The marquess was already inside. It had been three weeks since Tokyo, and Lex had missed him in a way that didn’t fit neatly inside the wordfriends.
Lex watched him through the window, standing at the far end of the shop floor with his hands clasped behind his back, examining a bolt of fabric on a display table. He was in his uniform: navy chinos, a pale blue shirt with the collar open, and brown leather shoes so clean they reflected the overhead spotlights. His hair was combed back from his forehead.
Lex pushed through the entrance, and a man in a waistcoat materialised from behind a counter. “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”
“I’m with him.” Lex jerked his chin towards Barnaby.
“Ah, of course. Lord Ashworth is expecting you. May I take your jacket?”
Lex shrugged out of the blazer and handed it over. The man received it with both hands and draped it across his forearm with care. Lex had a strong suspicion that the jacket was going to be brushed, steamed, and gently counselled once it was out of sight.
Barnaby turned at his approach. His gaze started at Lex’s face and moved downward in a slow, clinical sweep, like a suspicious customs officer. It stopped at his boots.
“What are those?”
Lex looked down. They were Chelsea boots, black leather, pointed at the toe. He’d bought them for a GQ shoot six months ago and thought they looked sharp. “Boots.”
“They’re pointed.”
“Yeah. They’re Chelsea boots. They’re supposed to be pointed.”
“I know that. But those look like they could be weaponised, Lex. You could develop a whole new blood sport around them, with contestants kicking each other to death.”
“They’re fashionable.”
“They’re an assault on the geometry of the human foot.” Barnaby’s mouth was set in a line, but the corners were pulling. “At least the rest of you is acceptable. Barely.”
“Barely? I dress myself like a normal boring human being for the first time in my adult life, and I getbarelyacceptable.”
The waistcoat man reappeared, this time accompanied by a second man in shirtsleeves with a tape measure slung around his neck. He was older, silver-haired, with the most rigid posturethat Lex had ever seen outside of a Russian gymnast. He extended his hand to Barnaby first.
“Lord Ashworth. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Mr Harding. Thank you for fitting us in at short notice.”
“Not at all, my lord. Please send your father my regards. We finished his autumn order last week.”
Barnaby nodded, and even Lex could recognise that this exchange had the well-oiled quality of a relationship that went back generations. The Fitznorman-Bicesters had clearly been coming here since the shop held its first royal warrant. They probably had a file somewhere in a back room with decades of measurements for the men of the family, detailing their fabric preferences, and notes on which shoulder sat a fraction higher than the other.
Harding turned to Lex. His expression didn’t change, but his gaze lingered on the pointed boots for a beat longer than was strictly polite. “And you must be Mr Murphy. Congratulations on the Olympic gold.”
“Cheers.” Lex shook his hand. Harding’s grip was dry and firm. His squeeze rivalled Lex’s own. “I’m told I need a suit.”
“You need more than a suit,” Barnaby said, stepping forward. He addressed Harding directly, and the shift in his bearing was immediate. His chin came up as he started giving orders.
“He wants a single-breasted, two-button. Natural shoulder. No padding — he doesn’t need it, and if you build the shoulders up he’ll look like an American footballer. I want the chest fitted close, with enough room through the back that he can move properly.” Barnaby placed his hand flat between Lex’s shoulder blades. “He’s broad here.” His hand dropped to Lex’s waist, fingers pressing briefly through the cotton. “Narrow here. If the jacket doesn’t follow that line, it’ll hang wrong and he’ll look boxy.”
Lex stood very still. Barnaby’s hand was warm through the T-shirt. His fingers moved, tracing the shape of Lex’s torso the way he’d run a palm down a horse’s flank, completely unselfconscious about the contact.
Harding jotted notes on a pad. The younger assistant had produced a second tape measure and was hovering at a respectful distance.
“Trousers,” Barnaby continued. He walked a half-circle around Lex, and Lex tracked him in the mirror on the far wall. “Flat front, medium rise. He’s got a long inseam, so I want a clean break at the shoe, no pooling. Tapered through the leg but not slim. He needs room in the thigh.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Shirt: cutaway collar. Anything less and his neck will overwhelm it. French cuffs.” Barnaby stopped in front of Lex and looked him in the eye. “You own cufflinks?”
“Yeah. Diamond ones. From my—”
