Candice Hern (2 page)
Authors: Once a Scoundrel
“Yes, ma’am.”
Just as Robbie left the room, Edwina’s brother, Nicholas, entered. He settled into a chair across the desk from her and crossed one leg languidly over the other. It was their father’s house, but he never came to town and had no objection to his daughter taking over the library for her magazine. Nicholas had never complained, either, though he would probably have liked to have the room for himself. He eyed the handwritten pages organized into neat piles in front of her. “Another issue put to bed, eh?”
“But for the final printing.” Edwina collected the pages into a single stack and covered it with a blank sheet. She dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write the date on the cover page. “Your article on Matilda of Tuscany is brilliant, by the way.”
Nicholas smiled, bowed his head, and gave a little flourish with his hand. “Augusta Historica, al
ways at your service. Did you manage to squeeze in your review of the new edition of
Essays on Practical Education
?”
“I did indeed.” Edwina tied the manuscript pages together with a ribbon, and reached behind her to place the packet on top of a shelf filled with similar bundles, one for each month she’d edited the magazine. She leaned back against the chair and allowed herself a brief moment of pride that she’d steered another issue to completion. Once the printing was done, there was still the business of coloring, binding, and distributing, but she had others to rely on for those aspects of production. Edwina’s main concern was the content, and she took pains to include high-quality essays, poetry, reviews, and short fiction. She wrote many of the book reviews herself, under the pen name Arbiter Literaria.
“The Edgeworths should be pleased with your review,” Nicholas said. “Especially after the venom spewed by the
Monthly Mirror
.”
Edwina stretched her legs beneath the desk. “I pray that for once in his life, Uncle Victor does not happen to pick up a copy of the
Cabinet
. Though I did not, of course, refer to the article in the
Mirror
, anyone who’s read it will understand that mine is an attack on their review.”
“Uncle Victor is too busy with the
Mirror
and all his other publications to give you or the
Cabinet
a
second thought.” Nicholas gave a wicked little chuckle. “The poor man has no idea what you’ve done to his mother’s little magazine.”
And it must stay that way. “So long as he sees a decent profit, he will keep his nose out of it.”
“Speaking of profits, shall we take a look at the books tonight? I’d like to see if we can afford another pamphlet for Thurgood. His by-election is less than two months away.”
“I think we can manage it. Pru brought in two new advertisers this week.”
His brows lifted with interest. “Did she, by God? A good girl, Pru. Are they logged in the ledgers yet?”
“No.”
“Good. Let’s first see if there’s a way to skim off some of the income for a new pamphlet.”
There was always some cause or other needing their help, but they had little money of their own to spend. Their father was a bit of a scatterbrain where financial matters were concerned, and they could rely on him for nothing more than the town house. It was a shame there was not more, because Nicholas had plans—such magnificent, idealistic plans—but they required money. He made a little by writing articles for various journals, but not much. He’d taken almost everything he had and put it into a couple of speculative investments that he hoped would bring him a welcome windfall. But
he never spoke of them, and Edwina suspected he’d lost a great deal. She knew their circumstances pained him much more than they did her.
The magazine was profitable, but those profits went directly to Uncle Victor. He provided Edwina a small salary as editor, and also allowed her to manage the books and to incur any minor expenditures she thought fit. Any major expense, though, such as hiring artists and engravers, had to be approved.
Since she kept the books, however, she could generally insure that Uncle Victor was aware of only those profits she was willing to document—so long as he didn’t actually happen to pick up a copy of the
Cabinet
and notice an advertiser or two not logged in the ledgers. He had never yet questioned anything in regard to her running of the business, but Edwina never let down her guard.
“Is the pamphlet ready?” she asked.
“Not quite. I’m still working on it. The language needs some toning down.” Nicholas gave her a sheepish grin. “You know how I am. I tend to get too passionate about these things, and that often serves to drive people away.”
“Perhaps you ought to have Simon take a look. He has a way with words.”
“Yes, and he’s pouring them all into Eleanor’s ears at the moment. He’s too besotted to think clearly. Besides, he’s still up at Tandy Hill basking
in his newly wedded bliss. It would take too long to get something to him and back again.”
“Well, I will take a look at it, then. You could probably use a feminine perspective. It might be a good thing to appeal to a female audience. Educate the women on the issues and they will in turn influence their men.”
Nicholas reached across the desk and touched her hand. “I know the
Cabinet
is not the lofty public forum you had once hoped to achieve.”
“It is enough, Nickie. I am content.” It was true that she had once aspired to greater things. She had wanted to write grand philosophical works filled with new and radical ideas. But time—and loss—had softened her attitude and moderated her objectives. She no longer dreamed of great works, but only hoped to make a small difference.
“It is a challenge, after all,” she said, “to maintain the innocent face of the
Cabinet
. So long as it appears to be the usual trivial feminine publication with fashion plates and sentimental poetry, no one will expect otherwise. I’d be willing to bet most readers do not suspect the true intent underlying some of its messages. Uncle Victor will suspect nothing, either, and will continue to leave us alone. We would not like him looking too closely at the account books, would we?”
A soft scratching at the door preceded the entry of Prudence Armitage, long a friend to both Par
rishes, and Edwina’s indispensable assistant editor. Her reddish-blonde hair was coming out of its pins, as usual, and her spectacles had been pushed to the top of her head.
“A letter has just arrived by special messenger,” she said. A look of concern clouded her eyes as she approached the desk. “It is from Victor Croyden.”
Edwina shot a quick glance at her brother, then took the folded parchment from Prudence. It was a bit unnerving to hear from Uncle Victor just when they had been speaking of him—an odd sensation, as though their conversation had been overheard. “Whatever can he want?” She could think of nothing that might have prompted this unexpected communication.
Edwina had a bad feeling about this. Had he finally discovered what she’d been up to?
She broke the seal and read. Her uncle’s handwriting was cursive to a fault and difficult to decipher. But one thing was perfectly clear.
“Good God.” She fell back against the chair, feeling as though she’d been punched in the stomach. “I can’t believe it.”
Nicholas bolted from his seat and came to her side. “What is it, Ed? Bad news?”
Ignoring her brother, Edwina considered what she’d read. A stab of anger, sharp and bright as a new blade, tore at her gut. “How
could
he? And without even a word to me.” She jerked to her feet
and began to pace the small, uncluttered area behind the desk. “I don’t care if he is my uncle by marriage, it is a beastly thing to have done.”
“What?” Nicholas asked. “What has he done?”
“All these years, all my hard work—it means nothing to him. You would think he’d at least consult me, as editor. Or, God forbid, offer it to me first. But, no. Oh, this is monstrous. Monstrous!”
“Ed, what are you talking about?”
“And now what am I supposed to do?” Edwina said. She continued to pace in agitated fury. Three steps, turn around, three steps, turn around. “Am I to politely stand aside? To pretend it doesn’t matter? To remain silent like a good little niece and do as I’m told? All because I’m a mere woman who cannot possibly have a head for business? Bah!”
“Edwina,” Prudence said, “please tell us what has happened.”
Edwina wadded the parchment into a tiny ball and flung it hard across the room. “It’s all ruined, that’s what. Everything we’ve worked for is in jeopardy. Hell and damnation.”
Nicholas leaned on the desk. “For God’s sake, Ed, if you don’t tell us what the devil has happened, I am going to come over there and shake it out of you.”
She stopped pacing and looked up into the anxious faces of Prudence and Nicholas. “He’s sold the
Cabinet
. We have a new owner.”
T
ony glanced again at the note in his hand, thankful that at least the numbers were clear. If he had not vaguely recollected Croyden mentioning his niece lived in Golden Square, he never would have been able to figure it out from the chicken scratch that passed for penmanship.
He dismounted and tossed the reins to his tiger, who would keep the team happy by trotting them around the square while Tony made brief work of this little matter of business. It was a modest town house in a modest square, on the fringes of more fashionable neighborhoods. It seemed an appropriate setting for a spinster involved in an occupation barely on the fringes of respectability.
He checked Croyden’s note once again. Blast the
man’s handwriting, he could not be entirely sure of the niece’s name. If he’d been told last night, he couldn’t recall it. But then he’d been so thoroughly foxed, there might be a great deal he did not recall. It looked like “Paris” or perhaps “Partrige.” Tony pulled out the copy of the magazine he’d purchased that morning: T
HE
L
ADIES
’ F
ASHIONABLE
C
ABINET: WHEREIN IS PRESENTED A POLITE COMPENDIUM OF INTELLIGENCE AND AMUSEMENT WITH A VIEW TO THE EDIFICATION AND ENTERTAINMENT OF THE
F
AIR
S
EX
. At the bottom of the blue paper cover it said: P
RINTED FOR
V. C
ROYDEN
, P
ATERNOSTER
R
OW
.” There was no mention of an editor’s name, as far as he could tell. The authors of most of the articles used obvious pseudonyms.
It was not ideal to call upon a lady whose name one did not know for certain, but he’d been in stranger situations and would persevere. He grabbed the knocker.
Some minutes later, the door was opened by a young woman with flyaway reddish-blonde hair, spectacles, and a suspicious eye. Not your typical parlor maid.
“My name is Morehouse. I am here to see Miss Paris.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect “O.” She stared at him for a moment before speaking. “You must be the new owner of the
Cabinet
.”
So, the household already knew what had hap
pened. Croyden had certainly lost no time in trumpeting the news. “Yes, I am.”
“You’d better come in, then. We’ve been expecting you.” The young woman turned and gestured that he should follow her into the hall. “And her name’s Parrish, by the way, not Paris,” she called over her shoulder.
Tony began to think she must not be a housemaid after all, but one of the magazine’s spinsters. A handmaiden escorting him to an audience with the Queen Spinster. Lord, but he could not wait to be done with this.
The narrow hallway led past a dining room on the left and a stairway on the right. The woman entered an open doorway near the end of the hall. Tony followed her and found himself in a library or study crowded with worktables upon which papers and books were scattered about, though not in any sort of disarray. It was a busy room where work was obviously done, but there was a certain kind of orderliness about it.
Behind a large desk to the right of the door sat a woman bent over a page of cramped writing. She raised her head at their entrance, and Tony’s breath caught in his throat as he found himself looking at one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
She had black hair, very pale, clear skin, and perfectly arched dark brows over eyes almost as black as her hair. Her full lips were claret-dark against the fair complexion. Her coloring was so dramatic she
had the look of being painted, like an actress in stage makeup. But as he stepped closer, he could see the coloring was perfectly natural. And perfectly breathtaking.
This was the Queen Spinster?
“Edwina, this is Mr. Morehead, the new owner of the
Cabinet
.”
The Queen stood and offered her hand. “I am Miss Parrish, the editor.” She stared at him curiously, and it was all he could do to step forward and take her hand. He was drowning in those dark eyes. “And you have already met my assistant editor, Miss Armitage.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Parrish, and Miss Armitage,” he managed at last. And all at once he realized what he’d said and wrenched himself from the enchantment of her eyes. “Parrish? Your name is Parrish?”
“Yes.”
He dropped her hand as though scorched. “Edwina Parrish?”
“Yes.”
He stood back and studied her. He could see it now. How could he have missed that stubborn tilt of the chin, the determined set of her shoulders? “Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t the nemesis of my boyhood, all grown up and come back to plague me again.”
Her elegant brows lifted in surprise, then she smiled. It was a lovely, slow-breaking smile that lit
up her face, and almost stopped his heart. Lord, she was glorious. How had such a beauty managed to remain a “Miss” all these years? He knew she must be almost thirty.
“I thought there was something familiar about you,” she said. “Anthony Morehouse? Dear heavens, is it really you?” She gave a soft chuckle and gestured that he should take a chair. “Morehouse, not Morehead. I never
could
read Uncle Victor’s handwriting. My goodness, but it has been a long time. I’m surprised you remember me. It’s been almost twenty years.”
It suddenly seemed like yesterday to Tony. For many summers during his youth, a neighbor of his father’s estate in Suffolk entertained visits from his granddaughter. Tony had spent many an afternoon romping and playing about the countryside with the headstrong girl. He hadn’t seen her since her last visit, when he was thirteen, shortly before her grandfather died and the estate was sold.
She’d been two years his junior, but a more outspoken, unconventional, annoyingly clever child he’d never met. She had not been like other young girls, prim and prissy and meek, but seemed to have no sense of propriety whatsoever. She spoke her mind and did as she pleased. His father had said it was because her mother was an artist. A woman who publicly displayed her paintings of half-naked classical figures could have no notion of how real ladies behaved. The young Edwina—he’d called
her “Eddie”—had no notion that girls were not supposed to do certain things, to excel at masculine activities, to display an unfashionable degree of learning. She took great pride in demonstrating her superiority in every endeavor, and he had hated her for it. More accurately, he had hated himself for appearing less than perfect in her eyes. A fellow wanted to show to his best advantage in front of any girl, even one as irksome as Eddie Parrish.
“How could I forget the girl who made me feel like the village idiot?”
“I did no such thing.” The twinkle in her eyes said otherwise.
“Allow me to disagree. You challenged me at every turn. Always setting some wager on me.”
“And winning, as I recall.” She turned to her assistant, who stood scowling in the doorway. “We knew each other as children, Pru. We used to have footraces and such, and it seems that after all these years Mr. Morehouse is still grousing about losing a few.”
“Do you still have the Minerva?” He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but after almost twenty years it still galled. In that last summer she’d been in Suffolk, he’d stupidly challenged her to a makeshift steeplechase—one he’d set up himself and had practiced enough times to insure his victory. When she had asked that the stakes be the tiny Roman head of Minerva, made of gilt bronze, that
had been unearthed on his father’s estate, he’d agreed without a thought. He had been so certain he’d win.
“Good heavens,” she said, “you remember that?”
“How could I forget? My bottom was sore for weeks after my father found out I’d lost his most prized possession. He never forgave me.” It had been but the first in a string of reckless acts that had kept him continually in his father’s black books.
“Oh dear.” She attempted a contrite face, but her eyes told him how amused she was that she’d caused him such trouble. “You never told me that. I thought it was yours, that you’d found it.”
“Well, it wasn’t and I didn’t.” But she was right. He had bragged that he’d been the one to find it. He was tired of being bested by her, and he had grasped at anything to appear superior. She
would
remind him of that folly. “Do you still have it?”
“I do, actually. I’m quite fond of it.” She turned to Miss Armitage. “You remember the little Roman head, Pru?”
Miss Armitage’s fair brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “The one you keep on the writing desk next to your bed?” She sucked in a sharp breath and blushed scarlet, a spinsterish blush at the indelicate mention of something so intimate as a bed. Her eyes darted nervously about the room. “It is unlikely I could forget it, is it not?”
Tony arched an interested brow.
“Unlikely indeed,” Edwina said. She turned back to him and smiled. “It was the best thing I ever won from you.”
“Hmph. You were long-legged and I was a late bloomer.” So was she, apparently. How had that annoying, troublesome little girl grown into such a beauty? “It was stupid of me to accept all your challenges, knowing you would win. I’d beat you now, though.” Lord, what a childish thing to say. What was wrong with him?
“I have no doubt of it. In fact, you have already done so.” The amusement faded from her eyes. “You own the
Cabinet
, which by rights should be mine. I do all the work. I’m the one who’s made it a success. I can’t imagine why Uncle Victor sold it to you without ever bothering to ask if I might be interested.”
“He didn’t sell it to me.”
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon? I thought you owned it.”
“I do. But I didn’t buy it. I won it.”
“You what?”
“I won it in a card game. Thought it was a piece of furniture, but won it fair and square. I own it now.”
“Damnation!” Her fist came down hard on the desk, causing the writing set to wobble and dance precariously toward the edge. “He lost it in a card
game? How unutterably stupid. And so now I must work for you because you had the luckier hand? Oh, this is monstrous.”
So, she was as hardheaded as ever. And as outspoken. A wicked little burst of glee swelled in his chest, and his original plan was discarded. He had a new plan, though. One that would pay her back for all those hopeless wagers of his boyhood, and still provide ample opportunity to keep this stunning beauty under his watchful eye for a time. It was devious. It was delicious. And he could hardly wait to put it into action.
“Well, well, well. It has taken almost twenty years, but I do believe I have bested you at last. I feel somewhat compensated, finally, for the Minerva.”
Edwina wanted to fling herself across the desk and slap his face. How dare he be so pleased. He was not at all like the boy she once knew, who’d been so full of pride and determination, the one she’d tried so hard to impress. The years had turned pride into arrogance. But any man who looked as he now did probably came by arrogance naturally. No longer the skinny, freckle-faced boy, Anthony Morehouse had grown taller and broader, and sat there in his perfectly tailored clothes and roguish good looks like a golden god, a Mars to match the Minerva.
“It’s not at all the same,” she said, “and not at all
fair. You don’t want the
Cabinet
. You probably know nothing about the publishing business. You simply want the profits.”
“It is a profitable business, I am told. Of course I want the profits.”
“But it’s not fair.” She paused, and tried to compose herself, to curb her petulant tone. “I should be the owner, but Uncle Victor would never have offered it to me because I am a woman. He does not believe a woman should own a business, though he seems to have had no objection to having a woman manage it successfully, putting more profit into his pockets. And now I am to put them into another man’s pockets. Damn all of you!”
“Do not be so quick to damn me before you’ve heard what I have to say. I may have a proposition for you.”
She did not trust the look in those silvery gray eyes. “You would sell the
Cabinet
to me?”
“Oh, that would be too easy. Considering our history, I believe a challenge of some kind is in order.”
“What sort of challenge?”
“One in which the ownership of the magazine is at stake.”
“Good God. I am to risk the magazine on a wager?” She ought to have guessed it would come to this.
“Just so. But I need to know a bit more about
this operation before I set the challenge. Perhaps you will allow me to review the account books.”
A tiny spark of apprehension flickered in her breast. “Why?”
“I might want to set a percentage of profit increase as the goal.”
“No. That is not a fair goal.” She hoped her quick response had not piqued his curiosity. She must keep him away from the books for now, until she and Nicholas and Prudence had time to make the appropriate adjustments. “Profits depend on subscriptions,” she continued. “Expenditures must be made to entice subscriptions, and profits will be down at first. You cannot expect an increase in the short run. I could never accept a wager based on profits.”
“How about subscriptions, then? How many subscribers do you currently have?”
“Almost two thousand.” She was proud of that number. It represented double the number of subscribers on the books when Edwina had taken up the editorial reins almost five years ago.
“Suppose I challenged you to substantially increase subscriptions,” Tony said. “Would you consider that fair?”
Edwina pondered the idea for a moment. There were things she knew they could do to increase subscriptions. She and Prudence had often discussed the possibilities lately, and the new advertisers were
a first move in that direction. She glanced across the room to where Prudence still stood, leaning against the doorframe. Edwina raised her brows in question, and Prudence nodded.
She returned her gaze to Tony. “Yes, I believe that would be fair.”
“Good. Then I shall wager you the ownership of the magazine that you cannot triple the subscription numbers in three months.”
“What?” The man was crazy. Edwina placed both forearms flat on the desk and leaned forward. “Triple? Are you mad? It is impossible.”