Larkspur Cottage was a sprawling, renovated Tudor. It had bow windows on both sides of the door. Light spilled onto the street from the window on the ground floor, and James opened the door and ushered me in.
It was a cosy room, with a sofa against one wall, a fireplace against another, and a desk at the far end. Oak beams crisscrossed the ceiling. An open door led to the rear of the house.
A pretty brunette looked up from the desk. “Good evening, gentlemen. May I help you?”
“Sir Errol Dorincourt suggested we take a room here.”
“Ah. You were at the wedding.”
“Yes. I’m James Trevalyan, and this is my colleague, Remy Tanner.”
“I’m Fairlee Carlyle. My husband Ian and I run Larkspur Cottage.”
“We need a place to stay overnight. However, I’m afraid we didn’t bring any luggage.”
“That’s
