So early as well. Shouldn’t they be at Horse Guards Parade? Parading or some such thing? Sybille moved her head, opened half an eye and moaned. Someone, she suspected Maybelle, who thought anyone who wasn’t up by ten was a slug-a-bed, had opened the shutters wide enough to lift the darkness to a gloomy half-light. She squinted at the clock on her mantle and groaned. The face wavered and settled. Not only was the hour hand past twelve, but the drums got louder. What on earth? Why did her mouth feel like she was six years old, back in Devon and eating dirt? Very cautiously she propped herself up on one elbow, and stopped dead. What was she holding in her other hand? It was an effort to move her head slowly enough not to set the room spinning, but she was proud of her achievement. Sybille wriggled up the bed to rest back on her pillows. She was less happy when she unfurled her fingers and looked at what she held. A jacket. A very handsome dark, midnight blue jacket, made, she thought, by Shultz.
