Candice Hern (4 page)

“What?”

“Some of the fiction is good and the biographical sketches are interesting, but the poetry is uneven at best and the Busybody column is overly sentimental, though I suspect they reflect the tastes of the female reader. But the literary and dramatic reviews don’t seem the sort to appeal to the female mind. Histories and letters and philosophy. Dull stuff, indeed, guaranteed to put your readers to sleep.”

“Are you deliberately baiting me, sir?”

His eyes widened in feigned astonishment. “How so?”

“If you are going to insult the
Cabinet
’s readership and the general female population as a whole, you may see your way to the door. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“My, aren’t we prickly this morning?”

“The editorial content is my responsibility. It is no business of yours.”

“You keep forgetting, Edwina, that it
is
my business. Quite literally.”

She gave an ill-tempered little snort. “It is unlikely I should forget such a thing. I hardly need you coming around to remind me.”

“Good. Then indulge me and explain a bit about the content. I have been perusing the latest issue of
The Lady’s Magazine
, which I assume is your chief competition.”

“One of them. What about it?”

“You must, of course, forgive my ignorance in such matters, but as an objective observer it appears to me that
The Lady’s Magazine
knows its audience well and aims all content to please the female reader. The latest fashion news, for example.”

Edwina rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “We have a fashion print in each issue.”

“Yes, but only a line or two describing it. Who writes it, by the way?”

“Miss Armitage.”

“Ah. I ought to have guessed. Terribly à la mode, that one. But only see what your competition is doing.”

He placed a copy of
The Lady’s Magazine
on the desk and flipped through it. When he found what he was looking for, he swung it around for Edwina to see, jabbing his finger at the page. “Here are four, almost five pages given to what various ladies wore on the King’s birthday. And another page on the latest Paris fashions. Now that is what I call appealing to a feminine sensibility. I have it on good
authority that ladies love to read about the latest fashions and who was seen wearing what.”

Edwina pushed the magazine away. “It’s nothing more than gossip, and I refuse to drag the
Cabinet
down to the level of scandal and innuendo found in other magazines.”

“An admirable goal, to be sure,” Anthony said, though his voice was tinged with a hint of sarcasm that set Edwina’s teeth on edge. “But reporting on fashion is gossip only in the very broadest sense. Don’t you think the average woman would enjoy reading about what the highest-born ladies in the land wore for the King’s birthday? To know that the Duchess of Devonshire wore—let me see—‘a petticoat of puce-colored crepe’ so that she can dash out and have something made up in the same color and feel she is as fashionable as the Duchess?”

Edwina studied the man seated across the desk. Definitely a gentleman of fashion. A man who no doubt could distinguish puce from brown, crepe from sarsnet. His own clothes were expensive, expertly cut, and the tiniest bit flashy. Typical of a gambler, she suspected. His deep blue double-breasted coat sported very large brass buttons and was fashionably high-waisted, showing several inches of boldly striped waistcoat below. Not one, but three watch fobs hung beneath the waistcoat.

She realized how horribly dowdy she must appear to him in her simple muslin dress.

“I prefer,” she said, “to leave that sort of reporting to
The Lady’s Magazine
. Or the
Gallery of Fashion
. Of course I realize that fashion and fashion plates draw readers. That is why I continue to include them. But to give more space to such frivolous matters means less space for more serious content.”

“The deadly dull literary reviews and essays?” He pulled a face. “My dear, you should take a closer look at the competition. There are no book reviews in
The Lady’s Magazine
. No lengthy essays on current events in France, only brief reporting of the news. Lord, it’s a wonder any ladies at all read the
Cabinet
. Take out the sentence or two on fashion, and perhaps the Busybody, and you practically have a gentlemen’s magazine.”

He’d gone too far this time. Now she was really getting angry. “Are you suggesting women can’t appreciate the same intellectual stimulation as men?”

He lifted both hands in a defensive gesture. “With that look in your eye, I’d never dare suggest such a thing. I only wonder how you can ever hope to win our little wager if you do not write to the audience you hope to gain.”

If he had set out deliberately to aggravate her, he’d done a good job of it. She held onto her temper with difficulty.

“I
will
win this wager,” she said, “and not by lowering my standards. Along with a modicum of entertainment, our objective has always been to ap
peal to the minds of the readers. To stimulate them to read important literary works, not to dash off to the nearest mercer for a length of puce-colored crepe. I happen to believe there is a large audience of women who are pleased to read rational prose.”

“I’ll wager most of them wouldn’t recognize rational prose if they saw it.”

“Oh? And what will you wager this time? You have already put my future on the line.”

He clucked his tongue but his eyes sparkled with merriment. “Pricklier and pricklier. But if you’d like to engage in another little wager, I have my betting book right here.” He patted his breast.

“Must everything be a game for you? How disappointing to discover the young boy I once knew and admired grew up to be nothing better than a common gamester.”

“But it is all your fault, Eddie.”

“My name is Edwina. But you may call me Miss Parrish.”

He pitched his voice low, with an undercurrent of sensuality. “Ah, but I fear you’ll always be Eddie to me.”

She looked into his eyes, beautiful eyes of silvery gray outlined in dark blue, and for a moment was lost in memories of her youth and other memories, of another pair of captivating blue eyes, full of promise, full of love.

She realized she was staring when his face broke into a slow, lazy grin. Damn. He’d rattled her again.
What was the matter with her? She gave herself a mental shake and called up the anger and frustration she’d been feeling only a moment before.

“And how,” she said, “is your being a gamester all my fault, I’d like to know?”

“Isn’t it obvious? My penchant for a good wager, a challenge of any kind, the thrill of the game began when we were children. When you continually claimed you could best me at something or other.” He laughed, but there was a hint of self-mockery in it. “How could I resist?”

“It wasn’t for the thrill of the game. You simply couldn’t bear to be bested by a mere girl. It was pure competitiveness and stubborn male pride.”

His expression softened. “No, it was just a boy trying to impress a pretty girl. And failing miserably.”

Oh, dear. Did he have to be so charming?

“Even so,” she said, “I hardly think I am to blame for your subsequent gambling. I saw your betting book. It is not an occasional thing with you, is it? It is your life.”

“I confess that I cannot resist the thrill of risk, the danger of potential failure. I thrive on the rush, the thundering pulse, the tingly flush of anticipation. I have indeed made a life of it. A successful one, I might add, so you need have no regrets for setting me upon this course.”

“But don’t you worry about losing? About financial ruin?”

He waved a hand in casual dismissal. “In the first place, I never bet it all. I’ve never yet faced a wager worth
everything
. And second, I never lose.”

“Never?”

He hunched a shoulder. “Almost never.”

“You’re that good a player, then?”

“No, I’m just astonishingly lucky.”

Edwina placed her forearms flat on the desk and leaned forward. “Not this time. You will
not
win our wager.”

“I will if you continue to waste so many pages on ponderous dissertations instead of lighthearted entertainment. You cannot expect to double the subscribers with your so-called rational prose.”

“Oh, you provoking man. You wouldn’t recognize rational prose if it reared up and bit you on the nose.”

“Yes, I would. Could probably write it as well.”

“Ha! Never.”

“Shall we wager on it?”

Edwina groaned. “Do you never take anything seriously? Must you twist everything into a wager?”

“What venture is worthwhile without some element of risk? I propose a wager, a tiny, insignificant wager in the cause of rational, publishable prose. You will assign me something to write, something that you think is appropriate to your enlightened audience. You may choose the topic. If what I write is deemed worthy, I win. As simple as that.”

“And I am to be the judge of its worthiness?”

“Hmm. You’d have to set aside your prejudices. That might be asking too much. Perhaps an impartial third party? One who is not told who is the author of the piece.”

“It must be someone who knows what is appropriate for the
Cabinet
. I suggest Miss Armitage, my assistant editor.”

“You think she can be objective?”

“There is no question of it.”

“And you promise not to divulge the essay’s authorship?”

She sighed in exasperation. “I promise.”

“So, you accept my challenge?”

“I suppose so. Here, read this.” She handed him the heavy book that was sitting on her desk. “I would like a review of it for the next issue. I will need it in three days.”

He opened to the title page and cocked a brow. “‘Memoirs Relative to Egypt written in that Country during the Campaign of General Bonaparte in the Years 1798 and 1799 by the Learned and Scientific Men Who Accompanied the French Expedition.’ Good Lord. Do you really expect that your readers will be interested in such a work?”

“Of course I do. Not only is it a study that should appeal to anyone interested in learning about other cultures, but anything related to ancient Egypt still holds fascination for the public in general. Even three years after Nelson’s victory.
You see, Mr. Morehouse, I am not totally ignorant of what the public wants.”

“So, I not only have to write something, but I must first read this tome? It is a formidable task.”

“You set the terms. Have you changed your mind?”

“No, indeed.” He closed the book and took it onto his lap. “The wager is on.”

“Splendid.”

If he won, she would have a review out of the way, and if he lost, she would have the satisfaction of telling him so. But what was in it for him?

“And what do you propose for the stakes?” she asked.

“Hmm. Let me think.” He lifted his gaze to the ceiling and made a great show of tapping his chin with his finger, as though he really were thinking it over, though Edwina suspected he’d had something specific in mind all along.

“Ah, I have it,” he said. “If I win, I get to see the Minerva.”

Edwina leaned back and studied him warily. This wasn’t what she had expected. “That’s all? You want to see the Minerva?”

“I don’t mean that you are to bring it downstairs for me to admire. I want to see it in its usual place. I want you to take me to view it where you normally keep it, where it sits right now.”

The devil. He remembered Prudence saying she kept it in her bedroom. And so what did he think?
That she would take him by the hand, lead him upstairs, and let him seduce her? Did he really believe it would be that easy?

The provocative glimmer in his eye suggested he did.

Let him live on that hope. Edwina had a plan.

“All right,” she said. “I agree. But let us make the terms and the stakes official by logging it in your little red book.” She held out her hand in hopes he would allow her to log the wager, in her own words.

“A woman after my own heart. Here.” He pulled out the betting book from his coat pocket. “You may do the honors.”

She wrote:

He read it, saw nothing amiss, and signed. Edwina sent up a silent prayer of thanks and tried not to smile too broadly as she added her own signature to the entry.

Anthony took the book and fingered its red leather. His gaze flickered to her mouth. Was he thinking to seal this new bargain with another kiss?

That would not be a good idea. Edwina rose
from her chair but kept the desk safely between them. “Three days, Mr. Morehouse. You have only three days to finish the book and pen a clearheaded, thoughtful, publishable review. I suggest you get to work.”

He had risen when she did, and still looked hopeful that she might move from behind the shield of the desk. She would not.

“With such a prize in store,” he said, “it will be no work at all, but only a pleasure. I shall return on Thursday ready to celebrate my victory.”

“Do not be so sure, Mr. Morehouse. I bid you good day.”

She smiled sweetly as he prepared to leave, biting back the gurgle of mirth that threatened to explode into full-throated laughter. He bowed and left the room. She waited until she heard the sound of the front door closing behind him before giving in to her amusement and bursting into laughter.

He might indeed win the wager. She had no reason to think him incapable of penning a decent essay. In fact she was perfectly prepared for him to do so. But it would be no victory.

Not for Anthony Morehouse, anyway.

T
ony sat back and smiled. He’d reread the pages he had penned for Edwina, and was excessively proud of himself. By Jove, it was good.

It had been years since he’d written anything serious. Since before he’d been sent down from Cambridge, in fact, when he still thought he might amount to something, when he was still passionate about learning, when he still hoped he might make his father proud with a first in Classics.

He had failed on all counts, of course, but had faced the world with an attitude of amused indifference as he went on with his life, seeking pleasure and risk at every opportunity. It was only in the occasional private moment when he allowed the weight of his failures to lie heavily upon his shoulders.

This was not one of those moments.

Tony felt quite puffed up with his own consequence, thoroughly cocky at having penned such an excellent essay. Even the dour Miss Armitage would have to agree. And when she did, the lovely Edwina would be forced to take him to her bedchamber. What a sweet moment that would be.

He had it all planned in his mind. Edwina would think he meant to seduce her, but he was never so obvious in such matters. He would not even touch her. He would speak softly and allow the intimacy of the bedchamber to infuse a hint of sensuality to their conversation, to provide a provocative suggestion of another sort of conversation altogether. He would make a slow survey of the room, running his hand along the edge of a dressing table or writing desk, perhaps picking up a personal item or two. A hairbrush. A quill feather. A scent bottle. His eyes would dart to the bed, then capture her gaze while his fingers caressed the Minerva. All the while he would speak only of the most proper and banal subjects.

He did not think it too presumptuous, or too arrogant, to believe he could well and truly befuddle Miss Edwina Parrish until she was unable to string three words together to make a sentence. He was very confident of his powers of seduction. Though it might not make his father proud to know it, seduction was the one area in which Tony truly excelled. And he had not misunderstood the look in
her eyes when they’d last met. That curiously captivated look when she let down her guard for an instant and forgot to be annoyed with him.

She was interested. And that meant she would be receptive when he turned the full force of his charm on her. Maneuvering her into the bedchamber was simply the first step in a well-planned campaign. Soon enough, he would know the truth about her. Was she truly a Modern Woman, or simply a frustrated spinster who happened to be incredibly beautiful?

Or, heaven help him, was she that other type of woman Ian had suggested? No, he refused to believe that. She had been
interested
.

Tony blew away residual sand from the essay pages and stacked them neatly together. Edwina would never know he had already read the
Memoirs
and formed an opinion well before she had thrust the book into his hands. He made it a point to read every new publication having to do with Greece or Rome or Egypt. Though he’d not been allowed to complete his career at Cambridge, he had never completely abandoned his love of the Classics, or the fascination for ancient art and cultures drummed into his head from an early age. Sir Frederick would no doubt laugh to know his troublesome younger son had, after all, paid attention.

He looked up at the sound of voices. A rapping on the door of his study soon followed. Brinkley,
the indispensable, unflappable gentleman who served as Tony’s butler, valet, and housekeeper, held open the door for the two young men who strode past him.

“Mr. Fordyce and Lord Skiffington, sir.” Brinkley discreetly scrutinized the second gentleman’s attire, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling before he stepped away and closed the door.

“Hullo, old chap.” Ian Fordyce removed his hat and plopped down into the most comfortable chair. “Missed you at White’s last night.”

Lord Jasper Skiffington remained standing. It looked as though sitting would be a somewhat difficult task in such a costume. He wore a waistcoat and jacket so short they reached only midway to his stomach, which meant his pantaloons had to be worn very high. In fact, it appeared Skiffy’s pantaloons reached all the way to his armpits, and would not have been out of place among the French
Incroyables
.

“Deep play last night, m’dear,” Skiffy said. “Very deep. Thought to have seen you there.”

“Perhaps he had a more
interesting
engagement last evening.” Ian wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Nothing very interesting, I’m afraid,” Tony said. “I had some rather dull business to take care of.”

He pushed aside the essay pages, casually sliding
them beneath the blotter, but was stopped by a well-manicured finger upon the pages.

“And what’s this?” Skiffy asked, and pulled the papers away from the blotter. “Something to hide, old chap? Not from your nearest and dearest, surely.”

He took hold of the handwritten pages, but Tony made a grab for them.

“Nothing that concerns you, my friend.” He took the pages, restacked them neatly, and placed them on the far side of the desk, away from Skiffy, and set a large paperweight on top of them.

Skiffy’s mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown. “It must be something frightfully personal, Morehouse, for you to be so rudely clandestine among friends. A missive to a certain lady, perhaps? A secret correspondence?”

“I’m afraid not, Skiffy. It’s only—”

“An essay on the
Memoirs Relative to Egypt
.”

Hell and damnation.

Tony had been watching Skiffy and paying no attention to Ian, who had slipped from his chair and quietly purloined the essay. Tony reached for it, but Ian chuckled and passed it over his head to Skiffy.

“Egad, Morehouse, what’s this?” His lordship leaned back and scanned the essay through his quizzing glass. “Didn’t know you was interested in Egypt. Should have told me. M’mother just bought
the most cunning crocodile bench from some new chap, a cabinetmaker on King Street. Could get you his direction, if you like.”

“No, thank you, Skiffy,” Tony said. “I’m not in the market for Egyptian furniture.”

“You can’t fool me,” Ian said, and took the essay back from Lord Skiffington. “This is an essay. A bloody book review. It’s for that damned magazine, isn’t it? You’re
writing
for the magazine.”

“What magazine?” Skiffy asked.

“By God, I told you this whole business would be nothing but trouble,” Ian said. “Now she’s got
you
working for
her
. Writing for a ladies’ fashion magazine, for God’s sake.”

“A what?” Skiffy said, his eyes wide with sudden interest. “A ladies’ magazine? A
fashion
magazine?”

“It’s not a fashion magazine,” Tony said, the echo of Edwina’s words ringing in his head. “It’s—”

“Don’t you remember, Skiffy?” Ian said. “Our friend here became the proud owner of
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
last week. Won it from Croyden.”

“Oh, I say. Forgot all about that business at White’s. Had a cup too many that night.”

“And now he’s wagered the beautiful female editor for ownership.”

Skiffy gave a shriek of delight. “Morehouse, you devil! A beautiful editor, you say? The spinsterish
niece Croyden mentioned? Tell all, m’dear, tell
all
.”

Tony opened his mouth to respond, but Ian cut him off.

“And it looks as though your lovely dark-eyed editor has taken the lead in this challenge,” Ian said. “I can’t believe you’re actually writing book reviews, Tony.
Book reviews
!”

“Stubble it, Ian. If you must know, it’s merely part of another little wager with the lady. And this time, I’m going to win.”

“Oh?” Ian’s face split into a grin. “And what will be your prize?”

“It’s private.”

Another shriek from Skiffy pierced the air and was followed by a sputtering chortle from Ian.

“Private stakes with a beautiful lady?” Skiffy asked, his eyes sparkling. “Oh, do tell. What shall you win? Something wonderfully improper, I have no doubt. A silk garter, perhaps? A corset busk?
A kiss
?”

“Come on, old man,” Ian said. “Give us a look at your book. I have no doubt the wager is logged and initialed, all very proper. Hand it over.”

Tony gave a resigned sigh. It was no use. They would wheedle it out of him one way or another. A tiny, almost imperceptible pang of caution made him want to keep everything about Edwina Parrish to himself, but he brushed it aside. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the betting book, and handed it to Skiffy, who stood clos
est. His lordship flipped pages, stopping to read once or twice and giving little grunts of interest. When he got to the last page he read it aloud, then looked up, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“Have you lost a screw, old chap? A roman head? You did this”—he pointed to the pages Ian was still holding—“only to see some musty old head?”

“Not simply to see it,” Tony said. “You will note that I am to be allowed to see it in its usual place of display.”

“And that is?”

“Her bedchamber.”

Ian gave a bark of laughter, and Skiffy laughed so hard he had to sit down, and seemed not to notice the telltale sound of a ripped seam.

“This is quite good,” Prudence said. “Excellent, in fact. Yes, I do indeed believe it is suitable for the
Cabinet
.”

Edwina sighed. “Thank you, Prudence. I appreciate your opinion. I won’t keep you any longer. I know you are anxious to meet with Mrs. Dillard about her advertisement.”

Prudence nodded, slanted a quick glance toward Anthony, and left the office. She made sure, Edwina was amused to note, to leave the door conspicuously ajar behind her.

Edwina ought to have known the provoking man would pen a perfectly beautiful essay, with just the
right balance of critical evaluation and personal insight. He’d also included astute comparisons to other works, indicating a greater familiarity with the subject matter than she had expected. Though perhaps she should not be so surprised.

He might be little more than a gamester now, but he had once been a studious young boy with a passion for ancient cultures. She remembered when he’d first shown her the Minerva. He’d been so proud and excited that it had been found in a riverbed on his father’s estate. He had gone on and on about Roman Britain and the significance of the little gilt bronze head. He’d obviously done a great deal of study on the subject.

And so the core of that young boy lived on in the man, buried deep beneath frivolity and recklessness. But the essay showed he could still mine that core, could still be a critical thinker and appreciate academic study.

She experienced a tiny moment of smug satisfaction for bringing back the boy, if only for a moment.

Anthony was quite obviously feeling a touch of satisfaction himself. A cocky self-assurance oozed from every pore. He was exceedingly proud of himself. A broad smiled was plastered on his face as he sat across from her, altogether too comfortably ensconced in Nick’s chair, one leg crossed casually over the other.

“And so you shall have an essay published in the
Cabinet
. Congratulations. I suppose now you will be wanting an intriguing pseudonym?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I am the modest sort, you see. I am perfectly happy to allow it be attached to your own handle, Arbiter Literaria.”

“It’s not entirely my own personal pseudonym, if you must know, but a general one many of us use for literary reviews.”

“Ah. And here I thought I had discovered the distinctly elegant and eloquent voice of Miss Parrish in the Arbiter.”

“Well, it is mostly me, in fact,” she said, ridiculously pleased at his flattery.

Fool.
He was obviously a practiced flatterer and seducer. She had plenty of experience with that type and should know better than to succumb to his easy charm.

“But others have used it from time to time,” she continued. “As you will do now, apparently.”

“By all means. I wrote only this one essay and will write no more. It is certainly not how I prefer to spend my time.” A gleam of wicked amusement lit his gray eyes. “I will leave such matters to you ladies.”

Edwina had forgotten that he still thought the
Cabinet
was written solely by a group of ladies, as it had been once upon a time. But now many others were involved. The Busybody was written by Simon Westover, Augusta Historica’s essays were
written by Nicholas, and other men within their particular circle of friends, including Samuel Coleridge, contributed from time to time under the guise of various pseudonyms. Other women, too. Women like Helen Maria Williams and Mary Hays and others whose sometimes radical politics generated much debate and public rebuke. Edwina had never dared let Uncle Victor know about the new contributors to the
Cabinet
or he would have felt the need to see what other changes Edwina had made. It would have been disastrous if he had asked to closely examine the account books.

At least she did not have to worry about Anthony in that regard. He had put his signature to the wager in that little red book, with the promise not to interfere with her management. Edwina supposed his gambler’s code of honor would keep him away from the business records.

But not away from her. He showed up on her doorstep altogether too often.

“There is, however, one other small matter we have yet to discuss,” he said.

“You wish to collect on your wager.”

“That’s what I like about you, Eddie. You always get straight to the point.”

He rose from his chair. She stood and moved around to the front of the desk. Anthony walked across the room and gestured for her to precede him through the door.

When she made no move to leave the room but
simply leaned against the desk, he raised his eyebrows and said, “I believe we agreed that I could view the Minerva?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Well, then, let us go see her.”

“But there is no need to leave this room to do so.”