“Well, that’s a relief. They wouldn’t let you shag your twinks in there.” He leans forward, an imploring look on his face. “Come on, Mags. I can come to you at your chambers, and then we could go off on an adventure in the evening.”

“Have I fallen into the pages of the Famous Five?” I ask waspishly. “I’m not cycling over England breaking up the plans of criminals and drinking ginger beer.”

“I feel you’re rather trivialising the work that the Famous Five did in reducing the UK’s crime statistics.”

“I have work to do,” I say desperately.

“I bet you’ve done it already. You’re always saying how prepared and clever you are.”

“Well, I am, but I don’t like to blow my own trumpet.”

“Of course not. You’d like the whole orchestra to blow it for you.”

“This is not inspiring any desire to do something with you,” I inform him.

He laughs. “Come on. I’ll be gone soon, and your life will go back to its normal boring perfection. Let’s do something while I’m here.”

I take another sip of my pint, studying him. He’s smiling, but after a few weeks of knowing him, I can detect a trace of that odd, frantic gleam in his eyes—the look he gets when he’s too distracted to conceal it. Something is driving Laurie, and it goes far beyond a desire to explore London. He eyes me expectantly, and I give a heavy sigh.

“Alright,” I say, and he cheers. I lift a hand to stay him. “But if you drag me into any ridiculous situations, you’ll be up there behind the bar and sitting beside the stuffed parrot.”

“I think you’re far more temperamentally suited to that avenue. Polly would certainly find himself out-grumped.”

Chapter Eight

Mags

I’ve been waiting for the knock on the door, and so I’m already standing up when Laurie pops his messy head around it.

He blinks. “You’re not in a suit.”

I look down at my outfit of khaki shorts and a navy, short-sleeved T-shirt. “No. It was dress-down day in court today.”

“Really?”

I scoff. “No. The trial finished. The jury came back quicker than we thought.”

“Did you win?”

“What do you think?”

He taps his chin in a typically piss-taking manner and makes a sad face. “No, but don’t get despondent, Mags. You’ll find a job that suits you one day.”

“Maybe I could take up painting,” I say silkily. “It doesn’t seem to take a lot of talent these days.”

He laughs, and the merry sound makes my lips twitch. “You’re so right. Any Tom, Dick, and Harry could do it.”

“You know I’ve lived in this country for many years, but sometimes your phrases still trip me up. What does that mean? Whose dick were Harry and Tom using?”