The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(61)

“It’s a Huguenot Cross,” Kingsley said. “See? The top is a Maltese cross—the four points are the four Gospels, the eight ends are the eight Beatitudes. The dove at the bottom, he’s the Holy Spirit.”

“Don’t touch that,” Signore Vitale said as he came back into the fitting room. “That was my grandmother’s.”

“Your grandmother was descended from the Huguenots?”

“She was, yes,” Vitale said, seemingly taken aback by the question. “I told you we have long memories. What of it?”

“My father’s family is descended from them, too. Supposedly we hid out in Italy for three generations before returning to France.”

Vitale craned his neck and studied Kingsley through his small rounded spectacles.

“You have Italian blood in you,” Vitale said. “I can see it now.”

“My grandmother was from Amalfi.”

“That’s where my family is from.”

“Beautiful city,” Kingsley said.

Vitale looked Kingsley up and down and for the first time seemed to see him.

“Why do you want a new wardrobe, monsieur?” Vitale asked. Monsieur, he’d said. Not “young man.”

“My name is King. I want to live up to my name.”

“He needs something special,” Sam said. “Something regal. Something royal.”

Vitale narrowed his eyes and looked Kingsley up and down again.

“My family f led to England when Mussolini took power. I was two years old,” Vitale said. “We moved back after the war ended. But while in England my father apprenticed at Benson & Clegg. Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it, of course.”

“My father once measured King George VI for a suit. Now, he was a king who knew how to dress like a man. A real man. Wait here…”

Vitale disappeared again. Sam and Kingsley looked at each other. When Vitale returned he had a book in his hand—large, leather-bound, stuffed with yellowed papers.

“You see this?” Vitale opened the book. “This was my father’s. All the patterns, the measurements, the finished product.” He turned the pages and there he was—King George VI in all his royal glory. “He was a military man. Navy first. Then air force. A pilot. Are you a military man?”

“French Foreign Legion,” Kingsley said.

“What rank?”

“Captain,” Kingsley said.

“You were a captain in the French Foreign Legion?” Sam asked, obviously f labbergasted.

“You’re surprised?” he asked, amused by her wide-mouthed shock. He chucked her under the chin.

“I’m not,” Vitale said. “He’s got the good posture. A soldier’s posture. So did King George.”

He f lipped a page in the book to a picture of a man, handsome, midthirties, in an officer’s uniform and knee-high boots.

“Nice,” Sam said. “You should dress like that, King.” “I was never in the Royal Air Force.”

“I meant the boots.”

“Hessian boots,” Vitale said. “Excellent for riding.”

Sam took the book from Vitale and f lipped carefully through the pages.

“Damn, check out these suits,” Sam said, eyeing the pages of pictures and patterns. “Morning jackets, frock coats, doublebreasted overcoats, breeches, boots, military jackets… Those are my favorite. All those brass buttons. You’d be the sexiest man in the city in suits like these, King.”

“Sexy? Nonsense,” Vitale said, scoffing. “Sexy is for beer commercials. A king should be arresting, powerful. Everyone should notice when he walks in a room.”

“You dress like that,” Sam said, pointing at a picture of the king in a long military coat, “and even I’ll want to sleep with you.”

She smiled at him with shining eyes. Kingsley turned to Vitale.

“I’ll take them,” Kingsley said.

“Take what?” Vitale asked.

Kingsley shut the book and put it in Vitale’s hands.

“All of them.”

“All of them?” Vitale repeated.

“And one for her, too,” he said, nodding toward Sam. “Whatever she wants.”

“Those are five-thousand dollar suits, King,” Sam said in wide-eyed shock.

“Pick whatever you want,” he said, slapping her on the back. “Daddy’s buying.”

The fitting ended, and Kingsley put in an order for twelve new suits in various vintage and royal styles including Regency, Victorian and Edwardian. Sam insisted on the Regency. She blamed her childhood love of romance novels for her breeches fetish.

“Can I have your old shirt?” Sam asked as she gathered up his clothes. “You know, after you get all your new shirts.”

“That is not a good idea.”

“It’s really nice,” she said. “I love Brooks Brothers. That shit lasts forever. This would be perfect to sleep in.”

She held out the shirt he’d worn to the fitting, a white button-down, and pulled it on over her vest.

“Sam, don’t.” Kingsley walked over to where she stood by the mirror.

“You’re that attached to this shirt?” she asked, smiling at him. “You have two dozen new ones being made for you.”