Page 2 of Brown-Eyed Earl

Archie’s quizzical expression turned fond, and it occurred to Simon that perhaps he ought to hang portraits of his friends in the library. They called themselves a found family, and in his experience, found families were loads better than the real thing.

“A winning strategy,” Archie said. “Your Parliamentary concerns will still be there in a fortnight. You may actually find them easier to wrangle for having had the holiday.”

“That’s what …”

Miss Brown said.

“I’ve been telling you as much for years,” Archie said. “A wonder you’ve finally listened.”

“My lord!” Simon’s housekeeper came running down the stairs just as the coach was pulling away. “You’ve forgotten your lemons!”

Oh no. Simon closed his eyes. How had he forgotten the lemons? And why had Mrs. Tavish not put them in a proper sack? When he opened his eyes again—he had learned the hard way that hiding from the truth achieved nothing—Mrs. Tavish was brandishing two dozen lemons in a string satchel, the plump yellow fruits rolling around almost lewdly for anyone to see.

“Yes, you’ve quite forgotten your lemons,” Archie remarked, not bothering to disguise his amusement as the bag was pressed into Simon’s possession. “Shall I inquire as to why you aren’t packing a pile of work this year but you are packing lemons?” Archie rapped on the ceiling of the coach, and they finally rumbled off.

“I wonder if we should bother making a wager about Effie this year.” Simon hoped the glaringly obvious change of subject would be tolerated.

It was. Archie said, “’Tis uncharted territory. On the one hand, he shan’t be in the garden composing a poem, or beset by unexpected suitors, or drowning in waistcoats he tried on and discarded before attending a ball the previous evening. So he’s less likely to have completely forgotten the trip.”

“On the other hand,” Simon supplied, “even without all the trappings, he remains Effie.”

“Indeed.”

“Still,” Simon said, “we ought to lay a wager for tradition’s sake. I say it will take us thirty minutes to extract him.”

“All right. I will counter with ten. Even if he’s not ready whatsoever, how long can it take to make himself so, given his current situation?”

“You may have a point, but as I said, he is still himself.”

This year, they were collecting Effie from his rooms on Grub Street rather than from his fine house on Hanover Square. Having upended his life to become a printer and poet, these days he had a much smaller home and a much smaller wardrobe, and nobody from polite society, excepting Simon and Archie, called on him.

They shook on the wager, and soon they were pulling up in front of the unassuming soot-covered building in which Effie, technically the Earl of Stonely, lived.

“Oh, look, he’s not outside waiting for us,” Simon said with a smirk. Simon and Archie always needled each other about the Effie wager. It was part of how Simon knew their annual holiday had truly begun. “We’d better go up.”

“Good morning,” Effie said as he opened the door for them. Unfortunately for Simon, he was wearing a coat and hat. “Give me two minutes.”

“Yes, but only two,” Archie said.

“You’re not even going to invite us in?” Simon asked. “What if we want to greet your wife?” He emphasized the two syllables as part of an ongoing jest. Effie and his wife, the magazine editor Julianna, had been married only eight months, and Effie had spent the earliest days and weeks of their marriage seizing every opportunity to utter the phrase my wife and its variations such as my lady, my bride, and even, once, until Julianna swatted his arm and told him to stop being so melodramatic, my helpmeet.

“I know what you’re doing, Simon,” Effie said. “You’ve made your usual wager, and you’re trying to make me dally. But how can I deny you the opportunity to greet my wife?”

He swung open the door and called, “Jules!”

She came from the far room, wiping inky hands on an apron. “Good morning to you, my lords.”

“How goes the magazine business?” Simon asked, and because they didn’t stand on ceremony with Julianna, though she sometimes still did with them—witness the my-lord–ing—added, “Have you any tea? Or perhaps something stronger?”

“We’ve port in the coach,” Archie said.

“Yes,” Simon said, “but a cup of tea here first would be the perfect aperitif.”

“Is this all your luggage?” Archie bent to pick up a small trunk just inside the doorway.

“It is, and I am fully packed,” Effie said. “You shall simply have to concede, Simon. I am a new man.”

Effie aimed one of his fond smiles at them, and Simon could feel his own lips curling upward. Effie was a changed man in some ways. His external circumstances had been altered dramatically. He’d effectively if not legally given up his earldom, shaking off the scandal that had ensued and leaving estate matters to his half brother in favor of making it in business with his wife. They published a magazine called A Lady’s Life, chapbooks of Effie’s poetry, and undertook printing jobs for others on the press they owned. The contraption was named Cordelia, and Simon sometimes thought Effie loved it as much as any child.