Chapter 1
The Ghost of Hamlet’s Father
When his friends arrived to fetch him for Earls Trip 1822, Edward Astley, Viscount Featherfinch and heir to the Earl of Stonely, was not at the ready.
“Featherfinch,” Archie said censoriously after being announced by the housekeeper. And when Mrs. Moyer wrinkled her nose ever so slightly, curtsied, and departed, Archie—Archibald Fielding-Burton, Earl of Harcourt and Effie’s best mate—said his name again, albeit much less formally: “Effie.” He threw up his hands, but if there was resignation in the gesture, there was also affection.
Effie smiled, letting the pleasure of his friends’ arrival seep through him like watercolor across canvas. “We are for Brighton today. I have not forgotten.”
He had forgotten.
“I’m nearly finished my packing.”
He hadn’t even started.
“At least he is attired this year,” said Simon Courteney, Earl of Marsden and Effie’s other best mate.
“There is that,” Archie said.
“Itoldyou, I had a most unfortunate encounter with a malevolent patch of hogweed last year just before our departure.” Honestly, one’s friends find one composing a sonnet naked in one’s own bedchamberone time, and one never lived it down.
“What are you doing out here in the stable?” Simon asked. “And what . . .” He turned in a slow circle, taking in the chaotic contents of what had until recently been home to Effie’s father’s horses. “In God’s name.” He stopped turning and pointed. “Is that?”
“Indeed,” Archie said. “Is that a torture device?”
“That,” Effie said, “is a printing press.” He regarded the contraption that had become the bane of his existence.
And now he was going to have to leave it behind for a fortnight. “A broken printing press, alas.” He patted it as if all the beast needed was a little tenderness when he knew full well the bloody thing had it out for him.
“It might even be haunted.” Effie cocked his head, considering what sort of creature would haunt a printing press, especially a very old one such as this. “I think I shall give this press a name.” He patted it again. “I hereby christen you Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”
“Why Hamlet?” Simon asked.
What Effie said was “It’s a pun. Prince of Denmark, but also ‘prints’—P-R-I-N-T-S of Denmark.”
What Effie thought wasBecause Hamlet was haunted by the ghost of his father.
The boys smirked, and Archie asked, “More to the point, what are you doing with a printing press?”
“Nothing at the moment. Did you not hear the part where I said it’s broken? This . . . clampy thing here”—he patted said clampy thing—“is meant to close down on this plate, but it isn’t cooperating. Which I suppose explains why it was such a bargain.”
“What are youplanningto do with a printing press, then?” Simon asked. “Once it’s fixed?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Clearly, he’s meant to be printing something,” Archie said. “The question is, what?”
“I can’t tell you.” ButEffie had an idea. He ought to have thought of this earlier. “I can, however, ask you a question.”
“I am all anticipation,” Archie said.
“May I store Hamlet in your stable?”
“I keep horses in my stable. Astonishing, I know.”
“May I store Hamlet in your house, then?” Archie was the master of his own house. He could do whatever he wanted, including storing a broken printing press in a seldom-used parlor.
But, oh, there was a flaw in Effie’s logic. Archie was the master of his own house, yes, but Archie’s sister-in-law, Olive Morgan, was often in Archie’s house, and if she caught wind of the addition of a printing press to the furnishings, she would know exactly what was going on. And although Olive Morgan was as dear to Effie as a sister—dearer, for although Effie was fond of Sarah, they weren’t close—Olive couldnotfind out about this.
