Page 1 of A Kiss to Stop a Wedding
CHAPTER ONE
‘Woah, there, Magpie.’
Matt Talacre brought his horse to a stop at the crossroads. He had been travelling along the old Roman road for nearly twenty miles and knew he must be nearing his destination. An old man in a smock was approaching from the north. He was leading an ox cart and Matt eased the horse to the side of the road.
‘Good day to you,’ he called. ‘Can you tell me which is the way to Whilton?’
The old man looked up at him from beneath his battered hat, squinting slightly against the evening sun.
‘I’m thinking it should be that road, to the east.’ Matt nodded towards one of the tracks.
‘Aye, and you’d be thinking right,’ agreed the old man, not breaking step. ‘Follow that road fer nigh on two mile, past the windmill, and it’ll bring ye to Whilton.’
Matt touched his hat and, when the cart had lumbered passed him, he trotted off along the lane. It ranfairly straight, between green fields and hedges white with May blossom. Before long he spotted the round stone tower of the windmill, its sails turning lazily, and not long after he was riding into a small market town.
He made his way along the wide main street until he came upon the Whilton Arms, a large hostelry with a brightly coloured sign hanging over the door. Matt turned and rode through the arch into a large stable yard, where he left Magpie with an ostler, and went into the taproom. After the sunlight it was dark inside and, when his eyes had adjusted, he saw there were very few customers. He ordered a tankard of ale from the landlord and asked, in his cheerful way, if he was far from Whilton Hall.
‘No, sir. ’Tis about two miles south of here, by road.’
‘And will I find Lord Whilton there?’
The man shrugged. ‘I believe not, although His Lordship ain’t in the habit of telling me his business.’
The landlord moved off and Matt sipped his ale. It was unfortunate, after coming all this way, if his quarry was not at home, but he would go to the house anyway and enquire.
* * *
A couple of hours later, after bespeaking a room for the night, Matt rode off to Whilton Hall. A circuitous, tree-lined drive led to a redbrick stable block, and beyond that a moated manor, complete with a stone bridge and imposing medieval gatehouse.
A stable hand appeared. Matt left the mare and a silver sixpence, for which the man volunteered the information that if he made his way across the bridge and went to the big oak door on the far side of the inner courtyard, he could ask the housekeeper to show him around the house.
It was not Whilton Hall that Matt wanted to see, but he did not enlighten the stable hand. He merely thanked the man and went off to the house, where a footman informed him that Lord Whilton was not at home.
‘My enquiries in London gave me to understand that he was coming here,’ said Matt. ‘Perhaps you could tell me when you are expecting him—in a day, a week?’
‘As to that, sir, I couldn’t say,’ the footman replied woodenly.
Matt extracted a visiting card from a small silver case and handed it to the man. ‘Then I will leave this for him. I wish to see Lord Whilton on a matter of business and I shall call again.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ With a stiff bow the servant stepped back and shut the door, leaving Matt to make his way back to the stables, where he collected his horse and returned to the village.
The Whilton Arms provided him with a very comfortable room and a very tolerable dinner, although Matt did not linger over his meal. Glancing out of the window at the clear sky, he calculated that there wasat least another two hours of daylight. Time enough to reconnoitre the ground. Lord Whilton might not be at home, but he might just find what he was looking for.
* * *
Flora Warenne stood by the drawing room windows, looking out at the distant woods and hills. She had spent the day shopping in Whilton with her Aunt Farnleigh, but now she was longing to be out of doors again. Not in the garden, with its well-scythed lawn and elegant flower borders, but somewhere wilder, less ordered. Somewhere more in tune with her current restless spirit.
‘I think I shall go for a walk,’ she announced.
‘Really, dear?’ Aunt Farnleigh looked up from her embroidery. ‘Surely it is too late.’
Flora glanced at the clock; it was not yet seven. Most of their friends would only now be sitting down to dinner, but her aunt and uncle maintained their custom of dining at five whenever they were not entertaining guests. It was something Flora attributed to their age.
Her late father had been the youngest of the family, Aunt Farnleigh the eldest, and it was often supposed by those who had not been introduced that Flora was under the care of grandparents, rather than her aunt and uncle. It had not worried Flora when she was younger, but in recent years she had become aware that they were becoming more fixed in their ways. She smiled fondly at her aunt.
‘It is a fine evening and there are a good two hours of daylight yet. Plenty of time for a walk.’
‘Very well, my love,’ said Aunt Farnleigh. ‘As long as you take Betty or one of the other maids with you.’
