Desirable Property

by Catherine George

  Desirable Property

  By

  Catherine George

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  DESIRABLE PROPERTY

  Verity didn't approve of married women having affairs, but she had no interest in her friend's affair with Ben Dysart— until, that is, he asked her out, and she discovered how much she really liked him…

  Books you will enjoy by CATHERINE GEORGE

  IMPERFECT CHAPERONE

  Because Kit Vaughan's mother was none too happy about her two scatty younger sisters going off to Spain on holiday by themselves, she had persuaded Kit to go along too, to try and keep them out of mischief. But it was Kit who landed in all the trouble…

  DEVIL WITHIN

  Why was Saul Treharne so cold and hostile towards her? Claudia wondered ruefully. It was not everyone who would be willing to go to the wilds of Brazil as governess—and he ought to be grateful that she was coping so well with his little girl! Why did he absolutely refuse to believe anything good of her?

  PRODIGAL SISTER

  How could Sarah manage to retrieve the situation she was in? When Rhodri suggested a temporary, face-saving engagement she agreed—and then her real fiancé turned up…

  First published

  in

  Great Britain 1985

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Catherine George 1985

  ISBN 0 263 74957 6

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the distance a church clock struck three. The chimes hung on the warm, still air as Verity stopped the car, her eyes lingering with delight on the view. From the layby at the foot of the steep hill the village of Priorsford could be seen in its entirety, the houses of honey-coloured stone, their steeply pitched roofs sharply defined against the blue sky, climbing up the main street in the hot July sunlight, giving way to the Bell Inn in pride of place at the top. For a few tranquil moments she sat still, just gazing, then at last she surrendered to the compulsion that drew her like a magnet, and turned her head to look in the opposite direction, where Tern Cottage laid sole claim to the attention.

  It stood some distance away below the village, on a small mound encircled by one of the tributaries of the River Avon; a miniature castle complete with moat, a narrow rustic bridge in place of drawbridge giving access to the path that wound sharply upwards through a garden tiered with beds of roses and flowering shrubs. Verity drew in a deep breath, ruefully aware that every time she laid eyes on the house she coveted it with an intensity that broke the tenth commandment.

  On the car seat beside her lay clip-board, leather-cased steel tape, camera and briefcase in readiness for her appointment at Tern Cottage. Acquainted with her client of old Verity knew very well it would be a waste of time to arrive early, and got out to while away the time with her camera, taking several shots of the house and garden from below before returning to the car to run a comb through her heavy brown hair, retying the ribbon securing it at the nape of her neck. As she inspected her face in the driving mirror her attention was distracted by the sight of a man descending the twists and turns of the path from the cottage at breakneck speed. Verity watched, her eyebrows raised, wondering idly why anyone should exert themselves so violently in such heat, her hazel eyes bright with interest as the man strode past blindly and vaulted into a dark green sports car parked a few yards away, just beyond a Mercedes convertible. She winced as the engine revved angrily to life and the car roared up the steep village street, shattering the somnolent quiet of the afternoon.

  Verity was intrigued. Her fleeting glimpse of the man had been enough for an impression of swarthy skin, tightly curling black hair—and rage; all the more intimidating for its grim suppression. Wondering what had upset the man so badly she gathered up her belongings and locked the car before making her way, at a very much more leisurely pace, up the path the unknown man had just hurtled down so precipitously. Verity hesitated as she reached the house. The heavy, studded door stood open into the dim hall, and after a moment she lifted the iron knocker, in the shape of a lion's head, and let it fall. At once quick footsteps sounded on the staircase inside, and a light, petulant voice called, 'I hope you've come back to apologise!'

  The door flew open and Verity was confronted by the lady of the house, dressed in white silk shirt and trousers, silver-gilt hair framing a pretty face marred by red swollen lids over blue eyes that stared blankly at the tall, slender girl standing in the doorway.

  'Hello, Gussie. Is this a bad time? You specified three-fifteen to my boss yesterday.' Verity spoke with matter-of-fact friendliness, tactfully ignoring all signs of distress.

  'Lord, yes. No, I mean, Verity Marsh, of course. Come in, darling. Sit down somewhere.' Augusta Middleton fluttered her hands vaguely towards what had once been termed the parlour. 'Go into the drawing-room. I'll be with you in a sec, must do something about my face.'

  Verity sat on one of the tightly-buttoned pink settees in the drawing-room, looking out through the open latticed windows at the garden at the back of the house; no flower beds here, just a steep slope of lawn from a small paved terrace to the graceful willows fringing the river bank below. The room itself jarred on her. Gussie had ignored its personality, and white furry carpet and pink silk curtains were uneasy companions for the beamed ceiling and the cowled stone fireplace in the inglenook. Verity was openly curious. Gussie had obviously been having quite a stand up fight with her visitor, whoever he was, moreover, Gussie's mouth had been almost as swollen as her eyelids, though presumably for a different reason, and none of the crystal buttons on her silk shirt were thrust through the corresponding buttonholes. None of your business, Verity told herself with a grin, and turned as her hostess came back with newly made-up face and a bright smile of apology.

  'Sorry, Verity. A spot of bother just now before you came. I do apologise. Frightfully good of you to come, darling.'

  'Not at all; my job,' said Verity.

  'I know—so clever of you to be a surveyor, or whatever it is.' Gussie sat on the arm of a chair, one foot in its gilt sandal swinging idly. 'Of course, you always were such a practical sort of girl—too marvellous to be so competent.'

  The words were no compliment, but Verity smiled pleasantly, mentally gritting her teeth.

  'I do my best, Gussie. Thank you for asking for me specifically. I gather from my boss you insisted on it.'

  Gussie jumped up and prowled restlessly around the room.

  'I knew you loved the dreary old place. I thought you'd do your best to stress its attractions so it'll sell quickly.'

  Verity's eyes narrowed in surprise. 'But I thought Peter's father spent a small fortune in restoring the house, Gussie. I assumed you adored it,' she said slowly.

  The other girl's mouth tightened. 'Adore it! I loathe the place. Olde-worlde cottages are for looking at, not living in, I assure you, darling. Besides, it's miles away from anywhere. Who could like being stuck in this God-forsaken hole in winter?'

  I, for one, thought Verity.

  'Does Peter want to move?' she asked.

  Gussie tossed her head with a pitying little smile. 'Peter wants what I want, darling!'

  'But it's such a beautiful location—'

  'You can't be serious!' Gussie rounded on Verity scornfully. 'It's like living in a goldfish bowl. All the village can see whoever comes and goes—the front garden is open to all eyes. Then there's no garage, the cars have to stay in the layby down below, and we can't even get permission to build one, or tear down
that ramshackle bridge, because of some beastly preservation order. When we go out I have to trail down to the car in wellies and with a golf umbrella if it's raining, and if I'm very tired when we come home Peter just has to carry me up to the house!'

  Remembering Peter's tendency to overweight Verity thought privately a move might be his only chance of survival if he was obliged to hoist his rather voluptuously built wife up the path every night. Keeping her face straight with an effort she took out her pen and armed herself with her clipboard and tape.

  'It might be a good idea to keep your opinions quiet when people come to view the house, Gussie. The idea is to stress the good points, you know. Now, perhaps I'd better get started. Peter's out, I take it—I rather hoped he might be here to help me measure up. No one else from the firm was free to come with me as it's Saturday afternoon.'

  Gussie had the grace to look a little guilty. 'Horrors, Verity—I never thought. I suppose you don't normally work on Saturday afternoon. I am sorry.'

  'Not to worry,' said Verity lightly. 'The offices are open on Saturdays, and even Sunday mornings at the height of the season. This just happened to be my weekend off.'

  'You should have said something, darling—'

  Verity laughed. 'When my boss tells me to jump, Gussie, believe me, I jump! Besides it won't take long, then I can return to my own back lawn and sunbathe.'

  Gussie's face fell. 'But I thought you'd at least stay to tea, Verity. Peter's away for the weekend on some beastly course, Mummy and Daddy are on holiday, and I'm all alone. Please! We can have it on the terrace in the sun, and Mrs Dutton, my woman, made a super cake yesterday.'

  She looked so like a sulky child balked of a treat Verity laughed and gave in, on condition Gussie lent a hand, if only to hold the other end of the tape. The property was certainly desirable, but by no means large. Originally three farm labourers' cottages, it had been converted into one dwelling in the previous century and given the name 'Tern', meaning a set of three, not after the inappropriate sea-bird as generally supposed. The conversion had been brought to its present state of perfection by the efforts of Henry Middleton, a self-made millionaire who was able to hire people with taste and skill to make what he jocularly called a 'love-nest' for his son and his beautiful bride, resulting in what most people would consider a dream house. Besides the spacious hall, which retained one of the original fireplaces, the ground floor offered an unusually large kitchen, with windows looking out on both front and back gardens, a smallish, but pretty dining-room and the drawing-room. Upstairs three bedrooms and two bathrooms, one en suite with the master bedroom, gave on to a landing with a carved wood balustrade running round three sides of the upper floor and overlooking the hall below.

  One half of Verity took measurements and made notes with her usual speed and efficiency, while the other half constantly marvelled that any woman in her right senses could give up such a house. Fortunately, Peter Middleton had left a list of helpful details regarding damp course, re-wiring, dry-rot treatment and insulation, confirming Verity's findings, and over tea on the sunlit terrace an hour later she was able to advise a very satisfactory asking price, the house quite definitely at the top of its particular category in the property market.

  'Fantastic, Verity!' Gussie's eyes gleamed. 'Now we can look round for something in Stratford, or as near it as possible. Keep an eye out, darling. I fancy something split-level with a swimming-pool, and a really secluded garden. All this boring antiquity leaves me utterly cold. You should hear the creaks and groans in the night! I know it's only the timbers and all that, but it terrifies me when I'm on my own.'

  Verity eyed her over her teacup, shaking her head slightly. 'In my opinion it's a beautiful house, Gussie; quite perfect.'

  'Exactly, darling, that's why I asked your boss at Lockhart & Welch to make sure you came to do the necessary.' Gussie leaned towards Verity eagerly. 'I say, darling, I don't suppose you'd stay the night? I did have something planned, but it's fallen through, and with Peter away I shall be all alone.'

  Verity shook her head. 'Sorry, Gussie. I'm dining Greek with a friend of mine.'

  'Man?'

  'Yes.' Verity smiled in amusement. 'Though I have been known to spend evenings with other females sometimes.'

  Gussie shuddered. 'How deadly!' She hesitated, looking at Verity as she lay stretched out indolently in a garden chair, her face turned up to the sun, bare arms and legs brown against the white of her denim shirt-dress. 'Vee, darling, did you, er, see anyone when you arrived?'

  Verity opened an eye. 'If you mean a dark, very irate gentleman with a tremendous burst of speed, yes. He passed as I was sitting in the car.'

  Gussie sighed, her mouth drooping. 'That was Ben Dysart.'

  Verity's other eye opened, her interest caught. 'The one you had a crush on when we were in school?'

  Gussie nodded glumly. 'That's the one. We had a row this afternoon.'

  'I rather gathered that.' Verity's eyes danced. 'That wasn't all you had, I imagine, from the look of you when I arrived. Your shirt buttons are still adrift, by the way.'

  Gussie hastily repaired the damage, eyeing Verity uncertainly. Suddenly she burst out—'I have to tell someone, Verity. I'm in such a frightful turmoil.'

  Verity held up a hand hastily. 'Now don't tell me anything you'll regret, Gussie—you might be sorry afterwards.'

  'I used to tell you things in school,' muttered Gussie, twisting one of her shirt buttons.

  'Girlish confidences whispered after lights out in school are a bit different from what I'm afraid you're about to confess now,' said Verity levelly, her hazel eyes very bright and direct. 'That was ten years ago and our lives have diverged since school. You're a socialite and I'm a working girl—remember, I'm here only in a professional capacity this afternoon.'

  Great, facile tears began to roll down Gussie's cheeks and she sniffed like a miserable child. Verity sighed and handed her a table napkin.

  'Please!' Gussie turned drowned blue eyes on Verity. 'I must tell someone, and with you I know there'll be absolute discretion.'

  Verity heard the last word with distaste, glanced at her watch, then said crisply, 'All right, Augusta Middleton. If you must, you must. But in twenty minutes I'm away, no matter what.'

  Gussie mopped her eyes and began to talk. 'Ben— Benedict actually—is the son of a baronet.'

  Verity frowned. 'Dysart, you said. Didn't someone of that name die in a fire not so long ago?'

  Gussie nodded. That was Nick, Ben's older brother. There were just the two of them. Of course when Ben and I were, well, involved, Ben was the younger brother, a mere Lieutenant in the Royal Marines. He only had his pay, and just between you and me my parents weren't at all well off after Daddy's business went down the drain, and there was Peter, always on hand.'

  'Not in the bush,' murmured Verity.

  Gussie ignored her. 'I knew Ben-would be a Captain eventually, and all that, but I couldn't face the thought of married quarters, or whatever I should have had to endure as a sort of camp follower, and the Dysarts aren't exactly rolling in cash, it's all land and property, if you follow me.'

  'Perfectly.'

  'And there was Peter, absolutely potty about me, and with all that lovely money from his father's computers I felt I really had no choice. Oh it's so unfair,' went on Gussie passionately. 'How could I know Nick Dysart would snuff it—now Ben will inherit the title and all the rest of it, but I'm all tied up to Peter. Not that I'm not fond of Peter, of course, but he doesn't turn me on like Ben and—'

  'I think I have the picture,' said Verity hurriedly, and got up, feeling it was time to go. She looked at Gussie curiously. 'Would I be vulgarly curious if I asked why you had such a row?'

  Gussie stood up, running her hands through her hair. She looked away. 'I rang him up and asked him to come over when I knew Peter would be away. The subject of divorce came up, then he got in an absolute rage and said horrid things when I suggested he stay the night.'

  Verity bit
her lip as she gathered up her belongings. 'Don't you want to divorce Peter, Gussie?' she asked point blank, if you're so hot for this man Dysart I'm sure Peter would let you go.'

  Gussie's tears gushed again, 'I can't ask for a divorce, Verity.' She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes carefully. 'I said Daddy's business went on the rocks, didn't I? He was in debt and pretty -desperate and—and Peter's father bailed him out, but only on condition I stuck by Peter.' She shot Verity an odd, shamefaced look. 'Besides, I'm fond of Peter, and I like having oodles of money—I might as well be honest. Did you see my Mercedes in the layby? Peter just gave me that for my birthday. I really don't see why Ben couldn't, well, spend a little time with me now and again when it's convenient.'

  Verity stared at the pouting loveliness of Gussie's face and shook her head in wonder. 'You quite honestly don't do you—you want the penny and the bun.' Belatedly she remembered Gussie was a client. 'Anyway, it's really none of my business, though I can't help a reluctant glimmer of approval for your ex-beau for refusing your tempting offer.'

  Gussie's eyes hardened. 'He'll change his mind, never fear. I only have to wait.'

  As they left the terrace for the kitchen, a loud, impatient knock sounded on the front door.

  'Hang on a minute, Verity. I'll just see who it is.' Gussie hurried into the hall. Verity checked on her belongings then went more slowly after her hostess, standing still in embarrassment as she saw a powerfully built man with somewhat familiar black curly hair grasp Gussie by her shoulder, shaking her as he looked down into her triumphant face.

  'All right, you win,' he grated, 'I only got as far as the Bell. I warn you I've had too much to drink, and now the only thing on my mind is your tempting invitation, Mrs Middleton. So I'm back.' He bent his head and kissed Gussie's willing mouth so explicitly Verity coloured to the roots of her hair and prepared to depart as noiselessly as possible to leave the happy pair to it. In her haste she dropped her briefcase and the couple in the hall sprang apart, Gussie's face guilty, the man's hard features cold with anger.