Candice Hern by Once a Scoundrel

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 slidingthem 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 boughtthe 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