The church where the wedding was to be performed was a few miles from Dorincourt Place in Kent. Cilla Danvers had seen it on one of her visits with her fiancé’s family and had apparently fallen in love with it, declaring she’d be married nowhere else.
The drive would take a little less than an hour and a half, and James was driving along the motorway, intent on arriving in good time for the afternoon ceremony. I sat in the back, playing with my opera hat, collapsing it and then snapping it open again.
“I’ll be bloody glad when I can sit up front with you once more.” I sighed.
“Yes, I miss you beside me.” He drove a few minutes in silence, and then, out of the blue, said, “I’m afraid he’ll break his heart.”
“Who? Oh, Robin Dorincourt? D’you really think so?” I thought of Archie Rogers s
