Blair as a guide. He knew more about it than Dad, and he probably convinced himself that he cared more than any of us. Of course he wants it.’
Courtney said slowly, ‘You said there wasn’t much money. But I think there is now.’ She described the car, his clothes, the handmade Italian shoes, and Robin’s eyes grew hard and angry.
‘Well, we don’t need to ask where he got it from.’ Courtney looked at him blankly, and he went on, ‘The police never found out what Geoffrey Devereux did with the money he stole. If they had, we might still be living at Hunters Court ourselves.’
She gasped. ‘You’re not serious! You’re saying that Blair has the money?’
‘It makes sense. Someone has to have it, and he seems to have changed into a have from a have-not in the last three years. What was he officially? A mining surveyor? Hardly enough to put him in the millionaire bracket.’
‘Unless he found his own private goldmine.’
Robin looked at her grimly. ‘With our gold in it.’
Courtney sank down on a chair, feeling numb. ‘It’s not possible—is it?’
‘Anything’s possible,’ Robin said bitterly. ‘He’s been out of the picture ever since Geoffrey Devereux died, and if anyone had a clue as to where the money was, it would be him. And money makes money. He’s probably put his absence to good use.’
She shook her head. ‘He’d need to if he wants to buy Hunters Court, but I still can’t believe that he does.’
She didn’t want to believe it. She’d resented Blair, for all kinds of reasons, some of which she hadn’t been able to define too clearly, when he was only a visitor. But the thought of him as owner—possessor, moving among those well-loved rooms, filled her with a sick distaste. She thought she would rather see the place burned to the ground, or wrecked by Monty Pallister, than watch it fall into Blair’s hands.
She said, half to herself, ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
‘Yes, there is,’ Robin said forcefully. ‘We can find out exactly what he’s up to. You say he’s at the White Hart—well, we’ll have dinner there this evening.’
Courtney looked at him, then quickly shook her head. ‘No—I can’t. I don’t want to.’
‘It’s not a question of what you want.’ Robin’s mouth twisted. ‘God, do you think I want to see him again? Of all the people in the world …’ He gave a little cracked laugh. ‘But it’s got to be done. Too much hangs on this deal. No Devereux is going to ruin any more of my life.’
‘Brave words,’ she said ironically. ‘But even if Blair confides in you, and he’s going to the auction tomorrow, what can you do to stop him?’
‘I’ll think of something. And you’ll help.’
Courtney shook her head again. ‘That’s quite impossible. Anyway, I’m seeing Clive this evening.’
‘Oh—Clive,’ said Robin with dissatisfaction, and his sister gave him a swift glance.
He had never totally approved of her seeing Clive FitzHugh, and up to quite recently this had not particularly bothered her because it was a casual relationship created more by familiarity and proximity than searing passion. They’d known each other since they were children, and in the last twelve months had drifted into each other’s company for trips to the cinema and theatre in the surrounding large towns, and sometimes they sampled the local eating houses. Clive was only Robin’s age, and certainly not ready to settle down into thoughts of marriage, which was a relief to Courtney, who knew that although Colonel and Mrs FitzHugh were always kindness itself, they would not welcome the idea of their son tying himself up to a penniless girl. The FitzHughs had always been local landowners and they were nowhere near the breadline, but they would expect Clive to marry ‘sensibly’ in the fullness of time. Meanwhile they welcomed Courtney into their home in much the same spirit as they had done when she was a child. Courtney herself was well content with the relationship. Clive was good company, if nothing more, and the area of Harlow St Mary wasn’t overflowing with young bachelors eager and willing to take her out.
Clive and she were going out for a meal that evening, and she wasn’t prepared to put him off to pursue some wildcat scheme of Robin’s. Besides, she didn’t want to have to see Blair Devereux again.
It was an unfortunate sort of day, and more than once she wished she was at the office. She could have found something to do there surely, and it would have been better than listening to Robin’s constant jeremiads. Uncle Philip telephoned during the afternoon—to find out if Robin was ever going to work at the bank again, Courtney surmised. She absented herself tactfully for the duration of the call, but the cottage was too small to avoid altogether Robin’s voice raised in complaint and self-justification, and although she could only hear his side of the conversation, it was clear it was not going his way.
He offered no explanations when she rejoined him, but there was something about the set of his shoulders, and the mutinous expression on his face which spoke volumes. She guessed that if not actually dismissed, he had certainly been given some kind of ultimatum, and wondered what else he could have expected.
It was a relief to have her date with Clive to prepare for. To be able to lock herself in the tiny bathroom and pamper herself with bath oil, and scented powder. She put on a red needlecord skirt, softly full from a tight waistband, and a white blouse, ruffled at the neck and cuffs. She highlighted her eyes and cheekbones, and put a warm gloss on her mouth. When she had finished, she was quietly satisfied, having few illusions about her own cool attraction.
When she went down to the living room to wait for Clive, she found Robin had already left, and she couldn’t be sorry.
Clive arrived punctually, his blue eyes holding a smiling admiration as he looked at her.
‘You look positively edible,’ he told her. ‘I’m sorry we aren’t going somewhere more exotic.’
Courtney’s heart sank at his words, but she concealed it.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked brightly.
‘I booked a table at the White Hart for eight o’clock,’ said Clive, glancing at his watch. ‘I thought we could have a drink somewhere else first.’
‘Marvellous!’ Courtney kept her smile firmly pinned in place. She could only hope silently that Robin had had second thoughts about seeking Blair out. Perhaps neither of them would be there, she thought, crossing her fingers surreptitiously in the folds of her skirt. She resolved to take as long as possible over the preliminary drink, in order to give them a chance to meet and go their separate ways before she and Clive arrived on the scene.
But when they walked into the small cocktail bar at the White Hart some three-quarters of an hour later, Courtney realised that none of her hopes were to be fulfilled.
Blair was sitting with Robin at a corner table. Rob looked up as she walked in, and although he smiled at her and waved, the expression in his eyes said trouble.
Clive said, surprised, ‘You didn’t tell me old Rob was going to be here tonight. And who’s that he’s with. Good God, it looks like …’ He paused abruptly, obviously embarrassed.
Courtney said rather tautly, ‘I didn’t
