“Bad eggs?”
“Well, if they were, they weren’t yours,” he said with a sigh.
She turned for her house, then stopped in front of it and turned off the car. She looked at him. “Thanks for the help with my rental.”
He looked at her quickly, then put his hand briefly over his eyes. “Sorry,” he managed, “I completely forgot about it. I should have had you stop at Patrick’s to pick up what you said he’s loaning you.”
“I don’t need a car for the next couple of days,” she said with a shrug. “If I do, I’ll walk.” She paused. “I don’t think I can actually take him up on the offer, but I’m not sure what else to do. I don’t think there’s any way Sheldon would have my credit card number, actually, but who knows?”
“Is your father’s under-chauffeur tossing in his lot with your ex, do you think?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Emma said without hesitation. Bertie lifted his eyebrows over her other boyfriends often enough in the past. That his eyebrows had disappeared under his cap the first time he’d met the illustrious Master Cook should have told her all she needed to know. “No, Bertie wouldn’t be aiding and abetting him. There’s something else going on.”
“Your former lad must have interesting friends.”
She smiled without humor. “He doesn’t have friends; he has acquaintances who put up with him. I imagine he stormed down to the bank and talked the manager to death until the poor guy told him what he wanted to know just to get him to shut up.”
“Not exactly legal, that.”
“That’s never stopped him before,” she said, “though he doesn’t usually find much success with that tactic.” She smiled briefly. “He’s a lawyer, you know.”
“I am utterly unsurprised,” he said, “knowing quite a few of those sorts myself. The good ones are worth their price.”
“Like your friend in London?”
He nodded. “He’s eye-wateringly expensive, but worth every pound—and believe me, he only deals in pounds, not pence.” His phone beeped at him and he swore faintly. “Please tell me this isn’t a text from him telling me I’m being assaulted from the south as well. I don’t think I can bring myself to read it.”
“Want me to read it for you?”
“My life is an open book.”
She took his phone and looked for his message icon. She checked for the most recent message.
“It’s from Geoff Segrave and says,Call me.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered. “Is that it?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “You apparently owe him money for what it cost him to send a flunky over to the car place.”
“How much?”
“Ah, thirteen pounds and eighty-seven, well, what do you call them? Pence?”
He caught his breath. “Aye.”
“Maybe you can just chuck a twenty at him?”
He unbuckled himself and took his phone back. “Let’s sort it later, shall we? I think I need to get home.”
“Sure,” she said in surprise, but he wasn’t there to hear it. He had already gotten out of the car, grabbed her stuff from the back, and was depositing it on her porch.
She got out of the car and walked up to her porch slowly, somewhat surprised by how eager he seemed to get her keys out of her hand and into her door lock. He opened the door, flicked on the lights, then set her stuff just inside. He smiled, though she imagined he didn’t know how cross-eyed with headache pain he looked. His hands were shaking.
“I need to get home,” he said quickly.
“I think you do,” she agreed. “You still don’t look so good. Are you sure—”
“I’m sure,” he said. “Let me ring you when I feel more myself, then I can run you to Patrick’s.”
