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his boys. They might not know the word
sadist,
but they could have defined it for anybody who asked.
    Michael Hudson’s house was College, which meant he was a King’s Scholar and his fees were mostly paid by the school. This was embarrassing to both of them for several reasons. Ian didn’t want to ask if Hudders was at Eton on charity, and Michael didn’t want to say. The alternative—that Hudders was so brilliant he’d been awarded a scholarship for his wits alone—was too awful to contemplate. It meant that Hudders was a
grind.
Worse, he was a grind who never acted like one. Ian could not recall Michael burying himself in books at Durnford. He was more likely to pinch an older boy’s bicycle and cut class entirely. The idea that Hudders was capable of pretending to be a rotter when in fact he was a grind was mind-boggling to Ian. It threatened the entire foundation of the Too Bad Club. He preferred to believe that Hudson’s father was simply impoverished, no matter how many embassies he toiled in.
    Then there was the black gown Hudders was required to wear over his morning dress. It went with being a King’s Scholar and set the College boys apart. They were meant to be prepping for King’s College at Oxford, and the gowns were a constant reminder. The rest of the school called King’s Scholars
tugs.
Ian thought this was because it was so tempting to tug on the fluttering edge of the gown and pull it off, but Peter explained it was from Latin—
togati,
meaning
wearers of gowns
. Ian had never liked Latin, and Hudders made a habit of balling up his gown and tossing it in the corner as soon as classes were done for the day. But it was another difference that hadn’t been there at Durnford, and it made them both self-conscious.
    Ian fagged that first year for one of Peter’s friends in Slater’s. Peter was the kind who never allowed anybody to hurt his brothers, and, if forced to choose between his friends and Ian, stood shoulder to shoulder with Ian every time.
    Michael Hudson had no brother. Ian tried to be one when he found Michael waiting in front of Slater’s one January night. He’d been birched by Pop—the Sixth Form boys who made up the exclusive Eton Society—for pinching someone else’s tiffin box from home. Michael never got tiffin boxes. When you were caned by Pop, you knew to go in your oldest trousers because the birch cut through the fabric and left your buttocks bleeding. Michael had made the mistake of wearing his uniform pinstripes.
    â€œDon’t you have a second pair?” Peter asked incredulously when Ian brought Hudders into his brother’s room and lifted the tails of his suit jacket. The tails hid a sorry mess of torn trouser fabric and dried blood. The birch had cut right through Michael’s undershorts. Ian felt a sickening urge to giggle.
    â€œThey give King’s Scholars the uniform,” Michael said indifferently. He was trying to act as though it didn’t matter if his morning dress was in rags. “I didn’t want to ask for more. I didn’t know if it was allowed.”
    Peter looked at Ian, his brows lifted. The Fleming boys got their clothes on tick at Tom Brown’s in Windsor, where the Eton uniform had been tailored for over a hundred years. They were used to walking down to the High to be measured, and the bills were sent to Eve. Peter pulled at Hudders’s jacket, searching for a label. “It’s Brown’s, all right,” he said slowly. “But it’s too late to go to the shop now. You’ll have to borrow a pair of ours. Maybe you can get leave for Windsor tomorrow.”
    Michael was closer to Peter’s height than Ian’s. Peter rummaged in his trunk for a pair of pinstripes that might fit.
    â€œNo,” Hudders said quietly. “It’s good of you, old man”—he’d been in England four years now, and barely had a Yank accent