Penny looked appraisingly at him in the well tailored Savile Row suit, and nodded approvingly.
John tries his best to put a smile that doesn’t look horribly nervous onto his face. He’s got no idea how much the suit she’s just put him in costs (though he has worrying suspicions he could have funded a trip to space for the same) - the young man who stares back at him from the mirror looks just as clueless about it. His reflection has fancy silver cufflinks and neatly pressed sleeves and not a hair out of place; it’s a far cry from the skinny, exhausted astronaut trainee he’s so used to seeing. John’s filled out quite a bit this year though; shoulders rounding and his muscles gaining far more definition. He’s surprised to find he doesn’t quite recognise himself now she’s dressed him up.
“I’d hate to make an idiot of myself in your company, Penny.” He voices the worry aloud to her, looking back over his shoulder at the slender, glamorous figure perched daintily on the pouffe. The Lady Creighton Ward is really the epitome of beautiful, John can’t help but think; all blond curls and glitz and big blue eyes.
It’s hard to pin why exactly his Father has asked her to join the Rescue Organisation his family is putting together. John’s known her since his brief time at Oxford, and he privately thinks his Father might be putting too much faith in the hope that his old friend Lord Hugh has passed down his talent’s to his daughter. Having a London Agent will prove very useful though. John understands the logic of it all.
He understands far less why he’s being dragged escorted to the Ritz as her plus one. Why did this have to be the criteria of her agreeing to help them?
“If I trip and fall down a staircase,” John says, “or drop Pappardelle in someone’s lap, you’re never going to let me live it down, are you?”
