Page 13 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)
F rom the Quentin Daily -
Mysterious criminal plagues the streets of Mayfair and beyond!
The caped cutpurse strikes again, targeting those alone after dark.
Nicknamed ‘The Scourge of West London’ by those in the know, this heartless brute targets men and women alike—no one is safe!
“I saw him only last night!” Harold Humphries, a local resident, says.
“At least seven feet tall, with a disfigured face! No wonder he wears a cape and mask!”
When the bell jangled above James in the doorway of the corner flower shop, the stout owner blinked up at him in surprise, still tying her apron round her waist. It was quite early, but then, Candace was an early riser—especially in comparison to other fashionable ladies.
James didn’t want to complicate her situation further, and he’d certainly start gossip if he showed up at her front door during visiting hours, bouquet in hand .
He’d rather arrive before the inevitable stampede.
He was keen to hear the news that had reached him yesterday evening from Candace’s own lips, but he didn’t feel right arriving empty-handed.
If one of his male friends had dissolved an engagement, he’d bring some fine spirits, but he doubted Candace would appreciate a bottle of fifteen-year-old whiskey.
“For a special lady, my lord?” the woman asked, wiping the already clean counter with a cloth.
“For a friend who has suffered a bereavement,” he corrected. He wished for the floral arrangement to be stately, stoic, as somber and proper as flowers possibly could be.
The woman nodded, but when she reached for subdued white lilies, he tutted his displeasure. She lifted her eyes in surprise, and he pointed toward a grouping of beautiful parrot tulips, white in color, tipped with the palest pink. Those were far more like Candace than the lilies.
“These, my lord?” she said, her voice hesitant.
He nodded and then pointed at a gorgeous cluster of pale-pink peonies, each with a bloom the size of his fist. “And those.”
As she was pulling the peonies to mix with the tulips, he noticed a cluster of blue hyacinth that would set the arrangement off and pointed at them as well. By this point, the shopkeeper knew better than to argue.
She grabbed four stems of the hyacinth and added them to the growing bouquet.
But every time he looked up, something wasn’t quite right, so he kept pointing at different flowers like an idiot, which was why—well before visiting hours—the Duke of Canterbury arrived on Candace’s stoop, holding a bouquet far too exuberant to be appropriate for mourning, far too large to be considered friendship, and far too expensive to be displayed in one of her salons without garnering awkward questions from other visitors.
Canterbury cursed himself as he wrestled the massive fluttering arrangement into one arm and knocked harder than was necessary on her front door.
He’d felt like a proper idiot riding down the street with this tucked before him on the saddle; it had looked as if he were about to open his very own flower market on a street corner somewhere, or like he was the leader of some ridiculous parade who’d somehow wandered off from his entourage.
He prayed the entire time that no one he knew would see him.
James shifted his weight from one foot to another, then glanced over his shoulder at the park behind him.
The Baron De Gournay was fond of an early morning ride through the park.
The man had no qualms about sharing each and every thing he saw with anyone who would listen.
Not that the man was an officious busybody—more like he was an insufferable bore who sometimes happened to report an item of interest to anyone with the patience to sift through his never-ending onslaught of words.
The Duke of Canterbury standing on Candace’s front stoop in the early morning, with half a shop’s worth of expensive blooms in his arms, would be well worth noting.
Especially in light of the news that had already travelled round to tickle most of the ton’s ears: Candace had ended her engagement with the Marquess Shelbourne, and the notice would be published that afternoon or the day after .
After a few moments of watching the park, Canterbury knocked again, this time more insistently. His fist was still raised to the polished wood when the door opened. Bernard, the butler, stood behind it.
“Her ladyship is not at home to visitors at this time, Your Grace,” he intoned.
“You and I both know such rules don’t apply to me,” James said, foisting the enormous bouquet onto the unsuspecting man.
Bernard staggered beneath the sudden weight but caught the bushel of perfumed stems admirably.
“Apologies, Your Grace. I couldn’t quite see it was you because of the flowers. For anyone else, I would say that Her Ladyship is not at home to receive visitors at this time. But for you, I’ll just say, with all honesty, that Her Ladyship is not at home.”
“What do you mean she’s not home? Where is she?”
“It would be highly inappropriate for me to discuss the whereabouts of Her Ladyship, Your Grace.”
James seethed. For a moment, he considered throttling the man.
Perhaps Bernard saw it on his face, for the butler suddenly offered, “But I feel very comfortable discussing the whereabouts of Lord Salisbury’s carriage , if Your Grace would enjoy such a topic.”
James grit his teeth. “Indeed.”
“His Lordship’s carriage left this house at approximately three-thirty yesterday afternoon, bound for His Lordship’s country estate in Devon. I do believe that Her Ladyship has written several letters indicating her plans of travel. One of them was addressed to her brother. ”
“Her brother is in France on his honeymoon.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. However, all of his personal correspondence has been forwarded to his close friend and business partner, the Duke of Devonshire.”
“Thank you, Bernard.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
James turned for his horse, which had not yet been led away by the footman, but a sharp clearing of the throat behind him had him turning back. He blinked in surprise when the butler thrust the unwieldy arrangement at him in such a manner that he was forced to catch it with a grunt.
“Your flowers, Your Grace,” the butler said, a merry twinkle in his eye.
Then he shut the door before James could cast about for suitable reply. Was Bernard laughing at him? As far as problems went, that should be catalogued as firmly down the list. Right now, James needed to discover the contents of the letter that Candace had sent her brother.
Half an hour later, James stood in front of a much more impressive front door, still holding the massive bouquet.
He’d meant to toss it somewhere along the route, but his journey took him directly through the most fashionable parts of London, and James was soon spotted by several young men and ladies of his acquaintance.
They’d bent their heads together, doubtless speculating about why James was carrying such an arrangement.
James’s cheeks threatened to burn; he’d gritted his teeth together in frustration as any hope of dropping the bouquet evaporated.
If James carrying a bouquet caused a whisper, those same people finding the bouquet scattered amongst the cobblestones of a Mayfair Street would certainly produce gossip.
He tried to thrust the bouquet off on the young stable hand who came running the second he arrived at Devonshire’s house, but the boy shook his head frantically with wide eyes, as if James had offered him a lice-infested blanket rather than expensive blooms.
So once more, James found himself knocking on a polished front door holding a riot of tulips, hyacinths, roses, delphiniums, peonies, and lisianthus. The door was opened on the second knock by none other than the master of the house himself.
“Canterbury,” Devonshire said, smiling mildly at James’s frown. “How lovely to see you. And you brought me flowers. How thoughtful.”
James pushed his way through the front door, past a set of golden retrievers who thought the appropriate greeting was to paw at James’s chest and bluntly sniff the front of his trousers.
“Down, Sir O’Connor. Down, Podwickle. Very sorry, Canterbury. Every time I attempt to teach them manners, my lovely wife and son undo all my work within the hour.”
“No apology necessary,” James said.
He didn’t give a whit about the dogs; no golden retriever could come close to inflicting the damage that his own son’s English Mastiff regularly—though unintentionally—visited upon his person.
He’d suffered bruises, a gash in his lower leg, and a hundred painful indignities to his manhood inflicted by a whipping tail.
And that was to say nothing of the fur that constantly fell from Seamus’s person as if he were a prolific maple tree at the height of fall. And then there was the drool .
“Come into my study. I doubt you would’ve arrived this early bearing gifts if you didn’t have something interesting to discuss.”
James followed him, casting his eyes about for an unwitting servant he could hand the blooms off to.
As if sensing his distress, Devonshire called out, “Huntley.”
A proud-looking man with dark hair emerged from just around the corner and skimmed toward them. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Please put these blooms in water and deliver them to the duchess. Tell her they’re from an ardent admirer.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
James gratefully transferred the perfumed bundle to the butler’s arms.
When the man was some distance away, Devonshire added in a low voice, “It’s the truth, even if I’m not the admirer and she was not the intended recipient.”
Devonshire laughed at his own joke while James struggled to keep himself from slapping the back of the man’s head. He refrained—though they were of a friendly nature to one another, he didn’t know if their relationship could survive an assault.