Manic Pixie Dream Earl

Book 2: Earls Trip

by Jenny Holiday

Genres: Regency Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Ted Lasso meets Bridgerton for a 19th century spin on The Hangover in USA Today bestselling author Jenny Holiday’s laugh-out-loud bromantic comedy featuring three Regency-era Earls on their annual trip—ride-or-die buddies offering one another unconditional support in everything from Lady problems to family woes—especially when this trip is crashed by one earl’s pen pal. The complicated fallout from his alter ego being exposed may just be the most challenging problem the boys have to solve yet!

From the author of CANADIAN BOYFRIEND, the perfect romp for fans of Evie Dunmore, India Holton, Virginia Heath, Manda Collins, and Suzanne Allain!

An annual earls’ trip should provide an escape from a gentleman’s cares, but in this refreshingly modern Regency-era series, three handsome BFFs find that wherever they go, romantic complications follow . . .

When not writing, poet Edward Astley, Viscount Featherfinch, spends his time fending off the young ladies of the ton—and some of its young men—and avoiding his cruel father. As heir to the earldom, Edward knows he must marry someday. Alas, he is already hopelessly in love with someone. Hopeless because not only is Miss Julianna Evans not a member of the aristocracy, she is employed. She is a magazine editor—the only one to publish his work. Also, in all their years of increasingly personal correspondence, they’ve never met.
 
Also, she thinks he’s a woman. Named Euphemia.
 
Julianna is baffled. How can her soul mate not want to meet? Could it be that Euphemia is not the simple country girl she claims to be? Perhaps she’s wealthy. After all, she’s never cashed any of the bank drafts Julianna has sent. Perhaps Euphemia simply doesn’t want rank to come between them. Well, no more. Having extracted the details of a trip Euphemia is planning, Julianna squanders her meager savings and surprises her at the scene.
 
He is very, very surprised. As is she.
 
Now the two will have to decide what is true, what is not, and whether the truest thing of all—love—just might be worth an earldom . . .
 

Release date: May 27, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

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.

“I told you, 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 bedchamber one 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 was Because 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 you planning to 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.” But Effie 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 could not find out about this.

He turned to Simon. “May I store Hamlet at your house?”

“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. It does resemble a torture device.”

“No,” Archie said, “your mother will be scandalized by the addition of a torture device to her domestic tableau. My mother 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.

“It was so kind of you to dance with me twice, my lord,” Miss Lansing said.

The word wasn’t kind so much as it was forgetful. Miss Lansing had hinted that she’d like him to sign her dance card early in the evening, so he had, and a little later, her brother had done the same, and Effie had complied, not remembering the earlier encounter. So he’d ended up dancing both a quadrille and, unfortunately, a waltz with the young lady.

“Yes, wasn’t it?” Mr. Lansing was doing something with his eye in Effie’s general direction that Effie supposed was meant to be winking but looked more like an early sign of an impending seizure.

“I do so admire your coiffure, if I may be so bold,” Mr. Lansing went on to say. “When my sister asked me to escort her to visit you today, I resolved to tell you as much.”

“Thank you,” Effie murmured.

He stifled a sigh. This happened. Women flirted with him. Sometimes men did, too. Usually, he flirted back. It was an enjoyable enough way to pass the time, and what was life for if not enjoyment? He was aware that as the heir to an earl, he was no doubt attracting people for reasons other than his sparkling wit and legendary head of hair, but what of it? The days had to be filled somehow.

The Lansing siblings began hinting rather heavy-handedly that they would like him to make an appearance at Vauxhall that evening.

“We could take a walk,” Mr. Lansing said, his eye once again signalling either romantic interest or impending doom.

Effie was accustomed to such overtures from both ladies and gentlemen, but he’d never been the recipient of such from a pair of siblings. He wondered idly what Mr. Lansing’s endgame was. To marry his sister to Effie, thus gaining proximity? If so, he wondered whether Miss Lansing was in on the plot.

How exhausting.

But, again, how interesting that he regarded it so. A year or two ago, he would have found this brand of low-stakes drama diverting. He was never stirred to desire by these kinds of overtures, but he would have played along with one or both siblings, just to amuse himself. Now, he just wanted to escape.

Handily, he had just the excuse. “You will forgive me, but I must take my leave. Lords Harcourt and Marsden are here because we’re about to depart on a holiday.”

An interrogation followed: Where? For how long? Would he bring Miss Lansing a memento? Would he bring Mr. Lansing a memento?

“I should never have gone out last night,” Effie said when he and the boys were finally liberated and climbing the stairs toward his bedchamber. “I forget that as amusing as a ball can be, the aftermath is decidedly less so.”

“Poor Effie,” Archie said. “So handsome and eligible and charming, you can’t go anywhere.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Effie said. “If women become old maids at a certain age and are considered on the shelf, why isn’t there an analogous state for men? I am nearly thirty. Will I reach a point at which the marriage-minded schemers will leave me be?”

“I don’t think so,” Archie said. “Regardless, I imagine at some point your parents will force your hand.”

“Curiously, neither has said a word about it. One would think that since I am such a disappointment to Father, he would be anxious for me to marry so that he may influence the next in line for his precious earldom.” Father’s silence on the matter, especially as the years ticked by, was very strange, but Effie considered it a blessing, so he didn’t question it.

“Here we are.” Effie held the door to his bedchamber and gestured the others in ahead of him.

“I thought you said you’d nearly finished packing,” Archie said, looking stern, or as stern as Archie was capable of looking, which wasn’t very.

“Why don’t we have some more tea sent up? Or some port—we can get started early,” Simon said. “We shall repose while you pack.”

“Repose!” Archie protested. “He needs to pack, and we need to go!”

“Go!” called Leander from his cage by the window, drawing the attention of all three men. “Go!”

“I thought he didn’t talk,” Archie said.

“Yes, well, he’s found his voice,” Effie said with exasperated affection.

His new macaw was quite a bit more talkative than his predecessor, Sally, but at the same time he managed to say a great deal less of import.

“But he only says random words, single-syllable ones, at that. He will hear a short word he fancies, and that’s all he’ll say for days. He’s done ‘No’ and ‘Tell,’ and now he’s added—”

“Go!” shrieked the bird.

“You see? One word at a time. You can’t have a proper conversation with him like you could with Sally.”

“I wouldn’t say I ever had a proper conversation with Sally,” Simon said, leaning over and peering into Leander’s cage. “The most that ever happened is she said ‘Hello’—grudgingly—in response to a greeting.”

“That was only because Sally didn’t like you,” Effie said.

“Hmm.” Simon, apparently unbothered by the knowledge that Effie’s dear departed pet had thought poorly of him, pulled out his timepiece. “What about that port?”

“What has happened to this room?” Archie, seemingly having forgotten that he was in a hurry, was looking around as if he’d never seen the place.

“How do you mean?” Effie asked.

“It looks as if a rainbow fell from the sky and took up residence.”

Effie’s bedchamber was rather in disarray. The dressing table at which he had made his toilette last night was littered with ribbons and tinctures. He had been trying on different waistcoats, and he’d left the rejects strewn about.

Simon, from over near the mantel, pointed to the flowers bedecking Effie’s ormolu clock. “What are these? They’re as big as a man’s fist.”

“Dried peonies. Aren’t they magnificent?”

“Where are the black roses that used to be here?”

“I felt a change was in order.”

“And where is the painting that used to hang here?” Archie had made his way to Effie’s dressing area at the far end of the room. “It was an odd image—a monkey sitting on a dead woman’s chest.”

“She wasn’t dead; she was dreaming. And it wasn’t a monkey; it was a demon. That was a reproduction of a Fuseli entitled The Nightmare. And to answer your question, I took it down.”

How to explain why, though, which was what Archie was actually asking. When Effie had first seen the image, years ago in a book his mother brought home from Italy, he’d recognized it. Not because he’d seen the painting before, but in the way one recognizes that which is familiar. That was the magical, horrible-wonderful potential of art, to show us what we already know. To be a mirror.

But then one day last spring, he’d thought: Art can show us the familiar, yes, but can it also wear a groove in our souls, turning the familiar into the expected? If one has nightmares, need one remind oneself visually of that fact every time one enters one’s bedchamber? Might doing so even prime one to have nightmares?

The nights had been getting so much worse. He had been desperate to try anything to get the nightmares—if one could even call them that—to stop.

But like the printing press, the nightmares were difficult to explain. He might be able to do it in Brighton, after a drink or four, but now, here, he didn’t know how to tell the boys about any of it.

Happily, he didn’t have to. Archie moved down his line of questions. “What have you replaced it with? And isn’t this a rather unusual color for sky?” He tapped the painting’s gilt frame. “Who painted it?”

“I did.”

The boys made admiring murmurs, and Simon made his way over to join Archie. “What do you call that color?”

“I don’t know, exactly. It is very like a liqueur my mother is fond of called Chartreuse. She imports it from France. I believe it is made by monks.”

Effie was a trifle surprised no one questioned the concept of a green sky. When he’d painted his first, it had been an accident. He’d been sipping the liqueur in question, and somehow, its color had made it onto his canvas. Then he’d just kept doing it. He wasn’t sure why, only that it almost seemed as though the sky came out of his paintbrush that color, without any apparent forethought on his part.

“Who is that woman?” Archie asked.

Effie hesitated. “I imagined her.”

It was not, strictly speaking, a lie. He did not know what Julianna looked like. He knew the components of her visage, based on her own reporting: brown, almost black hair that curled more than she preferred when it was down; green eyes; “tall for a woman.” But one could invite a dozen ladies fitting that description to tea and end up with a drawing room full of a dozen different-looking ladies.

So, no, the woman against the chartreuse sky was not Julianna. It was an idea of Julianna.

“This is extraordinary,” Archie said.

“Indeed,” Simon said. “It feels as if she’s looking at you. Into your very soul, even.”

That’s because she is.

Effie did not care, though, for the notion of Julianna, or this Julianna avatar, looking into Simon’s soul. Looking into anyone’s soul but Effie’s.

Still, he was chuffed by the praise. “It is my best work, I think. Which of course is not saying a great deal. We all know that my skills with a paintbrush are generally on par with those of a girl in the schoolroom. A very young one. I ought to stick to poetry.”

“But you persist,” Archie said. “It is admirable.”

Simon nodded at the painting. “And, apparently, efficacious.”

A knock heralded a footman with a trunk.

“Go!” Leander screeched, and Effie began tossing apparel into the trunk.

Before too long—Archie still lost the wager, though, thanks to the Lansing siblings—they were ready.

A pair of footmen took the trunk, and Effie picked up Leander’s cage.

“Surely you are not bringing that creature with you,” Simon said.

“I have to. He’s only recently learned to vocalize. If I leave him alone for a fortnight, he’s likely to backslide.” When no one said anything, he added, “He needs someone to talk to him.”

“Cannot a maid talk to him?” Simon asked.

“Do I trust a maid to talk to him?” Effie asked. “To feed him, yes, but to tend to his education?”

“He has a point,” said Archie, suppressing laughter. “I imagine your maids have better things to do with their time than talk to birds.”

“And look how big he is!” Effie said. “He needs regular exercise outside of his cage. Can I trust that to a maid?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Simon said.

The three of them bickered good-naturedly about avian intelligence or lack thereof as they descended to the foyer.

Whereupon they ran into Father and Mr. Nancarrow.

Effie’s first impulse was to think, My goodness, are we ever going to get out of here?

His second impulse was to panic.

The second impulse won out. The sight of the earl filled Effie’s ears with the roaring of an imaginary sea.

He did not want to be the sort of man who panicked when encountering his own father, but here they were.

To be fair, he did all right when he had time to prepare, when he knew he would be meeting his sire. So perhaps he was merely the sort of man who panicked when unexpectedly encountering his own father.

And also the sort of man who held his pet macaw behind his back when unexpectedly encountering his own father.

When the cacophonous waves receded, the boys were in the process of making greetings to his father. The panic subsided, soaking into the sand with the waves, because of course his father would behave in the company of Effie’s friends, highborn as they were.

“Harcourt, Marsden,” Father was saying, “may I introduce Mr. Nancarrow, who has recently come aboard as steward at Highworth.”

Mr. Nancarrow dipped his head at the earls as Simon said to Effie’s father, “My lord, I am happy to meet you here. I was hoping to gain your support for an act we shall be introducing in Parliament next session . . .”

The rest of Simon’s speech was drowned out by the crashing of another wave. A larger one that brought with it not just panic but also terror. Terror not unlike the sort that had shoved Effie, gasping, from slumber to wakefulness more often than not these recent months.

Or perhaps not that sort. Nightmares subsided when one awakened sufficiently to grasp that the tendrils slithering through one’s mind were merely of the phantasmagorical variety.

The panic was back because Effie remembered that the printing press was in the stable. Father’s driver was no doubt encountering it now. The last Effie had heard, Mother and Father were in Campagna until early October. He had thought he had more time.

He forced himself to think, to return to the conversation at hand. What would Julianna do, in his shoes? Simon was droning on about prison reform, and Archie and Father were paying polite attention. Effie turned to the new steward and said, lowly, carefully, “Mr. Nancarrow, might I have a word?” Kenver Nancarrow had struck Effie, on the few occasions they’d been in company, as a reasonable, even affable, sort of man. He was also Effie’s only hope.

“Yes, of course, my lord.”

Effie caught Archie’s eye as he ushered Mr. Nancarrow into a small parlor off the foyer and hitched his head ever so slightly in Father’s direction, willing Archie to receive his silent message.

Archie didn’t nod, at least not with his head, but he turned to Effie’s father and said, jovially, “I’ve been thinking of a trip to Naples. My wife and I honeymooned in northern Italy last year and we’d like to go back. There is so much to see. We never got farther south than Florence. What time of year do you think is best? Is July too warm?”

“Mr. Nancarrow,” Effie said, shutting the door softly behind him and setting Leander on a side table. “I must prevail upon you to assist me in a somewhat sensitive matter.”

“Of course, my lord. I will help however I can.”

Would he, though? Effie didn’t have the true measure of the man. He well knew that affability sometimes papered over other, less pleasant qualities.

It mattered not. Effie had no choice. He did not want Father to find out there was a printing press in the stable. Either Mr. Nancarrow would help Effie in this matter, or he would not. If he elected not to help, Father would discover the press. Yet if Effie did not prevail upon Mr. Nancarrow, the same outcome was guaranteed: Father would find out about the press.

Therefore, the only course he had was to ask this near stranger for help.

Cheered by this uncharacteristic application of logic, he decided the best way forward was forthrightness. “I wasn’t expecting my father back so soon. I have been storing a printing press in the stable. He . . . won’t be happy about it, and I think it better he not discover it.” He paused, considering whether to summon forth an exculpatory lie. I am fixing up the press to donate to the Church. I am printing self-improvement tracts for wayward heirs.

He could think of nothing that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. And had he not just decided on forthrightness? “I was planning to move it elsewhere after I returned from the holiday on which I am about to depart, but now . . .” He turned his palms upward in a wordless appeal.

“Think no further on it, my lord. I shall go round back and confer with the grooms. I am certain we can find somewhere else to stable the horses for now. Where had you been planning to move the press?”

“To the home of the Earl of Harcourt, Number Four Hanover Square. Of course, he is also holiday-bound with me, but if you explain that the press is from me, the countess will receive it.”

Clementine would, he was all but certain. He could only hope her sister was not in residence. But if he had to choose between Olive’s discovering he’d bought a printing press and Father’s discovering the same, he would choose Olive a thousand times over.

“Consider it done, my lord.”

Effie allowed himself to relax a touch. “Thank you, Mr. Nancarrow. Be warned that the press is quite heavy. You’ll need several men. And it’s broken, so there are . . . bits and bobs loose. Take care.” Beware the ghost of Hamlet’s father.

“If I may say, my lord, that is a fine bird you’ve got there. Is it a hyacinth macaw?”

“Oh, yes!” Effie had momentarily forgotten that he was carting Leander through this crisis. “You must know exotic birds, given that you identified him on sight.”

“Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus,” Mr. Nancarrow said. “Native to South America, I believe?”

“Ah . . . yes.” In truth, Effie did not know. He’d procured Leander from the same merchant who’d sold him Sally, and he hadn’t been made aware of any providential details.

“Studying birds is a particular hobby of mine,” Mr. Nancarrow said. “Though I’ve never seen a bird as fine as that outside the pages of a book. Does he talk?”

“Go!” Leander said, as if on cue.

“He says a few words,” Effie said as Mr. Nancarrow laughed in delight.

What a curious creature—Mr. Nancarrow, not Leander.

Whatever relief Effie had experienced in Mr. Nancarrow’s easy company disappeared as they reentered the foyer. Effie felt as though his ribs were calcifying, making his movements awkward and unnatural. He edged along the wall as best he could so as to not draw Father’s attention to Leander. With a small nod at Effie, Mr. Nancarrow slipped out the door.

When Archie, who was still quizzing Father about southern Italy in the summer, caught sight of Effie, he said, “What good luck to have encountered your father. He’s made several improvements to my hypothetical itinerary.”

“How fortuitous,” Effie murmured, smiling blandly as his father looked up, brow knit. Effie knew that look. Father was trying to remember if Effie had been standing there all along. It used to wound him, when he was a boy, to know he was that forgettable in his father’s eyes. For as a boy, he generally had been standing there the whole time. As he’d grown, though, he had come to understand that invisibility came with benefits that could be exploited—for example, the opportunity to arrange for the covert relocation of a printing press.

“If we want to make Brighton by nightfall, perhaps we ought to make haste,” Effie said, affecting a nonchalance he did not feel. “Perhaps you can call on our return, Harcourt, and continue your discussion. Will you still be in residence, Father?”

“Brighton?” Father said, frowning. He looked rather . . . yellow. Put out, though Effie could not imagine why.

“Yes,” he said, “our annual trip.”

“Annual trip?”

Effie didn’t say, Yes, Earls Trip 1822. The fanciful appellation for their holiday would not go over well with Father, who, in addition to lacking any sense of humor whatsoever, would almost certainly have pointed out that Effie was not an earl but a mere viscount. He was the heir to an earl. A very unpromising heir. To put it mildly. Which, to be fair, Father would do, given that they were in company.

Effie didn’t say anything, just smiled blankly.

Archie said, “Yes, sir, the three of us have developed a bit of an annual tradition—a fortnight of holiday in September.”

Never mind that this was the ninth annual Earls Trip and Father had just now noticed.

Father’s eyes traveled down to Effie’s feet and back up to his face. “What on earth are you wearing, boy?”

Boy. Effie winced. He was eight-and-twenty. He was not a boy. He felt the word as the prick it was meant to be, the y at its end a sharp pin sliding into his guts. But to complain, to react at all, would only prove him deserving of the moniker. It was a paradox he often found himself in with Father.

Chartreuse skies, he reminded himself. Chartreuse skies.

The answer to Father’s question was that he was wearing a di. . .