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
