father looking pale and ill, and questioned him, but he had dismissed her queries lightly, blaming overwork and the heat. Each evening he shut himself into the study, eating his dinner from a tray, and spending most of his time on the telephone. She tried to discuss her worries with Rob, but he didn’t seem interested.

The news of Geoffrey Devereux’s arrest at Heathrow had been like a bombshell. Overnight, she saw her father dwindle into an elderly man, and became aware that tension hung over their lives like a clenched fist.

She couldn’t believe what had happened. She kept repeating to herself, ‘It isn’t true. It can’t be true,’ like some mourning litany. It was impossible that the warm, kindly man who had been so safe and secure a part of her life for so long could be a betrayer, a criminal. If it was true, then any disaster seemed possible.

And disaster had come, each one falling like a hammerblow. She had tried hard to close her mind to that time, to look forward, only forward to a future which had to be better, but now she couldn’t stop the memories crowding thick and fast.

Blair had been one of them. She had never wanted to think about him again, but Robin’s casual comment had opened the floodgates.

He’d said he would be back, and he came, but not as she could ever have imagined. When he came, he was full of a dark and savage anger, which she supposed was natural because Geoffrey Devereux was his uncle, and was in prison on remand. It was a shattering shock for anyone, and they were terribly upset too, but that had not seemed to occur to him. And the first she had known of his presence in the house was when she had come downstairs that evening and heard the raised angry voices coming from the study …

Rob said curiously, ‘What’s the matter? You look like a ghost?’

She felt like a ghost, Courtney thought hysterically. There were ghosts everywhere, rising out of the past to torment her just when she thought they had been laid to rest for ever.

He said, ‘You’re not still brooding about Monty, are you? For heaven’s sake, Courtney …’

‘About him,’ she said tightly. ‘Among other things.’ The cottage suddenly seemed as small as he’d claimed, the walls closing in on her, even though she wasn’t normally claustrophobic. She swallowed. ‘I—I’m going out for a while. I think I’ll drive over to Hunters Court.’

‘What on earth for?’

She shrugged. ‘To see it one last time—before it comes under the hammer in more ways than one,’ she added ironically.

Rob flushed. ‘It won’t be as bad as you think.’

She lifted her hands, then let them fall helplessly at her side. It would be every bit as bad. She’d seen glossy brochures about some of Monty Pallister’s past projects—executive housing that seemed to have been specifically designed with midgets in mind, highly glazed office blocks, and gaudy shopping precincts in concrete in what Courtney suspected had once been pleasant high streets. Everything he touched, he spoiled, she thought, and Hunters Court would be no exception, and there had been a time when Rob would have seen this too. Now, he seemed to be deliberately blinding himself to the realities. She had always known how bitterly he had resented the disgrace that their association with Geoffrey Devereux had brought on them. To Rob, Monty Pallister was a way back to the good times.

But he’s wrong, she thought. Monty Pallister is a user. He doesn’t allow himself to be used. Rob could be heading for trouble if he thought otherwise. Then she checked herself. What use was there in worrying? He was set on this path, and nothing she had been able to say had deterred him one jot.

She started the Mini and drove with extra care out of the cramped yard, because she was on edge and that was when accidents happened.

As she drove through the lanes, she began to make herself relax. It was a pretty drive, especially today with a pale February sun straggling over the bare trees, and lifting a faint mist from the wet fields. The last week had been cold and raining, and it would have been appropriate to her mood if today had been the same. She didn’t want the promise of the sun. She felt as bleak as if spring would never come.

She thought perhaps she would leave. Good secretaries were always in demand, and there was nothing to keep her in the area. She would go somewhere else, and make a new life for herself, and forget everything that had happened, and everything that was going to happen.

There was a high stone wall concealing Hunters Court from the road. Courtney wondered whether that would remain when the alterations began. After all, Monty Pallister wouldn’t want to hide away his new possession. He’d want to advertise it, probably with neon lights, and she didn’t want to be here to see that.

The tall iron gates at the end of the drive stood open, but the estate agents’ sign had gone, she noticed. There had been high winds for a few days along with the rain, and it had blown down, and probably the agent had decided that as the auction was so near it wasn’t worth putting it up again. They would wait until they could put a sign saying ‘Sold’ up, because that would be a much better advertisement.

She drove slowly, looking steadily ahead of her at the view she had seen so many countless times, etching it on to her brain for all eternity.

By some irony, the house had never looked lovelier, its mellow stones unmasked by creeper. The Hallorans had cherished it, and it sprawled contentedly in the sunlight.

She blinked suddenly, because just for a moment the years rolled away, and she was a much younger Courtney, happily returning home for the school holidays. Her eyes sought the corner room on the first floor which had been hers in a swift surge of nostalgia. She had the oddest feeling that if she could look in through the uncurtained window, it would all be waiting for her there, totally unchanged, with the little davenport under the window, and the girl’s bed with its flowered and flounced coverlet, and the elegant pieces of walnut furniture all chosen for her by her father.

Courtney sighed swiftly. She was just being a fool. All the furniture had been sold long ago. There was nothing left at Hunters Court to remind her of the girl she had been, or the secure life she had enjoyed. She had managed to salvage one thing—her mother’s portrait which had always hung on the wide half-landing at the bend of the stairs. It was too large for her bedroom at the cottage where it now hung, and it was like living with an older version of herself which could be disconcerting at times. She barely remembered her mother who had died when she was three, and she had only recently become aware how like her she was—the same oval face, framed by the same cloud of dark hair, except that Courtney wore hers slightly smoother, and definitely longer—the same slightly tilted grey-green eyes, with the long dark lashes. Courtney often felt she had never felt the loss of her mother so keenly as in the past few years. She could have done with that serenity, the curve of humour in the well-shaped mouth. She needed someone to turn to, and Rob required someone to exercise some control over him, whether he knew it or not. Their father was too ill, and although there had been improvement over the past few months, they had to be careful not to agitate him.

Presumably Rob had taken this into account when he told him of the plan for Hunters Court, or at least Courtney hoped he had. She doubted all the same whether Rob would have been completely frank with his father. He could not imagine that James Lincoln would welcome the wholesale changes which would be bound to follow once Monty Pallister owned the property.

She parked the car at the front of the house and walked slowly up the shallow flight of steps which led to the terrace. The windows seemed to look down at her like reproachful eyes, and she concentrated on looking over the maintenance of the house with eagle eyes. But she couldn’t fault it. Paintwork, guttering and roof seemed to be in perfect order. There were bulbs showing faint green tips in the large ornamental urns along the terrace, and Courtney wondered whether they would ever have a chance to flower. Then she caught at herself impatiently. There was no point in thinking along these lines. She had come here to encapsulate some memories, not indulge in useless recriminations.

She tried the doors and french windows as she passed, but they were all securely locked, and in a way she was relieved. If there had been some means of ingress, the temptation would probably have proved too strong, and she had to come to terms with the fact that there was nothing left for her here.

A sudden chill breeze had sprung up, mocking the sunshine, and she turned up the collar of her sheepskin coat with a slight shiver as she descended the terrace steps at the side of the house and walked, her boot heels scrunching on the neatly raked gravel, along the path towards the gardens at the rear. There was a short cut through the yard which housed the stables and garaging, and she decided to take that, but as she turned under the arch, she saw something which brought her up short. There was a car parked there, a silver-grey Porsche. Courtney stared at it, frowning a little. It wasn’t a local registration, she noted, and yet the driver knew enough to find his way to the parking area at the rear rather than leave it at the front as she had done. She grimaced. Possibly Monty, or one of his minions, had arrived for one last gloat before the auction. Monty usually drove an opulent Jaguar, but that didn’t mean it was his only car.

She glanced around uneasily. She had as much right to be here as anyone else, but she hoped that if it was Monty, he hadn’t seen her. She had managed up to now to present a façade of civility, but now she knew exactly what he wanted, she wasn’t sure that the lessons of her upbringing would stand. And while she opposed Rob, she wasn’t prepared to jeopardise his position by openly quarrelling with the man who was going to employ him.

She hurried across the yard, and unlatched the gate which led into the gardens. It squeaked loudly, and she winced, expecting to hear herself challenged. But there wasn’t another sound, and she made herself relax.

Whoever was there, they were more likely to be looking round the house than the grounds. They’d have borrowed the keys from the agents, and probably decided to use the rear entrance as it was more convenient.

Nevertheless, she found she was hurrying, and moving as quietly as possible, just as though she was some kind of intruder, and she was frankly relieved when she reached the comparative shelter of the rose garden. Looking at the beds of leafless bushes, it seemed impossible to imagine the riot of colour that only the passage of a few months would bring. She wandered down the paths between the beds, pausing to read some of the labels and refresh her memory with a scent—a colour. She wondered if any of them would be transplanted, or whether they would simply be yanked out and burnt.

Her steps slowed as she reached the sheltered corner where the exquisite damask and moss roses grew. Surely they could be preserved? Or were they too going to be sacrificed in the wholesale vandalism that Monty Pallister threatened for Hunters Court? She felt a sharp sting of tears, and at the same moment her senses, heightened perhaps by emotional stress, told her that she was no longer alone. She heard the scrunch of another step on the gravel behind her.

Damnation! she thought furiously. It was humiliating to be found here, crying over a lot of flower beds, especially if it was Monty who had found her.

She turned unwillingly, bracing herself, then stopped dead, the defensive phrases she’d been planning escaping her lips in one startled gasp.

The man confronting her was not plump and sleekly upholstered, with an oily smile. He was tall with tawny hair, and hazel eyes, and there was a scar high on his cheekbone where once there had been a trickle of blood. And he wasn’t smiling at all.

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