He turned to Simon. “May I store Hamlet atyourhouse?”
“I suppose so,” Simon said mildly.
“Hold up,” Archie said. “I haven’t said no. I was merely mentally rearranging the furniture in the library. We shall store this contraption there.”
“My house is better,” Simon said. “It’s just Mother and me. When you’re in Town, Archie, your house is full. And your mother might be upset by the addition of such a machine. Itdoesresemble a torture device.”
“No,” Archie said, “yourmother will be scandalized by the addition of a torture device to her domestic tableau.Mymother will not even notice. She rarely leaves the music room these days.”
“Oh, Archie,” Effie said.
Archie’s mother suffered from an affliction of the mind, and it had worsened in recent years. She didn’t recognize her own son anymore, yet Archie remained devoted to her. It was difficult for him to leave her for a fortnight for their trips. Effie had been so caught up in his own machinations that he hadn’t called on the dowager countess since the family had arrived in Town. Which might have been some time ago. As had been established, calendars were not Effie’s forte.
“He asked me first,” Archie said, bickering with Simon over the press, and Effie smiled. More watercolor traversing canvas, veins of color crossing previously blank space. That was the boys for you. They had no idea what Effie needed a printing press for, yet they were vying over who would hide it for him.
“We will discuss the matter in Brighton,” Effie said. “The press can remain here for now. It needs to be gone before Mother and Father are back, and that isn’t for.... What day is it?”
“It is the eighteenth of September,” Simon said. And with a flourish—or as much a flourish as the overserious Simon was capable of—added, “The first day of Earls Trip 1822.”
“And so it is.” Effie clapped his hands together. “My favorite fortnight of the year.”
Mostly.
Historically.
He did rather dislike having to be away from home for so long these days. What if he missed a letter?
But, he reminded himself, she wouldn’t write to him. He’d told her about the trip this year. She knew he was going to be gone and for how long. In fact, he’d promised her a detailed accounting of both the Royal Pavilion and the seaside.
“Why don’t we discuss the fate of the printing press over tea before we depart?” Simon asked.
“We don’t need tea.” Archie pulled out his timepiece and frowned at it. “We’ve port in the coach. Let us make haste.”
“Hold up.” Effie put his hands on his hips. “You’ve made a wager again this year, haven’t you? About how long it was going to take to extract me?”
“Of course not,” Simon said, even as Archie said, “Can you blame us?”
“If only I knew which of you would end up storing Hamlet, I’d throw the wager in your favor.”
Cheered by the good-natured bickering that broke out, Effie led the boys across the garden and through the house, rebuffing Mrs. Moyer’s offer to send a maid up to pack for him. “I will need a trunk, though, thank you.”
They almost made it upstairs when the butler announced visitors.
“Mr. John Lansing and Miss Eleanora Lansing.”
“Dash it,” Effie muttered. He had been to a ball yesternight, and he’d forgotten to instruct the staff that he was not at home to visitors today. Callers always came out in droves after a night out. He was, if he did say so himself, the life of the party.
“My lord.” Miss Lansing blushed as she curtsied, and Effie might have been mistaken but he rather thought Mr. Lansing went a little pink, too, as he bowed.
The Lansing siblings were the last people he wanted to see just now—or ever—but he could hardly shuffle them off now that they were face-to-face.
“We best have that tea after all,” Simon said, after introductions were made, and no one but Effie noticed the face Archie pulled.
“Did you enjoy the ball, Lord Featherfinch?” Miss Lansing inquired.
Had he? He didn’t quite know. Effie used to love balls. Music, gaiety, dressing up, dancing. He’d had a fine enough time last night, he supposed, though he had been stuck playing cards with Mr. Lansing for what had felt like an eternity.
“It was a lovely party,” he finally said, and thus began thirty interminable minutes of chatting about the various personages who’d been assembled. He had trouble caring. He couldn’t even get himself exercised over an analysis of the outrageous gown worn by a visiting Italian baroness.
