Chapter Thirteen
He’d made an effort. A considered, soul-destroying effort.
For today he’d chosen dark jeans that were scrupulously clean, a plain white t-shirt and the navy blazer Barnaby had selected for Media Day.
There were no visible logos on his body, or gold chains on his neck.
He looked like an off-duty accountant, and he knew that this would be Barnaby-approved.
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 word friends.
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 get barely acceptable.”
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 posture that 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—”
“No.”
“You haven’t even seen them.”
“I don’t need to. Diamond cufflinks on a man under forty say two things: footballer or oligarch. You are neither. We’ll get you some proper ones.” He turned back to Harding. “Plain silver knots. We’ll keep the accessories quiet.”
Lex watched Barnaby move through the shop.
This was the version of him that Lex had only caught in glimpses in Tokyo.
This was the Barnaby who existed in a world where the rules were his, and he didn’t need to assert authority.
Everyone around him just rose up to meet the expectation that they respond to his needs.
It was incredibly fucking sexy. Lex would die before saying it aloud, but it was the truth. Barnaby’s authoritativeness was doing things to the fit of his jeans, and Harding was going to get entirely the wrong idea when he started on the inseam.
Barnaby lifted a sample jacket from a mannequin near the wall, held it by the shoulders, and brought it over. “Arms up.”
Lex raised his arms. Barnaby slid the jacket over his shoulders and settled it across his back, then smoothed the fabric from shoulder to bicep, pressing flat against the muscles beneath.
His thumb ran along the shoulder seam, down the sleeve to Lex’s wrist, where he folded the cuff back once and pinched the excess fabric between his fingers.
“Half an inch off the sleeve length,” Barnaby said to Harding. “And the lapel on this sample is too wide for his frame. Can we go narrower?”
“Certainly. Shall I pull the notch lapel option?”
“Please.”
Harding disappeared into the back and the younger assistant followed. The shop floor emptied and then it was just Barnaby and Lex in the room.
Barnaby was still holding Lex’s cuff. His thumb rested against the inside of Lex’s wrist, right over his pulse point, and Lex could feel his own heartbeat knocking against his chest.
“Navy,” Barnaby said. He was looking at the fabric, not at Lex. “You’d look good in a deep navy. With a fine pinstripe.”
“Pinstripe? Like a banker would wear?”
“Your colouring will carry it. Your dark hair, and warm skin.” Barnaby’s fingers tightened on his wrist, then released. “Navy will sit better than charcoal on you.” He stepped back.
Lex shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away before his face could betray him, although at this point, Barnaby’s thumb had been on his pulse. Barnaby had felt his racing heartbeat and said nothing about it.
He walked the length of the shop floor because he needed to move.
Needed his legs doing something so his brain could catch up to what was going on here.
The place was immaculate. Everything was folded or hung or displayed at precise intervals, and the carpet was the kind of deep pile that absorbed footsteps.
He trailed his fingers along a row of ties on a mahogany display rack.
A mannequin stood at the far end of the room, positioned beside an arched window in a shaft of afternoon light.
It was dressed in a morning suit: grey tailcoat, dove waistcoat, striped trousers, the full works.
The mannequin’s face was featureless and smooth.
Its posture was immaculate. Its hands were positioned at its sides with the fingers slightly curved.
Lex stopped in front of it. “Barns,” he said. “Introduce me to your mate.”
Barnaby glanced up from the fabric bolts he’d been examining. His expression was neutral, waiting for the punchline to land.
Lex slung an arm around the mannequin’s shoulders. It was shorter than him, which meant he had to hunch over to make the contact work, and the tailcoat fabric was cool and smooth under his forearm. He gave its shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“Introduce me to your mate, Barns. You lot always know each other. You all go to the same schools, same tailor.” He tilted his head and appraised the featureless face. “He’s a bit stiff.” He glanced back at Barnaby. “But I’ve worked with worse.”
Barnaby’s jaw set. His eyes narrowed. Then the corner of his mouth pulled, just a fraction, before he killed it.
“Get your hands off the morning suit, Lex.”
“He doesn’t mind. Look at him. He’s loving it. First bit of physical affection he’s had in years. Reminds me of someone, actually.”
Barnaby rolled his eyes and went back to his fabric, which was exactly the response Lex had been aiming for. He took the mannequin’s hand. It didn’t resist. He placed his other hand on its waist, just above the dove-grey waistcoat, and assumed the position.
“Come on, then,” he murmured to it. “Let’s have a dance, mate. You look like you haven’t had a night out since 1847.”
He stepped left. The mannequin didn’t follow, on account of being bolted to a metal stand, so Lex dragged it with him.
The stand scraped against the carpet with a sound that was deafening in the cathedral hush of a Savile Row fitting room.
He pulled it into a slow turn, guiding it through a box step that he’d learned from a YouTube video before his cousin’s wedding and had never deployed in public because there had never been a moment stupid enough to justify it.
Until now.
“Lex.” Barnaby’s voice had gone dangerously flat. “Put it down.”
“I can’t put him down, Barns. We’re mid-waltz. You don’t abandon your partner mid-waltz. Even I know that.”
He dipped the mannequin. Its head lolled backward at an angle that would have killed a real person, and its left arm swung out and nearly clipped a display of silk pocket squares. Lex caught it, righted it, and spun it in a slow circle that sent the tails of the morning coat flaring.
“He’s got moves,” Lex said. “Better than most blokes I’ve danced with. Doesn’t step on my feet. Doesn’t try to lead when he clearly can’t. Could use a bit more give in the hips, but we’ll work on that.”
Barnaby crossed the shop floor in four strides. He seized Lex’s elbow and pulled, hard enough that Lex released the mannequin, which wobbled on its stand and settled back into position with a faint metallic shudder.
“Behave.” Barnaby’s voice was low, clipped, barely controlled.
His fingers dug into Lex’s arm. He was standing close enough that Lex could smell his soap, something clean and expensive.
“This shop has held a royal warrant since 1809. It has dressed kings. It has dressed my king. You’re not going to desecrate it by waltzing with the furniture. ”
Lex clapped both hands over the mannequin’s ears. “Don’t call him furniture, Barns. His name’s Bernard. And he’s got feelings.” He looked down at the featureless face with genuine concern. “He didn’t mean it, mate. He’s always like this.”
Barnaby’s grip tightened. His grey eyes were blazing, his jaw locked, and his ears were pink. Lex took it all in and thought: this is the best day of my life.
“If Mr Harding comes back and finds you manhandling a bespoke morning suit that costs more than your Gucci atrocity—”
“He’ll what? Ban me? I’ve just won an Olympic gold, Barns. They’ll let me waltz with every mannequin in the building. They’ll line them up for me. Lay out the red carpet and pop open a champagne bottle!”
“You are impossible.” Barnaby hadn’t let go of his arm. His thumb pressed into the crook of Lex’s elbow. “You are an impossible man, and I don’t know why I brought you here.”
“Because you care about how I look at the Palace.”
Barnaby’s mouth opened. His grip loosened, but he didn’t release him.
“Because you care about me,” Lex repeated, quieter this time. “And you’re good at it. And nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before, so I’m being a twat about it because I don’t know how to just say thank you like a normal person.”
Barnaby stared at him. The pink in his ears deepened, and then he dropped Lex’s arm and stepped back just as the door to the back room swung open.
Harding emerged carrying two bolts of fabric, the younger assistant at his heels with a tray of lapel samples. Barnaby turned to meet them, his composure snapping back into place so fast it left no trace of how flustered he’d been just a second before.
“Here are the notch lapel options, my lord,” Harding said. “And I’ve pulled two navy options for your consideration.”
“Thank you, Mr Harding.” Barnaby’s voice was smooth and level. He moved towards the display first bolt. Lex stood where he’d been left, watching Barnaby’s back, and pressed his tongue against his teeth to keep the grin from splitting his face wide open.