“Your coat, sir,” Samuel said, presenting the garment with a flourish.
Kit frowned. “That is not my coat.”
“Ah, but you are mistaken, sir. I was recently informed that this is, indeed, your coat. At least until something properly tailored can be procured.”
Kit had always thought that counting to ten before speaking was the pathetic crutch of a man in insufficient control of his own emotions. He knew better now. After a long pause, he finally managed, “Samuel. Before this coat became mine, according to your mysterious informant, to whom did it belong?” Samuel’s eyes lit, and he straightened, clearly in his element. “If this coat belongs to you, sir, then it was always meant to be yours, and therefore cannot be considered to have ever been the property of another in any true sense—”
“Whose. Coat. Was. It,” Kit gritted out through clenched teeth. “Answer the question directly, and without anything remotely similar to philosophizing, or I will not wear it. Instead, I will strangle you with it.” “A coat seems ill-suited to such a task,” Samuel said, his brows furrowing.”
―
Eliot Grayson,
Once a Gentleman
