Chapter 1

My phone rings as I stand in the queue at the coffee shop. Smiling an apology to everyone around me, I fish it out of my buckskin breeches. "Hello," I say in a low voice.

"Why are you whispering, Freddie?" my friend Milly immediately asks.

"Because I'm in a coffee shop."

"Now? It's a bit early for you. The world doesn't usually see you until after Bargain Hunt when you're on your day off."

"I've picked up a last-minute job. One of the other Austen guides is sick."

"Ooh, where are you going?"

I shake my head. "I don't know why you sound so excited. I'm a Jane Austen tour guide. It's Bath or Lacock, or both. Sadly, Jane never made it to meet Dickie Greenleaf in Positano, or even Haworth Parsonage."

"Your persistence in thinking I'll get your literary references is quite endearing."

The queue moves forward another inch, and I check my fob watch. Shit. Ten minutes. "What did you want me for?" I ask.

"To hear how your conversation is going with CrawfordFan22 on the Heart2Heart app."

"What makes you think I'm having a conversation at all?"

"Because in response to you asking for his most controversial opinion, he said he liked Henry Kissinger."

"It was actually Henry Crawford. He was a character and a bit of a villain in Mansfield Park. Not a famous diplomat."

"Yawn."

"And," I continue undaunted, "how could I stop myself from replying to him? He loves Jane Austen. CrawfordFan22 could be my soulmate."

"Really?" The word drops into our conversation like a stone. "Because I could have sworn you'd already got one of those, and his name is Darcy Griffiths."

I bite my lip. "That's never going to happen, Milly, and you know it."

"But why not? He's perfect for you. You've been best friends for years. You make him laugh, and he adores the fact that you frequently wander around Bath dressed in regency clothes which, let's face it, isn't to everyone's taste."

"I'm a tour guide."

She blows a raspberry. "Well, you weren't leading a tour in the Blue Boar last week, were you? Or when I saw you in the shopping centre on Friday."

"I just like regency dress. It's so elegant compared to nowadays."

"Good job, you're a tailor then because otherwise, you'd need Mr Darcy's money for your clothes bill alone."

I sigh. "I wish I could find my own Mr Darcy and not for the money. I want to find the person who's just right for me."

"You have," she says patiently. "And wonder of wonders, he's actually called Darcy."

"He's called Darcy Griffiths. Not Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"And he's perfect for you. You go together like chicken nuggets and barbeque sauce."

"Ooh, listen to that."

"What?'

"I think I can hear Jane Austen rolling around in her grave at the sheer romance in that statement."

"Pah! What happened to you telling Darcy you were in love with him? You were all set up to do it and very determined on Saturday night. Whatever happened to that determination?"

"It drained away with my subsequent hangover."

"Freddie!"

"I found out he's dating that banker."

"Change one letter, and you'd sum up Darcy's entire dating history. I'm telling you he's in love with you."

"Milly," I say, and the plea is clear in my voice.

When she speaks next, her voice is quiet. "Okay, sweetie. I'll leave it alone."

"Good." I force excitement into my voice. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure CrawfordFan22 is going to be the one. We have so much in common, and I like talking to him. He's clever and funny, and we share so many interests."

It's almost like talking to my best friend, but I don't say it aloud for fear of setting her off again.

"Darcy isn't for me, Milly, no matter how much I wish he were. I need to move on."

"Okay. I'm with you either way. You know it."

"I do. So, this job is an overnight stay in Lacock village, and I've arranged to meet CrawfordFan22 when we get back to Bath tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Outside the Roman Baths."

"Are you being safe meeting a complete stranger?"

I roll my eyes. "Of course. I'm telling you."

"Please inform the mystery man that if he lays one finger on you, I will rip his bollocks off and make them into a necklace."

"Well, I'm sure that'll set a lovely note for our first date."

"Testicle jewellery," she says ominously before ringing off.

I move to the front of the queue and make haste to order my coffee. The barista doesn't bat an eye at my costume. Of course, when you work in a place near the tour bus pick-up sites in Bath, regency dress on patrons isn't anything surprising.

Taking my coffee with a smile of thanks, I take the first sip and close my eyes in appreciation. Ambrosia. Then I remember the time, and shouldering my overnight bag, I set off at a trot.

I'm deep in thoughts of the day and night ahead when I turn the corner and come to a complete stop, my heart pounding. There leaning against the tour bus, dressed in the driver uniform of navy trousers, white shirt and red tie, is Darcy. He's gorgeous - tall with wavy brown hair, beautiful amber eyes, and the perfect level of stubble that highlights his square chin. I've always thought he looked like a sad pirate with his rugged features.

He looks up and spots me, and a big smile spreads across his face pulling out a little dimple at the corner of his mouth.

"What are you doing here?" I gasp.

I feel stupidly winded at seeing him. I've known him since we were at infant school together when he sat next to me as the new boy. He'd sat there with big silent tears in his eyes, and my heart had melted. I'd given him my best purple crayon - the Crayola Vivid Violet one - and shared my sandwiches with him. Things like that tend to cement a relationship, and we've been best friends ever since. It's lasted through adolescence, numerous boyfriends, and us pursuing completely different career paths - me apprenticing with a tailor in the city, and him at university where he's currently in the first year of his PhD in Archaeology and Conservation.

When I was fifteen, I looked at him and promptly decided to fall in love with him. Unfortunately, it wasn't catching, and he carried on blithely dating and dumping other people. I speak to him every day, and he makes me smile every time I see him, but sometimes it's hard to be with him. I'd stupidly looked forward to his absence from this last-minute trip.

He comes towards me with that graceful lope of his. I'd know his walk in a sea of strangers - the way one shoulder lifts a little more than the other and the shy tilt of his head coming from the fact that he's taller than most people.

"I thought Rob was driving today," I say as he gets close.

"He's ill."

"Jenny is too. She's got a stomach bug."

He rolls his eyes. "Which is exactly what Rob has got. What a coincidence."

"Maybe now they'll have to come clean to their spouses that they've been having a torrid affair for months. I wonder if anyone at work will guess."

"Freddie, they could do it on Barbara's desk and she wouldn't notice unless the cash register rang."

He's not wrong. Barbara, the owner of Vista Coach Trips is surgically attached to the till and her calculator.

He gives me his usual sunny smile. "I'm so glad we picked this job up. My grant's run out, and I need the cash. Plus, we'll get the meal in the hotel tonight. I'm going to eat enough to last me a week."

I adjust my bag on my shoulder, fiddling nervously with the strap. "I hope Barbara knows she could employ a T-Rex and have a much smaller food bill."

"I'm not worried. He'd struggle with the steering wheel, and the uniform shirt only goes up to extra-large." He smiles. "This is going to be great. We'll have the whole day together, and I'll even let you tell me for the fiftieth time about Louisa Musgrove from Persuasion getting a concussion when she fell off a wall in Lyme Regis."

"The Cobb isn't just a wall. It's a beautiful historical harbour wall and there should have been a fence on it for safety's sake. Still, Louisa was a rather silly person and at least it made Anne the heroine look good when she helped her."

"You are the most hard-hearted person, Freddie."

‘All's fair in love and war."

"Well, it's you and me again anyway. The Dynamic Duo."

I shake my head. "Just you, me, and twenty octogenarians. And please don't call us that. You know bad things happen when you do that."

"Stop being superstitious."

"It's not superstitious to note that the last time you used those words, we lost a passenger."

"We didn't lose him. He just wasn't on the bus." I smile at him affectionately, and he hands me the clipboard. "It's not a big group today. Nine people."

I whistle and look down at the names and details that Linda, the other tour guide, has given us. Vista Coach Trips offer exclusive and intimate literary tours of the United Kingdom, and if I sound like a robot when I say that it's because I've said it probably a billion times. They operate all over the UK and offer long trips around the country, changing guides with each city.

I run my fingers over the details. "Three ladies are travelling together. Then there's a mother and daughter, a married couple, and a couple of newlyweds."

I look up at him, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm of our conversation. Friends have tried to persuade me over the years to lose my ties to Darcy, but no matter how much I think I can do it, two minutes with the man is enough to disabuse me of the notion. It's just so lovely to be with him. Warm and familiar with that frisson of awareness to spice it up. He's vital to me, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to stop myself from confessing my feelings even though I know I can't do that. I have to settle for just this because I never want to ruin everything and lose him. It's why I'm meeting up with the bloke from the dating app.

Darcy raises his eyebrow, and I realise I've come to a complete conversational stop. "Who on earth would want to go on a Jane Austen tour on their honeymoon?" I say immediately.

"Erm, you."

I chuckle, relieved to get back to normal. "Yes, but I'm an anomaly."

He flings his arm over my shoulder, the weight familiar and dear enough to bring a lump to my throat. "A sweet anomaly who's passionate about Jane Austen."

"I can't help it. I just love her books."

"And the films, TV series, and audiobooks."

I clear my throat and pull free, bending over my bag under the pretext of getting something. When I look up from my pretend rummaging, I go still. For a wild second, I thought he was checking out my arse. Then he blinks, his familiar dimple appearing, and I dismiss my wild imagination.

"You know I like to be different," I say lightly. I wave the clipboard at him. "Why can't we have a fit bloke for a change? Someone to practice my flirting on. It's been that long since I hooked up, I'm pretty sure my sperm has dried up like a reservoir in a heatwave."

For a moment, an intense look comes over his face. It's completely unlike Darcy, seeming to be composed of sadness and something darker. "Darcy?" I say hesitantly. "You okay?"

He blinks, and the look is gone like it was never there. "Yes, of course," he says, his voice rough. "Why?"

I look at him for another beat. "You looked a bit cross. Everything going okay with Carl?"

"Who?"

I wrinkle my nose. "Erm, your boyfriend."

"Oh." He waves a hand. "That's over."

"What? Already?"

"He wasn't for me. I told you that."

"Then why did you start seeing him?"

"Because you pushed me to."

"What?"

He stares at me, his eyes dark. "You always push them at me."

"No, I don't." I stop. "Do I?"

He nods. "Always."

A silence falls between us that lacks its usual comfort. Instead, it feels full of unspoken words.

"Are you alright?" I finally say, my eyes narrowing as he hesitates. "Darcy?"

He bites his lip. "Freddie, I need to –"

"Hello. Are you the Jane Austen tour for Vista?"

We both spin to find three old ladies watching us. It takes me a few seconds to bring my brain into line, still fixated on that odd look in Darcy's eyes. What was he going to say?

Luckily Darcy seems more on track. "We are." He grabs the clipboard from me. "Let me guess," he says with a charming smile that makes them melt. "You're Joan, Dorothy, and Liz. How are you finding the tour so far?"

They come closer, drawn by his charm and begin talking excitedly about the sights they've seen. I watch him loving so much the way he smiles. It's sweet and a little shy but still incredibly warm. People are drawn to Darcy regardless of the fact that he's more comfortable with ancient burial sites and old relics than humans.

Footsteps sound, and I glance up to find a couple approaching. They look to be in their late thirties, and they're wrapped around each other so tightly you couldn't get a piece of paper between them.

"I'll take a guess that you're our newlyweds," I say heartily.

"We are," the man says. "I'm Grant, and this is my beautiful new wife, Yvonne." He's skinny and brown-haired with a spindly moustache that looks like an anaemic hamster sitting on his upper lip. His wife has long blond hair and pale blue eyes.

"Wife," she breathes, gazing up at him as if he's Robbie Williams before he went grey.

"Lovely," I finally manage to say, aware of Darcy vibrating with amusement behind me. "Great."

There's a very long pause as they stare dreamily at each other—a hugely long pause. I clear my throat, and without looking at me, they launch into a kiss that really should come at the end of a film where the women have swept around in big dresses while being leered at by men with bushy moustaches. The kiss goes on and on. And then on some more. All of it is accompanied by the full soundtrack of spittle being exchanged.

I clear my throat again—so thoroughly this time that I probably dislodge one of my lungs— and they finally pull their gazes away from each other and blink at me like little moles peeping up from a hole in the garden. I hope they don't get hit by a spade.

"Yes, that's us. Mister and Mrs Baker," Yvonne says with a wistful smile, and her husband bends to kiss her again. I wait a few seconds, tapping my feet as I endure more of the sound of spit being recycled at close range. It's like listening to a tap being run.

"How lovely," I finally say very loudly. "Oh, sorry. Did I make you jump? What a shame. Let's get into the coach, shall we?" I wave at the bus beside us in an overly enthusiastic manner. "That's it. Take your seats."

The newlyweds climb onto the bus shooting me wary glances, and remembering the evils of Trip Advisor, I make sure to smile at them. Unfortunately, it must show too many teeth because they quicken their pace as if I'm seat allocating while brandishing an axe.

I look around and find Darcy watching me with one eyebrow lifted as the old ladies climb into the bus, chattering like sparrows. "What?" I say, raising my hands.

He smiles. "Allergic to matrimonial bliss, are we?"

"Allergic to a gruesome display of it certainly," I mutter.

I turn as an older couple approaches. She's tall and thin with a sweet smile, while he's smaller with a round belly hanging over his trousers and a red nose.

Darcy checks the clipboard. "Mister and Mrs Simpson for the Jane Austen tour?"

He nods. "Just call us David and Maggie, son."

Darcy gestures at me. "This is Freddie," he says. He always introduces me like I'm the saviour of The X Factor. It must come as a terrible disappointment to people when they actually get to know me. "Freddie is the guide. Leave your bags with us and find yourselves some seats on the bus. We'll be leaving soon."

I look around as they climb on the bus. "Where's the mother and daughter then?"

"Slow down. They're only just late."

"That's not good enough. We're on a schedule."

He points behind me. "Looks like they're here."

I spin around, and we watch the two women coming toward us. The older woman has silver grey hair in a sharp bob. She's wearing very pressed jeans and a white V-neck jumper and looks extremely put together. I'm willing to bet that dirt doesn't dare to land on her. The daughter is a study in contrast. She has long curly brown hair caught up in a messy bun with glasses perched on her nose, and her all-black clothes are so crumpled it looks as if she's slept in them. Both of the women have faces like thunder.

"Oh dear," I whisper, and Darcy comes up next to me. I try to ignore the scent of his aftershave. It's lavender and citrus and so sexy. Just like him.

"We've got a Code Joan Crawford situation," he mutters, bringing me back to the emergency.

I nod. "You're not wrong." We've had more than a few people rowing on bus tours, but the mother-daughter combos have always been the most spectacular. They can get very personal very quickly.

The two women have stopped and are talking in furious whispers.

"What do these people think is meant by the word ‘itinerary'?" I mutter, and Darcy shoves me forward.

"Your turn."

I shoot him a look of outrage. "It's always my turn."

"You shouldn't be sharper than a carving knife then. They don't tangle with you. If it were me, they'd walk all over me."

"With big boots too." I shake my head. "Hello," I cry. "Are you here for the Austen tour?"

They stop hissing and look at me. The older woman nods, her eyes flashing. "I'm Brenda, and this is my daughter Pippa."

"How absolutely lovely to have you with us. Well, we must be getting on. Into the bus, please." They look at each other as if about to launch into the preliminary skirmishes of World War Three. "Tick tock," I say quickly.

Pippa turns. "I beg your pardon," she says frostily.

"No need." She blinks. "I said Tik Tok as in I'm hoping to look at it at some point today," I say, lying smoothly. "But now that you mention it, we are letting time slip by. So please take your seats."

The two stand immobile for a second, and then the daughter pushes past her mother and clambers onto the bus. Her mother shoots her a poisonous glance and then follows her.

"Told you," Darcy says in a fond voice. "No one messes with the sharp."

He walks around the bus to store the luggage, and I allow my gaze to have an indulgent leer at his arse. It's full and round and a testament to his time spent squatting during archaeological digs. Thank god for buried artefacts. I pull myself together and try to channel Jane Austen. The problem with that is she was a lot sharper than I am.