Candice Hern (16 page)

“Only paintin’ wot that Raisbeck feller already drawed,” Polly said. She had limp blonde hair, pale rheumy eyes, and a stick-thin body that looked as if it had not seen a healthy day in many years. She was likely much younger than she looked. “Such pretty faces. It be a true pleasure to paint ’em. An’ to git paid, too. Almost don’t seem right.”

“Don’t be daft, girl,” Madge said. “O’ course it’s right.”

“Indeed it is,” Edwina said. “You’re providing a special skill, Polly, a valuable skill. It’s a real art to be able to blend the flesh tones just right, to add a blush to the cheek without it looking harsh. Your sweet faces will set these prints apart from those of
any other publication. Of course you should be paid.”

“They are indeed beautiful,” Tony said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Polly.”

The girl tittered behind her hand and looked away.

“This is Bess,” Edwina said, indicating the woman seated beside Polly, a blowsy pink-cheeked redhead as round as Polly was thin. She smiled and revealed deep dimples and a missing front tooth.

“How d’ye do, sweet cakes?” There was a touch of Irish in her voice.

“Good afternoon, Bess.”

“And this is Marguerite.” Dark ringlets arranged in a youthful style framed a face that had grown coarse and hard. But there was a twinkle in her brown eyes.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Tony said.

“Me muvver were French.” She thrust her bosom high and fluffed her ringlets so they bounced about her cheeks.

“Har!” Ginny exclaimed. “The closest ’er ma ever got to France was when she were ’it in the ’ead wiv a empty brandy bottle tossed out of an ’ackney by some flash cove.”

The women cackled with laughter.

“’Er name’s Daisy,” Madge said with a wicked grin. “Tries ter make it soun’ fancy, like. Mar–gur–reet. Just a Frenchified way o’ sayin’ Daisy.”

“I can call meself whatsoever I bloody-well please, and I like Marguerite, thank you very much.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Marguerite,” Tony said.

Marguerite nudged Bess in the ribs and said, “See? This one be a proper gent.”

“And finally,” Edwina said, still smiling, “this is Sadie.”

She had a long, plain face with a prominent beaky nose, and dirty blonde hair piled high on her head. Her thin chest was wrapped in a muslin fichu that had once been white but was now gray and stained.

“How do you do, Sadie?”

“A lot better fer ’avin’ a look at yer phiz, pretty boy.”

“You are each doing a wonderful job,” Edwina said. “Madge, come to me when you’re all ready to quit for the day and I will pay you before you leave. Now, we will let you ladies get back to your work.”

Edwina left the room and Tony followed. When he reached the door, he turned and gave a smile and a wink to the group in general. Shrieks of laughter and a string of bawdy suggestions rang out behind him as he made his way down the hall and into Edwina’s study.

He closed the door behind him, leaned against it, and began to laugh. Edwina’s laughter joined his as she sank into the chair behind her desk.

“That was cruel,” he said at last. He walked to
the desk and hitched one hip onto its edge. “Like throwing a lamb to the wolves. I feared for my life in there.”

She grinned. “You handled it very well. Like a true gentleman. You treated them like ladies, which they are unlikely to forget.”

“You are a courageous woman to bring that lot into your home. You’d better keep an eye on the Crimson Ladies. And count the silver before they leave.”

“Nonsense. They may be vulgar and illiterate—what an idiot I am for not realizing they could not read the descriptions—but they are not thieves. I only hope I can give them enough work so they will not have to work the streets. Or at least not so often. Oh, but what am I going to do about those prints? Flora will have an apoplexy when she sees they don’t match her descriptions in the least.”

“Bringing in those doxies was her idea, so she will have to live with it.”

“I will tell you something,” Edwina said, “that will no doubt demonstrate my complete ignorance of such things. Something I am certainly foolish to admit to a man of fashion like yourself. But I rather liked the way they colored the prints. Go ahead, laugh. But I prefer bright colors. I always have. I wish they were more popular.”

“I have a feeling they will be, once this issue is distributed.”

Two weeks later, a remarkable number of fashionable ladies were seen about town wearing bold shades of orange and green and purple in combinations never before attempted. And shoemakers had difficulty keeping up with an unusual number of requests for red-striped slippers.

“H
ullo, Withers. I believe m’mother is expecting me.”

“She is, Mr. Anthony. She will be pleased to see you, sir.”

Tony handed his hat and walking stick to the butler, peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the hat. Withers handed it all over to a hovering footman Tony did not recognize, and led the way upstairs to his mother’s sitting room.

He did not visit as often as he should, and this time he’d been summoned. His mother’s note had not said what she wanted, but only that he should call upon her at this time.

He found her elegantly arranged upon a chaise with a mountain of lace pillows at her back and a
book propped open on her lap. Two or three India muslin shawls were draped about her shoulders, and a fetching lace cap was perched upon her blonde curls and tied beneath her chin.

“Anthony! My dear boy. You have come at last.”

She held out a hand to him, and he took it and kissed it, then bent and kissed her cheek as well.

“You’re looking very pretty this morning, Mother.”

“And you are turned out as fine as fivepence, as always. I am so glad you do not powder that lovely golden hair.”

“No one powders anymore, Mother.”

“Not among your generation, perhaps. Mine can’t seem to get both feet over into the new century.”

“You still have beautiful hair. You have no need of powder.”

“One of the blessings of being fair, as you will learn for yourself one day, is that silver strands are less noticeable among the gold. But your father would not approve if I went out without powder in the evenings.”

“He doesn’t approve of anything I do, so I shall not concern myself over his objection to my un-powdered head.” He ran his hands through his hair with casual indifference. “Your note was a bit vague, but I got the impression you had a specific purpose in wanting to see me.”

“Yes, I do. Sit down, my boy.”

He pulled up a chair and sank into it with languid ease. “What is it, Mother? Have I done something to put me in Father’s black books again? Surely he’s not upset about those turkeys in Green Park. It was a harmless wager, I assure you.”

“This has nothing to do with your father, my dear, and I’m not even going to ask about turkeys in Green Park.”

She sent him a gentle look of reproof that made him feel like a naughty schoolboy. Tony gave an insolent shrug and flashed a grin he knew his mother could not resist. He had almost always been able to charm her into taking his side whenever his father rang a peal over him.

She smiled. “Incorrigible boy. No, no, it is something else entirely. The most curious thing, actually.” She shifted upon the pillows and sat up a bit straighter. “I was having tea with Mrs. Balcombe-Shinn yesterday. I detest the woman, you know, but I owed her an invitation and thought to get it out of the way. Anyway, she was wearing the most garish sash of bright orange, with matching orange and yellow ribbons on her hat. And she was going on and on about some magazine and its new fashion plates that had inspired her to brighten her wardrobe.”

Oh, God.

“She finally pulled a copy out of her ridiculously large reticule and showed me.
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
. I had seen it before, of course. It’s
been around for years. But Mrs. Balcombe-Shinn was exclaiming about recent changes, new fashion reports, and what not, so I flipped through it just to be polite. Before I handed it back to her, something on the cover happened to catch my eye. You will not credit it, my dear. At the bottom, in tiny print, it said ‘Printed for A. Morehouse, Charles Street.’ Well, you can imagine my surprise.”

“Indeed.”

She frowned. “At first I thought it must be some other A. Morehouse, but I am familiar with most of your father’s family and could come up with no other possibility.” She cocked her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully. “It is you, is it not, my boy?”

“It is.”

Her blue eyes widened slightly. “You are the proprietor of a ladies’ magazine?”

“I am.”

“But…but how?”

“I won it in a card game.”

She stared at him for a moment, unblinking, and then quite astonished him by bursting into laughter. “Oh, my dear boy,” she said at last, “you are a hopeless knave but always so thoroughly entertaining. How do you do it? Wait until your father hears about this.”

“I would prefer he did not hear about it just yet, Mother.”

“Why ever not?”

“He will only think it frivolous, a waste of time and money. Just one more mark against me.”

“You cannot avoid it forever, love. He is bound to find out sooner or later.”

“I’d prefer it to be later. Give me a little more time.”

“Why? What is liable to happen to change things?”

“I am hoping to make it into a success.” The words were out almost before he realized what he was saying.

He wasn’t sure when the idea had begun to form in his mind. Perhaps it was that first time he’d seen his name on the cover listed as publisher. There had been a rush of pride when he saw it, to have his name associated with a successful business venture. He’d had many business successes over the years, of course, but as an investor or silent partner. This one actually had his name on it.

At least for now.

He found himself taking a more serious interest in the
Cabinet
and all that Edwina hoped to accomplish. He wanted it to be successful, whether he won the wager or not. Even if he lost, which he was making every effort to do, he planned to offer himself as an investor, infusing more capital to make the publication all that Edwina wanted. Perhaps she might even agree to having his name on the cover with hers: “Printed for E. Parrish and A. Morehouse.”

For the first time in years, Tony was excited about something other than a high-stakes game or a risky investment scheme. Even if the
Cabinet
was a huge success, it would not make him rich. But it would make him proud.

What a novel experience that would be.

“I am so pleased to hear that,” his mother said. “It’s an odd venture, to be sure, but it is so nice to hear you take an interest in something other than cards for a change. Even a ladies’ magazine. I’m so proud of you, love. And I think your father would be, too.”

“I doubt it. But I’m glad you’re pleased.”

“Tell me everything, my boy. I want to hear how you have become a publisher.”

And so he told her everything. About Croyden. About Edwina. About their wager.

“I sent Millie out to buy a copy for me,” she said, “and I have to say I enjoyed it tremendously. The fashion report especially. It was great fun to try to guess whose dresses were being described, and those who were mentioned by name, or by suggestion, must be in high alt. What a clever idea that was. Oh, and the plates really were lovely, if a bit unusual. But I believe they’ve started quite a trend. Mrs. Balcombe-Shinn is not the only one I’ve seen in some of the new, bold colors. They are quite the rage.”

“I had noticed. Shall I tell you how they came
about? I’m afraid you might find it rather shocking.”

He told her about the Crimson Ladies, and she laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.

“I believe I shall pay a visit to Mrs. Twigge tomorrow and see about having a pelisse made up in one of the new colors.” She flashed him a teasing smile. “I would hate to appear out of step.”

“And don’t forget the red slippers.”

“With stripes. Duly noted.”

“Besides the fashion plates,” he said, “what did you think of the rest of the magazine?” Lady Octavia Morehouse was fairly typical of her class, the very sort Edwina should be seeking as subscribers. It might be useful to solicit her opinion.

“Well, let me think. The Busybody is entertaining. Are those letters genuine, by the way, or merely made up so she can pen the advice she wants?”

“I believe they are genuine. I haven’t yet met the Busybody, but will be sure to ask her when I do. What else?”

“The poetry was lovely, as I recall.”

“Not too sentimental?”

“My dear boy, a woman never tires of romantic poetry. You would do well to learn that if you are going to publish a magazine for ladies.”

“What about the essays and book reviews and such?”

She shrugged her slim shoulders. “A bit on the
dry side for me, but you know I was never a scholar like you or your father. I’m afraid my tastes run rather shallow. Amusing, lighthearted entertainment suits me best.”

“What about the fiction? You’ve always been an avid reader of novels.” He indicated the book in her lap. “What do you think of the serialized stories in the
Cabinet
?”

“I adore a good serial. The more romantic and sentimental the better. I must confess that I have a weakness for the stories in the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
. I always turn into a watering pot before they end.”

“So you like their stories better?”

“Yours did not make me cry. I do enjoy a good cry.”

“Well then, I shall just see what I can do to make them sadder for you. And now, I’m afraid I really must toddle off.” He rose and shook out his coattails.

“So soon? But I haven’t seen you in such an age. And there is so much else to catch up on.” She waved him back to his chair.

“Is there? What have you been up to, then?”

“Nothing at all. It’s deadly dull in town this time of year. But your father refuses to leave while Parliament is still in session, and it looks like it will never end this year. Something about a budget not yet passed and something about the war with France. I am not certain of the details, of course. I
never pay much attention to such things. But so long as your uncle Cedric retains his seat, your father will be there beside him, whispering advice in his ear.”

“Father should simply find a burrough and take his own seat.”

“I wish he would do so. For some reason, though, he seems to prefer working quietly behind the scenes, helping Cedric build coalitions or whatever it is they do. Anyway, I suspect we will not see Handsley before Christmas.”

“Really?”

Something important must be brewing. Tony had heard rumors of peace negotiations with Bonaparte but discounted them as wishful thinking on the part of a war-weary people. Addington had been preaching peace since he came into office and established his administration as a clear breach with the war ministry of Pitt. Tony had no particular faith in the man. He appeared colorless and mediocre compared to Pitt. But perhaps he had done as he’d claimed and found a way to negotiate a peace.

“But enough of that,” his mother said. “Tell me about this Miss Parrish of yours.”

“Edwina?”

His use of her Christian name brought a smile to his mother’s lips. “Yes, tell me about Edwina. I vaguely remember her as a coltish young girl coming to visit her grandfather. What is she like now?”

Tony shrugged. “Bright. Quick-witted. Capable. Fiercely independent. Beautiful.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly. “You’re in love with her.”

“Mother, you are such a romantic. I use a handful of words to describe a woman and somehow you deduce I am in love with her.”

“It is not what you say about her. It is how you look when you say it.”

Tony shook his head and said nothing. He didn’t know how he looked when he spoke of Edwina. But he knew how he felt, and he was beginning to think his mother was right.

“Is she in love with you?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. I’ve wagered her for ownership of the magazine, you see.”

“Oh, Anthony.” Her eyes softened and she reached out a hand to him. “My dear boy, you may be risking too much this time. You could be in danger of losing more than you bargained for.”

“Sometimes you have to risk it all, Mother, if the stakes are worth it.”

“I think you should read this.”

Edwina stared in anxious consternation at the latest copy of the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
Anthony had just tossed on her desk. “Why?”

“I have it on unimpeachable authority that their fiction is better than ours.”

Two trains of thought battled for prominence in
her brain: her total contempt for the
Museum
and its editors, and the fact the Anthony had taken to referring to the
Cabinet
as “ours.”

“What authority?”

“My mother.”

She couldn’t suppress a smile. “Your mother is an authority on fiction?”

“So long as it is sentimental, romantic, and even a little gothic, there is no better authority. She is a voracious reader of novels, you see.”

“And she prefers the fiction of the
Museum
?”

“Says it makes her cry.”

“Well, of course it does.” Her smile had dissolved into a frown of pure disgust. “Every single story in the
Museum
ends tragically, with death or madness or ruin or hopelessness. I get so angry when I think of how they manipulate their readers with sentiment and melodrama. It’s what we’ve been fighting against for over four years now.”

“Fighting?”

Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to say all that.

“What are we fighting, Edwina?”

We
. How long ago had she given up all hopes that he would stay out of the business? And at what point had she decided she no longer cared that he did not?

She studied him for a long moment. Could she trust him, this reckless, impulsive, seductive man? He was also honorable, generous, and honest, yet she had been none of those things to him. Perhaps it
was time to change that. It was time to trust him. A little.

“Perhaps you had better sit down,” she said.

He gave her a wary look, but moved from his favorite perch on the edge of her desk and sat in the armchair opposite. His gray eyes regarded her frankly. “I’m listening.”

“You know enough of my opinions on political and social issues not to be surprised at what I’m about to say.”

He nodded for her to continue.

She held up the loathsome magazine. “Do you see what it says here on the cover? ‘The Lady’s Monthly Museum; or Polite Repository of Amusement and Instruction being an assemblage of whatever can tend to please the fancy, interest the mind, or exalt the character of The British Fair, by a Society of Ladies.’