The Spinster's Secret by Emily Larkin

on his head, and wondered, for the umpteenth time, how he’d allowed himself to become involved in this fool’s errand. You’re a cod’s head, Ned! he thought.
    He fortified himself for his next interview with a large steak pie, half a roasted fowl, and a tankard of ale at the inn and then set out to find Widow Weeks, who, it transpired, was half-blind and dictated her letters to her housekeeper. The next person on the list wasn’t at home. Nor was the next, a farmer by the name of Plinhoe.
    “Market day in Gripton,” Mr. Plinhoe’s wife informed him.
    Edward gave up for the day. He stopped in at the village bakery on his way back and emerged from that fragrant establishment bearing several slices of gingerbread for himself and Miss Chapple.
    Fortuitously, Miss Chapple was in the stable yard when he reached Creed Hall, a thick cloak over her shoulders, a bonnet on her head, and sturdy half-boots on her feet. From the unmuddied state of her boots, he deduced that she was departing, not returning.
    “Walking down to the village?” Edward asked as he swung down from Trojan’s back.
    She shook her head. “I’m going around the park.”
    A gust of wind rippled the muddy puddles.
    “In this weather?”
    “I walk every day,” Miss Chapple said. “Unless it’s raining.”
    Edward handed Trojan off to the elderly groom and glanced up at Creed Hall’s grim facade. It looked half-blinded, with so many windows bricked up. He shivered, reluctant to enter that bleak, cold building yet.
    “May I join you?”
    “Are you well enough to be walking?”
    “I’m not an invalid.”
    “Yes, but . . .”
    “I’ll be fine,” Edward said firmly. “As long as there are no steep hills.”
    …
    The park was larger than Edward had thought, five square miles of sodden, leafless woodland. The wind was raw, mud sucked at his boots, and water splashed up from the puddles, but Edward found that he was enjoying himself. It was a pleasant experience to walk with Miss Chapple. He was able to stretch his legs and breathe deeply.
    They maintained a brisk pace. He saw Miss Chapple glance sideways at him as they climbed one muddy incline.
    Her cheeks were pink with exertion, but she wasn’t out of breath. “How do you feel, Mr. Kane?”
    “Fine,” he said, ignoring the faint ache in his thigh bone.
    “Do you intend to stay long? There are other walks.”
    “I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Edward said, relieved when they reached the top of the rise.
    He was almost out of breath, and the scar tissue over his ribs had begun to twinge. If Miss Chapple walked this route every day, at this pace, then she was a remarkably fit young lady. She didn’t look athletic, she looked well-padded, but clearly that was deceptive.
    “Perhaps another day or so.” He shrugged. “Perhaps a week.” I hope not . “I’ve undertaken to perform a…er, a small task for your uncle.”
    “A week?” She frowned. “But weren’t you planning to go down to your property in Cornwall next week? Surely my uncle doesn’t expect you to put off your own plans?”
    I doubt that he’s given any thought to my plans . Sir Arthur appeared to have a decided streak of selfishness. If he ever placed other people’s comfort above his own, Edward had yet to see evidence of it.
    “What is the task, Mr. Kane? Perhaps I can help?”
    “Thank you,” Edward said. “But no.”
    Chérie’s confession was not something Miss Chapple should see. He had a sudden vision of Venus disporting in a stream, tall and voluptuous. He shoved it aside.
    “But . . .”
    “The task is…somewhat difficult to explain,” Edward said.
    She turned her gaze to him. “What do you mean, Mr. Kane?”
    “Er…” Edward found himself unable to prevaricate beneath that steady grey gaze. “Your uncle has asked me to return a letter to its sender in the village.”
    Miss Chapple blinked. “A letter? But surely that’s easily done?”
    “The sender is unknown.”
    “Oh,” she