Sup With The Devil. Sara Craven

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.