“Walker?”
The beleaguered man sighed. “We have silver leaves, golden flowers and one with curly whorls.” He made a motion with his forefinger.
“Silver leaves sound lovely,” Pen contributed. “Reminds me of autumn.”
Both men looked at her blankly.
“You know? Leaves falling?”
Alworth seemed to ponder on the matter. “Indeed. I associate leaves with summer.”
“Spring is more likely,” Walker put in unhelpfully.
“The pink silver leafed waistcoat it is, Walker. Regardless of whether it is seasonally appropriate.”
“Very well, sir.”
The valet helped him into his waistcoat.
Alworth stood in front of a body-length mirror and tied his cravat.
His valet stood next to him, as still as a statue, holding various starched neckcloths in his hand. Now and then Alworth cursed and threw a cravat on the ground, held out his hand, and Walker handed him a freshly pressed one. Then the entire procedure started anew.
“I was going to ask you—”
“Shh!” The valet threw her a ferocious look. “Do not talk while he ties his cravat. It requires the utmost concentration.”
Pen snapped her mouth shut.
It took Alworth several tries and several more discarded neckcloths until he was satisfied.
When he was finished, he turned. Pen swallowed. He was all the crack. He looked glorious. Even the pink waistcoat, as ridiculous as it was, muted by the dark blue tailcoat, looked good on him.
“Here is a quick lesson in men’s fashion, my good Pen. Pay close heed to my words. The best way of dressing is with understated elegance. Perfectly fitted and tailored garments. Immaculate linen. Starched and pressed cravats, tied to perfection. Do you understand?”
She nodded but eyed his pink waistcoat doubtfully. Understated elegance and pink waistcoat?
The corner of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Here is a second lesson. Never be a follower, but a leader and creator. Especially in fashion. Be striking, but not vulgar. The colour of the waistcoat is my personal statement. My signature, if you will. Do you see my point?”
“I think so.” She cleared up her throat. “May I ask a question, sir?”
“Ask away, child.”
“Do you habitually have people watch you dress?” she blurted out.
“It used to be somewhat of a sport when Brummel was still around,” Alworth replied.
Beau Brummel? The legendary dandy? Pen snapped her astonished mouth shut.
“His lordship had twenty people crammed into this dressing room, once,” Walker grumbled. “All wanted to see how he tied his legendary cravat. But no matter how often they watched him tie it, none of them managed to reach the same perfection as his lordship.”
“Thank you, Walker.” Alworth lifted his hand and beckoned with one finger. “Come here.”
Pen stepped forward with a frown. She jumped back when Alworth fiddled around her neck.
“Stand still, boy. You can’t walk around like this. It’s a disgrace.”
Alworth picked up one of his starched and ironed neckcloths, tied it around her neck and folded it in some intricate manner. His knuckles brushed her chin more than once, and she felt something flutter in her stomach.
