The Runaway Bridesmaid (25 page)

As the full implication of the context of their six-month relationship slammed in 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?’

Austin 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. Her jaw tightened, her tiger-like eyes narrowed 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 the hell are you doing here?’ Austin blurted.

‘Well, this
is
my house, isn’t it, Austin? Still?’

‘Well, yes, yes it is.’

‘You lying scumbag, Austin! 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 Austin 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?’

Austin nodded, clearly not trusting himself to speak.

‘Then are we screwed?’

Austin nodded again.

‘Never mind, I have a Plan B lined up over in Tavistock. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just give my lawyers a call. Leave you to it, mate.’ And with a slap on Austin’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 Austin 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 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, Austin, 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 Austin in the wake of his accomplice, but minus the Plan B.

Rosie 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 Thornleigh Lodge to the likes of Brian Dixon was too intense to allow tears to form. 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 Austin, 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 Austin 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 Hunters, wrapped her legs around the cracked leather saddle of the ancient silver bicycle and pedalled as fast as her calves could manage to Brampton 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.

She ditched the bicycle and took the steps to the front door two at a time.

‘Oh, hi, Rosie isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I wonder if Charlie, sorry, Charles is still here?’

Charlie’s sister, Amelia, smiled and pointed out of the front door to the white-tented pavilion crouched like a hardened meringue on the Manor’s pristine croquet lawn. ‘Over there.’

Rosie glanced down at the marquee. What a strange place to hang out. But, she mused, as she trotted towards the open flap billowing in the breeze, as the hotel was closed for the winter, perhaps he was helping set up one of the conferences that take place in the grounds far enough away so as not to disturb their well-earned peace. She didn’t blame them at all. She knew first-hand how it felt to have your home invaded, violated even, by strangers. She raised her walk to a trot, her heart bouncing with anxiety as she approached the entrance. What was she going to say to Charlie? He’d been right about Austin, after all. Was he right about everything else too? That it was important to be sure of a partner’s motives before letting them into your heart? Yes, knowing his history, damn right it was justified.

She had a great deal of apologising to do. Would he forgive her? But there was something else she needed to tell him too. She loved him, with every fibre of her body, and she couldn’t wait to shout it from the rooftops.

A sudden vibration from her jacket pocket stopped her in her tracks. She drew out her iPhone to check the caller ID. It was Lauren!

‘Lauren! Hi, is everything okay? It’s just I’m…’

‘Rosie, that’s what I’m called to tell you. We’re both safe.’

‘What do you mean?’ Why shouldn’t she be safe?

‘I knew you’d be worried. We’ve escaped up-state to Brett’s brother’s farm. But I’m so worried for all those left behind to sit it out, especially along the New Jersey’s shoreline and Hudson Bay area.’

‘Hang on, Lauren. What’s going on?’

‘Hurricane Sandy! Haven’t you heard?’

‘No, no, I…’

‘Anyway, that’s not the main reason I’m calling. Are you sitting down?’

‘Lauren. I have a meeting …’

‘Sit down, Rosie.’

Rosie glanced around the wide expanse of lawn, the colour of Irish clover, and decided to lie. ‘Okay, I’m sat down.’

‘I’ll keep it brief, but I’ll email you a copy of the report when it comes through. The office is closed until Hurricane Sandy passes. Remember the company you bought those shares in for Baker-Colt? The company involved in the exploration for oil and gas?’

‘Lauren, can we do this some other time? There’s somewhere I need to be.’

‘Just listen, Rosie. You won’t believe this!’

‘What?’ Rosie glanced with impatience towards to marquee, edging closer to its entrance, anxious to terminate Lauren’s call so she could get inside and start apologising to Charlie.

‘Well, as you know, the company have been undertaking an unpopular fracking operation in the Wyoming desert. Yesterday, they announced that they’ve located a huge reserve of natural gas. They’ve struck gold, Rosie!’

‘Struck gold?’

‘Yes!’

‘Right.’

‘So, you know what that means don’t you?’

‘Well,’ Rosie’s eyes landed on a snaking tangle of coils, bisecting the deep grass around the rear of the marquee and connected to a throbbing generator.

‘Rosie, are you listening? On disclosure of the discovery of the gas deposits their share price has rocketed. The investment you purchased for the trust fund is now estimated to be worth in excess of eight hundred million dollars. They are ecstatic! The clients are demanding to speak to you personally. They’ve nicknamed you Miss Midas!’

Rosie knees buckled and she sunk down onto to the damp grass, her jaw hung loose.

‘It’s all thanks to you. Of course, the board’s appreciation of this turn of events means that they want to reinstate you at Harlow Fenton as VP! The firm’s commission on the deal is one of the largest ever collected. George Harlow is praising your foresight, shrewd financial acumen and gut instinct as qualities Harlow Fenton nurtures in all their employees. His wife is already shopping for a new yacht and a villa in the south of France!’

‘Lauren, I don’t think I want to pick up where I left off…’ Rosie muttered.

‘But that’s not the best bit of news in my book, Rosie.’

God, thought Rosie, can I take any more shocks today? Her knees were soaked through as she knelt on the grassy slope and all intelligent thought had seeped from her brain to her boots. She knew she should be whooping for joy that everyone was rich now and therefore prepared to overlook the reasons she had resigned.

‘What else, Lauren?’

‘George’s daughter found out about Giles dating you whilst she was in Paris. She’s ditched him. Turns out
she’s
seeing her golf instructor and was waiting for the opportunity to dump the sleazeball. He’s moved in with his brother in Hoboken, sleeping on his couch and storing all his worldly possessions in their garage. So, Rosie, when are you coming home? Your position is restored with immediate effect until your promotion can be ratified by the board.’

‘God, Lauren, if you had told me all this a few weeks ago I would have leapt on the next plane back, donned my best pair of Jimmy Choos and stormed back to the office with my head held high. But so much has happened since yesterday. I can’t begin to explain it all over the phone, but I’ve got this meeting to attend and I’m already late.’

‘Before you go, Rosie.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m pregnant.’

And Rosie’s spirits soared.

Chapter Thirty

Did she want to return to her old life in Manhattan where some people’s principles were firmly held until casually brushed to one side when the spectre of immense wealth materialised? Could she return to embrace the same manic hours, the same paucity of human contact unless it was a high speed superficial acknowledgement, each day donning her battle dress of designer business suit and killer heels to prop up her sagging confidence?

Or would she choose to embrace the slower, more humble pace of life she had experienced over the past few months when she’d had the time, the opportunity and the inclination to form lasting relationships and become a valued part of the community? Even if Charlie didn’t forgive her, she could perhaps stay on in Devon, steer through the publication of her aunt’s journal and have a detailed discussion with Susan as to the whereabouts of Gordon. It wouldn’t be a wealthy life, but it would be a rich one.

She imagined Charlie’s dark eyes gazing at her from beneath those spidery lashes, his moist lips curled into his familiar mischievous smile, and recognised the beginnings of the fiery desire Charlie’s presence had always instilled in her heart.

The answer to her dilemma was clear. She was in love with him! She loved his quirky sense of humour, his self-deprecating manner, his scruffy appearance and his absolute lack of concern for other people’s opinions of him. She realised he was one of the good guys and she was ashamed at having shunted him to the side-lines as not worthy in preference of the designer-suited traitor that was Austin Meadows.

She lifted the marquee’s entrance flap and the shock hit her square in the face. The cavernous inside milled with people: slender, important-looking, glamorous women with clipboards, huddles of bearded, middle-aged men gesticulating wildly towards the back of the marquee. Her confused gaze followed the route of the coils of cable connecting to three television cameras trained on a mock-up kitchen built on a raised wooden dais. The burble of conversation continued as Rosie skirted the tent’s left-hand-side wall, taking up position next to one of the TV monitors.

‘Quiet, please! Cameras one and three rolling! Take five – mark.’ The marquee plunged into well-practiced silence.

Rosie crouched down, fearing she had blundered onto a live TV set, and attempted to remain as unobtrusive as possible. The viewfinder on the monitor at her elbow remained focused on the mocked-up kitchen podium.

Suddenly, the image switched to another camera angle and, in the centre of the screen appeared Charlie, decked out in his chef’s whites smiling that devastating smile of his straight onto the screen.

Wow, thought Rosie, as she watched him laughing with a woman wearing headphones around her neck and discussing the sheet on her clipboard.

She was unceremoniously shoved into the side of the marquee. ‘Oh, sorry, am I in your way?’

The guy ignored her and settled his large backside into the seat in front of the camera monitor screen. ‘Why don’t you take your seat, we’ll be filming in a few minutes. You shouldn’t be hanging around here. You do know how lucky you are to be invited to the recording, don’t you? Thousands of young girls would lynch you for your ticket to this gig!’

‘Ticket?’

‘You do
have
a ticket, Miss…?’

‘Oh, I…’

Why had she thought Charlie would be down here alone? That they would have the place to themselves as she carefully selected the right words to explain to him that she loved him. Mortified at her naivety, exhausted by everything that had happened that day, she hunched forward at her waist, forcing her clenched knuckles into her mouth whilst the camera guy gawped at her in abject terror lest she would throw up on his precious equipment.

She had to get out of there; the white canvas walls had started to close in. She would do this another time when she’d calmed down, had a chance to work through her speech.

Those guests nearest to her turned to stare as she stumbled in her Wellington boots towards the exit flap of the marquee, dragging one of the cables with her. As the camera operator called after her, the whole audience swung their gaze to her retreating presence and she paused like a deer caught in a flashlight. She turned towards them and her eyes met Charlie’s, their connection a moment suspended in time. Her frazzled emotions swung a full pendulum, from horror to desire.