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.
HE wasn’t a ghost, he was flesh and blood, but no apparition could have frightened her more.
He said, ‘So we meet again, Courtney.’
He said it without emotion, just a flat recognition of the fact that time and fate had conspired to bring them together, but the words seemed to tear at her like long ago thorns.
Her voice sounded thick. ‘What are you doing here?’
He shrugged. ‘I was in the area, and I heard someone say the place was back on the market. I thought I’d have a look round for old times’ sake.’
Breathing was painful, but she fought for her control. His cold, speculative gaze seemed to be warning her that he had not forgotten their last meeting, and as if to reinforce this impression, his hand rose and touched the little scar.
He said softly, ‘And you, Courtney? What brings you back here? A trip down memory lane?’
The question was bland enough, but there was something in the way he said it, something about the way his eyes narrowed slightly which alerted her suspicions.
He’d said he was in the area, which sounded casual enough—and yet … Three years ago he had vanished out of their lives completely, and now, when Hunters Court was for sale again, he was back. Was it just a coincidence? Surely it must be, yet the Porsche suggested affluence, as did the dark supple leather of the car coat which hung from his shoulders, and the rollneck cashmere sweater beneath it.
She made herself speak lightly. ‘Pure nostalgia, I’m afraid, which is invariably a mistake. I didn’t expect to find anyone else here.’
His brows rose sardonically. ‘No? A desirable residence like this? I would have thought there’d have been a queue forming.’
Courtney smiled brightly. ‘Perhaps there is. I wouldn’t know.’
Her mind seemed to be running in circles like a mouse on a wheel. There was a growing conviction within her that Blair’s questions were only casual on the surface. But surely he, of all people, could not seriously be interested in buying Hunters Court. She was just being over-imaginative. She had to be. Because the thought of Blair Devereux, the nephew of the man who had ruined her father, living in her old home was even more intolerable than Monty Pallister’s plans for the house.
‘But all the same, you wouldn’t keep away.’ Blair was smiling too, but the smile hadn’t reached his eyes. ‘It’s not really surprising, I suppose. After all those generations of Lincolns living here, the place must have the pull of a magnet for you all.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But it isn’t ours any more, and I don’t forget that.’
She was issuing a warning of her own, reminding him of everything which lay between them, the abyss which the sordid aftermath of betrayal and embezzlement had created. The girl whom he’d teased with a summer kiss in this very garden no longer existed. She was older now and infinitely more wary. For a short while, she had allowed herself to forget that she didn’t really like Blair Devereux because she had been frankly dazzled by his sexual magnetism, but that would never happen again.
Yet it didn’t stop her wanting to remove herself from his orbit with the speed of light. Apart from anything else she had an uneasy feeling that she ought to get back to the cottage and tell Rob what had happened. He wouldn’t be happy to know that Blair was back in the vicinity, even if it was only a brief visit.
He was always bad news, she thought, and he won’t have changed.
She summoned the bright smile again. ‘Well, I must be going. I have a lot to do this morning.’
‘Is that a fact?’ He consulted an expensive-looking gold wristwatch. ‘I was thinking perhaps we could have lunch together.’
She was taken aback at that. He had unmitigated gall even to suggest such a thing, she thought furiously. He was the last person she’d ever wanted to meet again, and she’d have thought he felt exactly the same about her.
She said calmly, ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then how about dinner? I’m staying at the White Hart.’
Courtney stiffened