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“Ah, Rowan.” John sounded perfectly polite, although, what the fuck do you want? lurked just beneath the surface. Unless I was being paranoid.
John had become my father’s personal secretary five years ago, and I could count our interactions on one hand. “Unfortunately, the earl is busy this afternoon.”
“Busy doing what?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge his personal calendar.”
“I’m not some random person calling. I’m his son.”
“That may be, but he can’t come to the phone right now.”
“How about you try asking him?”
“Of course. Please hold.”
The wait was long enough that I had to feed additional coins into the phone.
“I’m sorry,” John said when he came back on the line, sounding slightly more apologetic than before. “But he really is indisposed.”
I leaned my forehead against the wall. “Can you pass on a message?”
“Of course.”
“I need him to arrange for someone to pick me up tomorrow.”
“From London?” Confusion crept into John’s voice.
“No, not from London. If I were in London, there wouldn’t be a problem. I’d get on the Tube or book a cab.”
Realizing that snark was unlikely to produce the desired result, I quickly explained my situation. John made appropriately sympathetic noises throughout.
“So you see,” I concluded, “for once, I need his help. He should be delighted. He loves any situation where I feel indebted to him. This will give him something to hold over me for years.”
“I’ll see that it’s taken care of,” John said.
There wasn’t much else left to say. All I could do was hope a car appeared at the time I’d specified. Otherwise, I really would have to live in the forest.
Maybe Edward could make me a permanent stop on his tour. And this is what happens when you’re too wrapped up in your own problems to notice your boyfriend cheating, then allow him to abandon you at a remote rehabilitation clinic. Please don’t feed him.
Chapter Sixteen
Rowan
I didn’t realize quite how unconvinced I’d been that my father would come through for me until reception informed me there was a car waiting outside. My relief lasted only until I stepped onto the drive and saw the black Bentley parked at the end.
It didn’t mean anything, I told myself as I walked toward it. Just because it was my father’s car didn’t mean he’d be behind the wheel. He often allowed other people to drive it, and this was one of those occasions. He wasn’t going to drive for two hours only to turn around and make the same journey back. He had too many dinners to attend, too many charities to support, too many fetes to open, and countless other obligations that always seemed to make him unavailable.
Unfortunately, the gray hair of the man in the driver’s seat shattered my theory. I indulged in a momentary fantasy of climbing into the back and treating him like my chauffeur before reminding myself that I was a fully grown adult rather than a child. I opened the rear door, but only to toss my bag onto the seat before climbing into the front beside him.
“So,” my father said, glancing at the building I’d just left as his gloved fingers tightened briefly around the steering wheel. “Rehab?”
Despite the neutrality of his tone, the question immediately got my back up. “Is there a problem with that?”
“I would have preferred it if you’d let me know. If the media had gotten hold of it—”
“Right, the media. Sometimes I forget that what other people think is far more important than anything else. We wouldn’t want any tittle-tattle about the Earl of Shaftesbury, would we?” I snapped my seat belt into place as angrily as I could, the click feeling woefully inadequate as an expression of my frustration. “Besides, I couldn’t have told you. It wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh?”
