“Ah—” the clerk hedged.
“Told you this was a waste of time,” Alex said, turning her toward the door.
“Wait!” the clerk screeched. “I am certain I can make you the waistcoat, my lords. Just give me some hint as to color or cut.” The poor man sounded desperate.
“Bloody hell,” Alex cursed, and the clerk jumped.
“Dewhurst was drunk and doesn’t remember the specifics. Why the devil do you think he dragged me along?”
Lucia glanced at the baron. He played his role perfectly, face red, grin sheepish. “I remember it was splendid,” he offered.
“Perhaps you could describe the garment, Lord Sel—”
Alex cut him off with a scowl. “If I could do that, I’d be the tailor. Go get your account book and make me a list of all Dashing’s purchases this last year. We’ll look it over, come back, and order the waistcoat.”
The clerk frowned. “But that is highly irregular, my lord. I am not certain—”
“Smashing idea, good fellow!” Dewhurst said, slapping Alex on the back. “There might be other items I’d like to order as well. I’ve been thinking about a new greatcoat.”
The clerk’s eyes lit up.
Alex frowned at him. “I’m waiting.”
“Ah, yes. Um. One moment. I’ll go in the back and make the list.”
“Hurry,” Alex warned as the clerk scurried to the back room.
“Bloody hell, Dewhurst! A pink waistcoat?” Alex said when the clerk was gone.
The dandy grinned. “Doing it a little too brown? Although, I have to say that you played your part very nicely just now.”
“And both of you are wasting precious time.” She rounded on Selbourne. “You think John is in debt, don’t you? That’s why you want an inventory of his purchases. You think debt accounts for John’s disappearance.”
Alex spread his hands. “I’m merely considering every possibility.”
Lucia thrust her fists on her hips. “Well, I can assure you John is not in debt, so there’s no need to replay this . . . scene in half the shops in Town. It will be much faster just to ask for the information we want—when the shopkeeper last saw John.”
Alex’s eyes darkened, but Lucia merely tapped her foot impatiently.
“Faster,” he said, voice low and restrained, “but foolish. Unless you want the whole of London gossiping about the disappearance of your brother.”
“I quite agree,” Dewhurst chimed in. “Any other means of inquiry would be too smoky by half.”
Lucia folded her arms across her chest. “Well, if it’s such a secret, Lord Selbourne, why are we telling Lord Dewhurst? No offense, my lord.” She nodded at Dewhurst.
“None taken, Miss Dashing. None taken.” Dewhurst waved a gloved hand.
“We,” Alex said, and Lucia swore it was a growl, “are not doing anything.”
“Oh, I see, he can be of some assistance.” Lucia thrust a finger at Dewhurst. “But I—”
“Lucia.”
She huffed and tossed her curls. “Arrogant cretin,” she muttered. Then Alex’s hand was on her back, propelling her into a corner. She glanced back at Dewhurst, but he had become engrossed in a selection of pastel fabrics.
Alex’s hand tightened on her waist, and she jumped. “If you want to be part of this—and I’m not making any promises”—he squeezed her waist for emphasis—“you’ll have to trust me and do as I say.”
“I don’t see why.” She snorted. “You don’t trust me or do what I say.”
