at the inn studied him carefully, then shook his head a broad no. Even though Adam’s brain was still fuzzy from the whiskey, the stableboy’s look gave him pause.
No, he hadn’t thought this through.
Adam turned his horse back into the lane. He should have predicted that Emmeline’s wedding would become the event of the season—or at least of December. He’d had to give up reading the newspapers entirely. Every page seemed to offer some notice of the impending nuptials of reclusive country heiress Lady Emmeline Hartley to the dashing former Waterloo officer, Lord Colin Somerville, brother to the Duck of Forster.
Duke, not duck. Adam shook his head, straightening out his slurring words. But if Aidan were a duck—Adam let himself play with the idea—which one would he be? A mallard? Or perhaps a merganser, all trim and shiny? He considered every option, liking puffin a great deal. But all the time he knew that if Aidan were any bird, it would be a falcon or a hawk or some other bird of prey. And if that bird knew that Adam wasn’t just a friend of the groom’s family, but of the bride herself . . .
No, it wouldn’t come to that.
He only needed to hear her voice. He didn’t need to see her.
But the stableboy’s stare had reminded him of the stakes. Every time Adam stopped in a carriage yard or posting inn, he risked being recognized. Some in the counties nearest Emmeline’s lands would not be happy to see him alive, Em likely in their number.
All that risk, and still no open stall for his rented horse.
No, he hadn’t thought this through at all.
Worse yet, he was acting like a regular wedding guest, one who traveled the main roads and stayed at the typical inns. But he knew this land, and if he were going to risk its residents remembering him, he might at least find a damn stable.
He turned off the main road, taking to lanes and paths he had never intended to travel again. He would find a stall for his horse, damn it, and he would see that damn woman married, if it killed him. Or someone else did.
* * *
Adam pulled his horse into the yard of a dilapidated cottage with a more dilapidated barn. In regular circumstances, he wouldn’t stable any animal here, even a hire.
A wizened old man opened the cottage door.
“Any space in your barn?” Adam called out the question, even though, from the sounds from the stable, he could already tell the answer. If there were no stall, he would have to decide: return to London or continue on to Hartshorne Hall. He couldn’t simply tie his horse to a tree and hope for the best.
“Aye.” The ancient man pulled the cottage door shut behind him, but remained at the doorway. “One.”
Perhaps this would work out after all.
“How much?” Adam threw himself down from the horse’s seat. He studied the landscape: the walk to Hartshorne Hall would take under an hour.
“It’s not for rent.” The old man rubbed his nose with a stubbed finger.
Adam started to argue, but stopped himself. The man’s age, if nothing else, warranted a polite reply. “The wind’s turning.”
“Aye, the night will be cold.” The old man stared into the distant sky.
“Is it likely another barn nearby could shelter my horse?”
The old man shook his head slowly. “Some duke sent round a servant days ago. Hired every stall from here to the river, and every bed in every tavern or inn. As big as it is, the manor house can’t house all the guests or their stock.” The old man looked Adam over, assessing his clothing and his horse.
Adam nodded. “Must be quite a celebration.”
“Aye, the bride insists that the wedding service and dinner must be open to all. Friends, neighbors, aristocrats, and cottagers alike. My daughters have already made their way there.”
The detail didn’t surprise Adam. His little leveler (as he’d often teased her) always insisted one’s character mattered more than distinctions of rank, birth, and wealth. As the son of a clergyman, he should agree, but he’d seen too much, particularly as a secret agent of the Home Office, to believe it. No, he knew from bitter experience that life tended to value rank, wealth, and power over ability.
“Then I’m lucky to be a guest.” Adam patted the horse’s neck.
“I don’t think so.” The old man looked Adam up and down. “The duke’s servant warned us of men like you. No carriage, no invitation, willing to walk to gain the grounds. I’m to send word, if one of you shows up.”
“Men like me?” The skin rose on the back of Adam’s neck, but he resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder. What did the old man know? Who did he think Adam was?
“Newspapermen.” The old man crossed his arms over his chest.
Adam laughed out loud and pulled the tattered wedding invitation out of his boot. He’d tried to throw it away. Once or twice it had even landed in the waste bin, but he’d always dug it out. He couldn’t let a piece of Em’s handwriting go. He handed it to the old man. “As you can see, I am one of Lord Colin’s guests.”
“Or you stole an invitation from someone who was.” The old man studied the name on the front. Then he turned the invitation over and traced the engraved lettering with his forefinger. “Since the wars ended, there’s no telling about young men like you. My wife will decide.”
The old man left Adam in the cold yard.
Adam wondered if the man were illiterate and what his wife might say about the invitation. Would she notice the name lettered across the front in Lady Emmeline’s most public, most ornate hand? Would she wonder if the name on the front was his? He’d had so many names—Adam Montclair, the name his parents had given him; Adam Locksley, the revolutionary, hung for his sins; and today A. Fairwether. The last perhaps was most apt of all.
Lord Colin, to preserve the secrecy of their division, had assigned his colleagues names taken from a dusty novel in his brother’s library. And he’d used those names on the guest list and invitations. Colin had been especially pleased with A. Fairwether, finding it a clever play on Montclair: fair weather, clear mountain. But Adam’s conscience had silently added “friend” to “fair weather,” transforming his invitation into a silent indictment.
The old man returned after a few minutes, holding out the invitation. “Lady Emmeline sends us a nice basket of food for our holidays and birthdays, so we know her hand. You can put your horse in the second stall. But that’ll be four pence.”
“Didn’t you say the duke hired all the stalls for his guests?”
“Aye, your horse may shelter in the second stall. But it’s four pence for me to brush him down and watch the barn so no one steals him.”
Adam laughed, appreciating the old man’s ingenuity. He tossed the man a half crown instead. “I won’t be staying after the ceremony.”
The old man bit the coin and, finding it good, smiled wide. “You Adam?”
“What?”
