“Every barrister who wishes to practise in this country must belong to an Inn of Court. They’re Lincoln’s Inn, Gray’s Inn, Middle Temple, and Inner Temple.”

We pass a gorgeous building that looks early Tudor gothic and I look at it in interest.

“That’s Old Hall,” he says, following my gaze. “It’s the original dining hall that was built in the fifteenth century. In the old days if a barrister wanted to belong to an Inn of Court, they would have to eat twelve dinners in the dining hall.”

“Your profession isn’t exactly demanding.”

“Depends on the food,” he says glumly. I laugh and he smiles at me. “The tradition came about because the lawyers would be instructed in the law while they ate. We enjoy our traditions.”

We come out into a square of graceful buildings lining a small grassy park where a few people are sitting enjoying the sun.

“It’s extraordinarily photogenic and so quiet. You wouldn’t think we were in the middle of London,” I say.

He grimaces. “It isn’t always quiet. They’re forever filming around here because there isn’t any twentieth-century architecture. Last week I almost destroyed a shoot by trying to walk through a scene. They were excessively rude.”

I bite my lip to stop a smile. “What were they filming?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Something called Downton Abbey. I have no idea what that is.”

“Maybe not, but I feel you have a lot in common with the Dowager Countess.”

He shakes his head. “I know somehow that is not complimentary.”

He stops talking and comes to a stop. I look up at the beautiful, tall Georgian building. “These are your chambers?”

He gazes at it affectionately. The wisteria climbing the building looks bright purple in this light and gives off a soft, sweet smell. “Home sweet home.”

I smile at him. “Then it’s time for me to go.”

“Where are you meeting your stepfather?” His brow furrows in what looks very much like concern. “Will you be okay walking?”

I become aware that I’m rubbing my leg where an ache is building. I pull my hand away. “I’ll be fine,” I say briskly. “I’ve only got to go a few streets over.”

For a long second, we look at each other and then he shakes his head as if clearing it.

“Well, thank you for the company, Laurie.”

“Any time, Mags.”

He winces, and I laugh and wave a hand in farewell. Turning away, I walk back across the road. My back itches and I’m pretty sure he’s watching me go, so I make an effort not to limp too badly. Once I turn the corner though, I slump and lean down to massage my leg where the muscle is starting to cramp. “Shit,” I mutter.

I look back the way I came. Magnus Carlsen is an unforeseen complication and one I don’t need.