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It was well-organized, which pleased him. He tended to find chaos stressful—another reason he loved plants. Everything in nature was predictable and purposeful.

Plants were easier to understand than people.

A man came forward to greet them, bowing deeply. “Good afternoon. How may I be of service?”

“Trevor will be attending several balls and calling upon a young lady. He needs at least two frock coats, trousers to accompany them, relevant accessories, and…” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “A minimum of three evening coats, waistcoats, and all of that.”

The tailor assessed Trevor with small, sharp eyes. “With your complexion, I think we’re best to use earthy shades of green and brown and perhaps deeper shades of red.”

“I agree,” his mother said. “He’s always looked nice in burgundy.”

They chatted for a while longer, but Trevor tuned them out. It was uncomfortable feeling their eyes on him. Hearing them discuss his attributes only made it worse. As it was, his skin itched, and he wished he could slip out the door and ride back to Nunhaven.

But then he reminded himself that he was doing this for Seraphina. Well, technically, it was so he could marry someone that he actually liked, but he would do his level best to make her happy, and he doubted many other gentlemen could say the same.

“Come along, Trevor.”

His mother tugged at his arm, and he followed her over to a display, then stood in place while she and the tailor draped different colors and types of fabric over his shoulder.

“Nothing too outrageous, please,” he said when the tailor held up a bolt of purple silk that, while pretty, was sure to draw far more attention than he wanted. The purpose of this exercise was to present himself in such a way that Seraphina would not dismiss him out of hand. He didn’t need to have every matron in the ton discussing his fashion choices.

“As you wish,” the tailor said, setting the silk aside.

Once they’d decided on colors, the tailor selected several garments from the hangers and urged him through a door into a private room to try them on so they could see what styles suited him most.

Some of the garments fit well and felt all right against his skin, but others were too stiff, too starchy, or just downright itchy. He called the tailor and his mother in to view each ensemble, and he could sense that he was irritating them both with his fidgetiness, but he couldn’t help it.

Fashion was uncomfortable.

Finally, they stopped giving him new things to try, and the tailor had his assistant take Trevor’s measurements, which they recorded alongside the color, fabric, and style preferences.

“Is it possible for us to pay a rush fee in order for you to have the first set of clothes ready for a ball tomorrow?” Lady Wembley asked as they lingered near the door.

“It doesn’t bother me if you adjust something that has already been made,” Trevor told him. Letitia had informed him that Seraphina would be attending a particular ball tomorrow night, and he was determined to be there too.

“I’m sure we can accommodate that,” the tailor assured them. “We can have it delivered tomorrow afternoon, if that suits.”

“Thank you,” Trevor said, relieved.

As they left, his mother’s gaze flitted up and down the busy commercial street. Her eyes lit up when they landed on a bookshop on the opposite side of the road.

“Have you considered brushing up on poetry?” she asked, gesturing toward the shop before leading him to the carriage. “Women love to be serenaded.”

Trevor considered this, but then decided against it. “Miss Dalton is rather scientifically minded. She may not appreciate poetry.”

In fact, from what he could recall, she was more likely to appreciate being smuggled the latest scientific periodical.

Lady Wembley scoffed. “All women like poetry.”

“That seems unlikely.” Sweeping generalizations were usually untrue.

The carriage took them back to Wembley House, where his mother disembarked, and Trevor continued on to the Regent—a gentlemen’s club he was a member of. Ridiculous, considering he was hardly ever in London, but according to his parents and Sylvestor, it was the appropriate thing to do.

The interior of the Regent reeked of alcohol and cigar smoke, and he did his best to breathe through his mouth rather than his nose as he strode through the corridors, looking for his friend.

He found Sylvestor chatting with another of their acquaintances from Eton, but when the baron spotted Trevor, he broke away and sauntered over, grinning widely.

“Trev!” he exclaimed, dragging Trevor into a hug and slapping him on the back. “What on earth are you doing in London?”