“Very well.” David sighed impatiently, lifting his hands to unbutton his coat.
Flashing a grateful smile, the lad scuttled off to find his measuring tape and notebook. Soon he was taking every conceivable measurement of David’s body: the length of each arm, its circumference in three separate places, the breadth of his shoulders, the line that ran from his armpit to his waist. The lad had just dropped to his knees to measure David’s inside leg, when the rumble of low voices, then footsteps, signalled that Mr. Riddell and his aristocratic customer had completed their business and were about to come into the front shop.
Although he was very far from undressed, David felt exposed standing in the middle of the front shop, being measured in his stockinged feet. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the approaching men, readying himself to say something. A quip to disguise his discomfort, and perhaps to make his displeasure known:Please excuse my state of undress; it is so difficult to find a tailor at the moment, a man has to take what he can get. Unless he is a peer, of course…
Mr. Riddell was the first to emerge through the connecting door—short, stocky and grey-headed, a measuring tape round his neck and the lapel of his coat glittering with pins. The other man was just behind him, and when he came through the doorway, he paused, his gaze raking the room till he found David. And smiled. A big, generous smile that dimpled one of his cheeks and made his dark eyes flash with infectious good humour.
Murdo Balfour.
“Mr. Lauriston.” His smile deepened. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Only then did David realise that he had frozen and that his mouth was hanging open.
“Balfour—” he said.
He was almost surprised to hear his own voice uttering the name. Or rather breathing it, disbelieving. Rooted to the spot, he stared at the other man for long moments, his heart racing.
When they’d parted, two full years ago, Balfour had kissed David so angrily, David’s lip had broken and bled.
“Don’t wish me happiness, damn you…”
For days after, there had been a mark. When it was gone, David had almost missed it.
“I see you’re being—measured up,” Balfour said, interrupting David’s swirling thoughts. He managed to make the ordinary observation sound almost indecent, and infuriatingly, David felt heat invade his cheeks.
“Yes,” he said shortly, feeling entirely at a disadvantage.
Balfour’s smile widened, as though David had said something amusing. “Will you be long?” he asked. “Perhaps after you’re finished, we could go to a tavern and you can tell me what you’ve been up to since I last saw you?”
David’s heart kicked. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” he said. He’d intended it to come out as a refusal, but somehow he found himself glancing at the tailor questioningly.
Mr. Riddell paused for a moment, then held out his hand to his wide-eyed assistant. The boy seemed to understand what he wanted. He put his notebook in the tailor’s hand and waited while the older man scanned the scribbled measurements.
“Is your gentleman having the blue and white?” Mr. Riddell asked the boy quietly.
“Yes sir.”
He turned to face Balfour. “We won’t be above another ten minutes, if that’s acceptable to your lordship.”
If it was acceptable tohis lordship? David bristled and glared at the tailor, but Balfour rewarded him with a condescending smile.
“That sounds ideal,” Balfour said. “May I wait here while you finish?”
“Of course, my lord,” Mr. Riddell replied, bowing obsequiously. “Please take a seat.”
Balfour did so, settling his big, elegantly clad body into a chair at the side of the room.
David opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He had no doubt Balfour would find David objecting to his presence in the room like a virginal maiden protecting her modesty highly amusing. And surely there would only be one or two more measurements? Perhaps a few garments to try on? It was scarcely worth arguing over, so, pressing his lips together, he nodded at the tailor’s assistant.
The lad stepped forward and proceeded to take the rest of David’s measurements, calling them out to Mr. Riddell who scratched them onto the notebook. Despite his awareness of the man sitting not ten feet away, David gave his attention determinedly to the tailor, keeping his gaze averted from Balfour even after Mr. Riddell bustled through to the back of the shop. When the tailor returned, he had a loosely tacked blue coat and a white waistcoat that looked to be all but finished draped over his arm.
“I know you’re in a hurry, sir,” the tailor said as he displayed the garments to David. “This waistcoat should fit you, barring a stitch here and there. I made it up for another gentleman last week, but he wasn’t able to pay for it. As for the coat, the pieces were cut for a much larger gentleman who died before I could make it up, God rest his soul. If you’re willing to take these, I can have them made up for you with whatever else you’re needing by Monday, Tuesday at the latest. If you want new ones made from scratch, it’ll be a fortnight.”
When David tried on the garments, he was pleased to discover that Mr. Riddell was right about the waistcoat. It was a perfect fit. The coat felt huge, but within a few minutes, Mr. Riddell had marked the necessary alterations with chalk and fixed a few pins in place. Once he was satisfied, he eased the garment carefully from David’s body and handed it to his assistant, who bore it gently through to the back shop.
“I’ll make a note of your order at the desk, sir,” the tailor said, his gaze flickering to Balfour, then away again. “When you’re ready.”
David had felt the weight of Balfour’s gaze on him all through his dealings with the tailor, and sure enough, when he turned his head it was to find Balfour watching him attentively, his dark eyes glittering and his wide mouth unsmiling, for once. For an instant, their gazes locked and held and, for that instant, David couldn’t breathe. He was reminded of Balfour’s tendency to flout certain social rules. Especially the small, silent rules; the ones that weren’t written down anywhere but were nevertheless known.
