Page 19 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

F rom the Quentin Daily -

Beware the Dark Walk of Vauxhall Gardens, a shadowy corridor of illicit liaisons and the birthing of many a scandal!

Only last week, a young lady was found in the presence of an unmarried man!

We have it on excellent authority that the young lady is to be wed as soon as a proper dowry can be negotiated.

One wonders how much haggling a noble family will stoop to when it comes to the honor of their daughter!

Morning dawned grey and cloudy, a perfect accompaniment to Candace’s mood. Despite the determination she’d experienced in the bath the previous day, she felt sullen and tired.

Mrs. Penn and her staff laid an impressive breakfast on the sideboard, especially considering only Candace and Vera were eating.

Candace nodded at the footman, who scooped more scrambled eggs onto her porcelain plate.

Another followed with bacon and sausage.

There was French toast, biscuits, country gravy—which she unabashedly poured over her eggs—and cinnamon swirls.

By the time the footmen returned to their spots on either side of the buffet, Candace had a slight headache and a very full plate.

“Will one of you please send for Mrs. Penn?” she asked politely.

One of the footman whirled from the room as if Candace had just screamed “Fire!”

She sighed.

Vera pursed her lips. “Are you feeling well this morning? Did you not sleep?”

“I slept very well.”

It was the truth—even if Candace failed to mention that she could have slept seventeen more hours and had considered simply staying in her crisp sheets indefinitely.

“I did too. I was so warm .”

Candace blinked. “Do you not have a fireplace in your bedroom in London?”

Vera dropped her eyes to her plate. “Of course I do.”

Candace frowned and opened her mouth to address the niggling suspicion in her mind, but Mrs. Penn bustled through the far door. “How can I be of service, my lady?”

“Thank you for coming. I was wondering what the post is like between here and London. How long does it take to receive letters or items?”

“When the weather’s well enough, two to three days. The innkeeper in town sorts and holds the mail, then sends it along with the coach. ”

Candace nodded. “I wish to send a letter first thing this morning. There might already be some post for me in town as well.”

“Very good, my lady. We’ll send someone as soon as you have the letter ready.”

After Mrs. Penn retreated, Vera frowned at Candace. “I thought no one knew where we are.”

“No one does. Well, except for the Duke of Devonshire, and he certainly won’t share the information.” Candace smoothed her napkin over her skirts, not meeting Vera’s eyes.

“Then how are you already expecting post?”

Candace lifted one shoulder in a jerky shrug.

Vera dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “Oh, Candace, you didn’t . The whole purpose of coming here was to escape such nonsense.”

“I want to know what they’re saying, at the very least.”

“Who cares what they’re saying? The Quentin Daily is absolute garbage, a gossip rag.”

Candace’s chin jutted. “Which everyone reads.”

“But you don’t have to. Wasn’t that half the point of travelling all the way out here, to avoid their pernicious lies?”

“I just want to know. My imagination is far worse than any reality, I assure you.”

Vera narrowed her eyes. “It’s going to be awful. That’s all they ever print—awful things.”

She stabbed her fork into the French toast. “I can handle it.”

“I thought you said you could handle it.” Vera sighed.

The morning had come and gone, and the post had arrived. Candace sprawled ignominiously on the leather sofa, her face hidden beneath a needlepoint pillow. Several crumpled news sheets littered the floor.

Candace sat up. The pillow rose with her, teetering for a moment on the top of her head before sliding off.

Candace ignored it; she stared at Vera, wide-eyed. “They’re calling me an opportunist. Insinuating that Shelbourne found me lacking, that it was really he who called off the engagement.”

“Of course they are,” Vera responded gently. “They’re awful people. Terrible liars, and even worse writers, which is really saying something.”

Candace flopped back down with a muffled groan.

“Look.” Vera smoothed a gossip sheet. “This one claims that Parliament is a cult, that they slaughter small animals every session and take blood oaths.”

“Well, of course that’s drivel.”

“That’s precisely my point—all of it is! And anyone who’d believe any of it is—” Vera cut off, possibly noting Candace’s protruding lower lip, her narrowed eyes.

“Is what?”

“You shouldn’t pay attention to it, is all I’m saying.”

“But other people will.”

“You should have learned by now that you cannot control what other people do. Or what they think, for that matter.”

Candace spluttered something incoherent and sat upright once more. “But what am I to do about it?”

“Nothing, of course. They are the proverbial churchyard bully—ignore them and eventually they’ll go away.”

“I’d rather hit them square in the nose,” she mumbled.

“Yes, well, that option isn’t available to you.”

“Lord Fettiwig certainly believes the papers.”

Vera scrunched her nose. “What does that old goat have to do with anything?”

Candace swiped one of the crumpled parchments from the floor and thrust it at Vera.

She smoothed and read it, then looked up with a sneaky smile. “Things are already looking brighter. It’s barely been more than a week, and already you’ve had another proposal.”

Vera neatly dodged the pillow thrown at her head.

“He’s seventy!” Candace said.

“And single .” Vera waggled her eyebrows.

Candace moaned and flopped back onto the sofa.

“I’m only joking. I have an idea. How about we go on one of those long country walks in the fresh air like you promised me back in London?”

Candace flopped a limp arm over her eyes. “You go on ahead. Take Hortense. I’m not feeling up to it.”

“I think I will.” Vera huffed a laugh through her nose and stood. “You know, if you’re feeling particularly melodramatic, there are filled decanters on the sideboard.”