Chapter One
“It’s exquisite, isn’t it?” Hew Arundel turned this way then that, admiring the wool superfine coat. The blue was the color Navy men wore. He’d chosen it because he had blue eyes, and blue was his favorite color.
“Exquisite,” the tailor at Schweitzer and Davidson’s echoed. But Hew was paying the tailor to admire the coat—not that Schweitzer and Davidson would ever create an item of clothing of inferior quality. Hew’s gaze met Randall’s in the mirror. Randall raised a brow.
“Surely you don’t need my approval.”
Hew shrugged, liking the way the material of the coat flexed with his movement. “It’s been so long since I’ve worn anything remotely fashionable, I’ve stooped to relying on your opinion.”
Randall snorted good naturedly. “It’s exquisite, though for that price, you could buy three coats.”
“Not exquisite coats.” Hew waved the tailor’s hands away when he tried to assist in removing the coat. “I’ll wear it,” he told the man. “Have this coat”—he gestured to the not-Navy blue coat he’d worn in—“sent to the Mivart’s.”
“Very good, sir. Might I interest you in—”
Hew waved him away.
“Mivart’s?” Randall asked as Hew stepped away from the cheval mirror where he’d been admiring the coat. “I assumed you were staying with your parents.” Randall rose from one of the dark leather chairs set against the wall of the private dressing room. Schweitzer and Davidson’s was an old and respected tailor and catered to the wealthy and privileged. That sort appreciated the dark wood paneling, the sedate lighting, and the comfortable chairs with a decanter of port or sherry within reach. Some of his friends would have said Schweitzer and Davidson’s was too traditional and patronized Henry Poole & Co. But after nine months crawling through mud at the training ground he and the other agents called the Farm, Hew wanted his little comforts.
“They’re not in Town,” Hew said. “They’ve gone to the country.” Most of his friends and all of his family were in the country now that fall had descended. The Season was over, and there was no reason to stay in London. But Hew wasn’t looking for dinner parties and balls. This was his first leave since joining the Royal Saboteurs, and he wanted a large slice of civilization.
“You should have said something,” Randall said, following Hew out of the curtained dressing room and into Schweitzer and Davidson’s showroom. Like the dressing room, it was dark and quiet, smelling of tobacco and cedar. “You might have stayed with Lydia and me.”
Hew gave his friend a narrow look as he stepped past the man who held the door open for him and emerged onto Savile Row, which was teeming with people despite the chill in the air. “Your wife, lovely as she is, does not need a houseguest at the moment.”
“You’re just afraid she’ll give birth while you’re trying to sleep. But the doctor says she has several weeks yet.”
Hew didn’t believe that for a moment. He had intended to stay with Randall and his wife. Randall was an old friend from Oxford, who had disgraced his family by choosing a life in trade. Randall had a knack for finance and kept the bankers in Threadneedle Street busy managing his investments. But when Hew had stepped off the train and spotted Randall in the station, he’d also spotted his wife. Mrs. Lydia Randall looked ready to burst. Of course, Randall had written to Hew that his wife was expecting. Hew just hadn’t thought she would be expecting any moment. He’d allowed the couple to assume he was staying with family as Randall had been correct that he hadn’t wanted to be wakened in the middle of the night with the screams of a woman in labor. God knew he was awakened in the wee hours of the morning enough at the Farm.
Now that he’d completed his first mission—a successful mission at that—he wanted rest and relaxation. “I don’t want to impose on your marital bliss,” Hew said. “Besides, at Mivart’s I can sleep until noon and no one accuses me of sloth.”
“No one would dare accuse you of sloth. From the little you’ve told me of your training, it sounds as though you work as hard as three laborers.”
Hew doubted the laborers would agree. It was true he spent his days at the Farm crawling through muddy fields, practicing evasive maneuvers; learning how to diffuse explosives; and shooting at targets until his fingers were numb. But there were servants there to cook and clean for him and the other agents, as well as doctors to tend any injuries. Not that training to be a Royal Saboteur had been easy by any stretch of the imagination.
Before he’d been accepted as a Saboteur, Hew had been a diplomatic aide on the Continent. The job, from his experience, involved mingling at dinner parties and collecting state secrets, which he’d passed on to the Foreign Office. He’d been good enough to be considered for the Royal Saboteurs, an elite group, which he had only heard whispered about before he’d been offered a chance to join.
“It is too bad that your family is not in Town,” Randall said. “They’d want to celebrate the successful completion of your first mission. Though I don’t suppose you could tell them any more about it than you told me.”
“I’ll go see them at Christmas.” That was assuming he didn’t have another mission that kept him away.
“Will you dine with us tonight?” Randall asked.
“If your wife doesn’t mind.”
“She was the one who suggested it. Let’s stop at my club for a drink, and I’ll send word.”
The two spent an hour in the members’ only gentlemen’s club to which Randall belonged then made their way through the streets of Mayfair to the Randall town house. Randall owned the house, unlike Hew’s family, who leased theirs every Season. The lack of a permanent London residence was another reason he’d reserved rooms at Mivart’s.
Lydia Randall, tall and lovely, waddled toward them when they arrived just before the dinner hour. “There you are,” she said, taking her husband’s arm and smiling up at him. Hew was almost jealous of the look the couple exchanged—until he remembered not every woman was as faithful as Lydia. Some could look at you with adoring eyes while stabbing you in the heart. Lydia smiled at Hew, her expression turning friendly. “Mr. Arundel, I hoped you would join us for dinner. I told the butler to set another place. Darling”—she gazed back at her husband—“shall we go into dinner or do you want a drink first?”
“Arundel and I just had a drink at my club.” He was frowning down at his wife. “Are you well? You look tired.”
Lydia swatted his shoulder. “Just what every woman wants to hear.” She patted his arm. “I’m fine.”
The three went into dinner. It was a simple meal, but the food was very good. “What have they been feeding you at this farm?” Lydia asked the third time Hew complimented the fare. “Gruel?”
Hew forced himself to set down his fork. “Not at all. The food is quite decent. Not that I generally care as I’m usually so tired at the end of the day I’m likely to fall asleep with my face in the plate.”
“Oh, my. What do you do all day?”