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‘Not a thing, Brian. But then, I do have my ways and means.’
‘Bet you have, mate. I heard through the cricket grapevine you were wining and dining our auburn-haired Miss Hamilton. So your job wasn’tthatdifficult for you, was it?’
‘Look, Brian, all I’m interested in is my twenty per cent.’
Rosie’s heart flayed her chest in objection to what her ears were hearing. An involuntary shudder radiated from her head to her toes and goosebumps prickled on her forearms. Her knees crumbled under the shock, and she was forced to lean against the side of the summerhouse to steady her collapse, bent double, clutching at her stomach to prevent the involuntary dry retching.
Why did life have to throw so many missiles in her path? Rip up her aunt’s beloved garden? Knock down the cottage? Her breathing became laboured, and her mind struggled to catalogue the facts revealed by the conversation. As she steadied her stance, her senses were devoured by an anger so intense that pins and needles shot to her extremities.
The traitor!
Angus had been aware of Brian Dixon’s intentions for the cottage from the outset. In fact, he had played an instrumental role in brokering the whole deal, discouraging other buyers who might have offered a more realistic price, or who might have wished to use the cottage as a family home or retirement cottage. But what hurt the most, at that precise moment, was that he’d encouraged their friendship for the sole purpose of ensuring a smooth transmission of the property from Bernice’s naïve executrix to Brian Dixon for his twenty per cent cut!
As the full implication of the context of their six-month relationship slammed into her gut and the level of his betrayal dawned, an unprecedented nausea rose into Rosie’s throat and she lurched forward to vomit.
‘What was that?’
Angus appeared round the edge of the summerhouse. His handsome face blanched to match her own mortified expression when realisation dawned that she’d overheard his conversation. She clenched her fights and stood upright, narrowing her eyes as she scoured his face and her upper lip curled in disgust. But she couldn’t find the words to express her horror at his callous treatment of her.
‘Rosie! What on earth are you doing here?’ Angus blurted.
‘Well, thisismy house, isn’t it, Angus? Still?’
‘Well, yes, yes it is.’
‘You lying scumbag, Angus! I overheard everything you and this man discussed. You’ve lied to me for six months just so you could get your hands on my aunt’s cottage! Not only is that unethical, but, as a solicitor, I also believe it is professionally corrupt and potentially illegal. I heard how anxious you were to collect your twenty per cent from that conman over there.’ The stench of deceit forced her nose to crinkle and mouth to grimace.
Rosie had to grant Angus some credit for swinging his mortified expression towards Brian Dixon with a look of such intense loathing it could wither any plant in the vicinity, but he remained silent as Brian meandered across.
‘Is this Rosie Hamilton?’
Angus nodded, clearly not trusting himself to speak.
‘Then are we screwed?’
Angus nodded again.
‘Never mind, I have a Plan B lined up over in Bath. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just give my lawyers a call. Leave you to it, mate.’ And with a slap on Angus’s broad back, he strode off down the gravel path and out of sight.
Rosie quickly recovered her faculties. She was so incensed at the way Angus had treated not only her but her aunt’s memory, she had to fight down the urge to lurch for his jugular and squeeze until he stopped breathing.
‘What you have done is abhorrent – at the very least it is a flagrant breach of your professional code of conduct to act in your clients’ best interests. It goes without saying that any deal on the cottage is off. I will be transferring my instructions to a firm of solicitors with integrity and will seek their advice on my avenues of recourse against you personally as well as against Richmond Morton. I will also be reporting you to your professional body and I hope you will be struck off the solicitors’ roll for gross misconduct.
‘And, on a personal level, Angus, I hope you rot in hell. Now get off my property before I call the police and have you arrested. Now!’ She trembled from her golden tresses to her stiletto heels as she stumbled down the gravel path to escort Angus in the wake of his accomplice, but minus the Plan B.
When the red taillights of his Mercedes had disappeared from sight, she slumped onto the rickety garden bench under the awning of the cherry tree, its branches now stark and bare. The dawning horror that she had come within a whisker’s breadth of losing Willowbrook Lodge to the likes of Brian Dixon was too intense to allow tears to form and she concentrated instead on getting her breathing under control.
As she sat, wrapped in her apricot pashmina, she attempted to slot the pieces of the unfolding nightmare into some semblance of order. Inevitably, her brain alighted on the conversation she’d had with Charlie when he’d tried to warn her about Brian Dixon, even provided her with evidence about another property the man had bought and razed to the ground.
Charlie had been right about Angus, too. She’d been stubborn, too dismissive of his local knowledge to even perform due diligence as she would for any investor client of her own. But had she deserved what Angus had done to her? Had everything he had told her been a lie?
Charlie!
Remorse tormented her conscience. She owed him an apology. She would grab her aunt’s bicycle and rush over there immediately. Would Charlie have waited for her? She couldn’t blame him if he hadn’t. She ditched her stilettos, slammed her feet into the ancient wellies, wrapped her legs around the cracked leather saddle of the ancient silver bicycle and pedalled as fast as her calves could manage to Somersby Manor.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Rosie pumped her knees with the last ounce of strength she possessed to whip through the impressive wrought-iron gates, along the ribbon of tarmac, her chest low over the rust-speckled handlebars, sweat dripping from the end of her nose, hair flying wild in the resulting slipstream. She looked like a witch on a broom – appropriate for the time of year, she supposed.
