Page 20 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

F rom the Quentin Daily -

Missing! A prominent noble lady has called off her engagement and hasn’t been seen since!

Has the lady closeted herself in her house out of shame, or is something more nefarious afoot?

A source close to the situation, who wishes to remain anonymous for their own safety, reports, “We all know he killed her. She went back on the betrothal and he struck her in the head with a candlestick out of rage. He paid off the watchmen and the judge!” Is this a case of cold feet or a cold corpse? You decide!

James left for Devon the morning after he met with the Duke of Devonshire, but his journey wasn’t as swift as he would have liked. Travelling with an entourage—in this case, his son and a large dog, among others—was never as quick as travelling alone.

Arthur begged to stop at every roadside inn, no matter how dilapidated, and James said no so often he felt obligated to stop at several of the more reputable ones. The horses needed resting, as James was loathe to switch them out.

Altogether, it was nearly five days before he arrived at his manor house. It took another half a day to settle his son in the rambling estate well enough that James felt he could saddle a horse and leave.

The impatience in his chest eased slightly when Lord Salisbury’s stone manor came into view. It wasn’t nearly as dour as it had been the last time James visited, nearly ten years ago. Climbing roses had overtaken the facade, softening the overall appearance and adding a touch of romantic whimsy.

James huffed an indignant laugh at himself. Romantic whimsy, indeed.

His boots crunched into the pea gravel as he swung himself down from his gelding.

He handed the reins off to the boy who came running from the stable and tugged his jacket into place before approaching the door.

He shouldn’t be as nervous as he was—he was a friend of the family, had visited Candace many times.

But he’d never followed a lady halfway across England before.

Thank goodness the dastardly writers of the Quentin Daily were safely in London; they’d have an apoplexy of exclamation marks if they saw him nervously dithering on Candace’s front stoop.

He gathered his courage and yanked the chain that fed through the thick wall. The door opened before the echo of the clanging bell could travel the hall. James pressed his lips together to quell his embarrassment—the butler had seen him coming and had been waiting.

“The Duke of Canterbury to see Lady Candace,” he said, ignoring the heat that itched beneath his collar.

“Certainly, Your Grace. Please come in. It will be one moment.”

At least the butler was a consummate professional—the man didn’t so much flick his eyebrow in a mocking way. Quite the upgrade from the fellow at Lord Salisbury’s townhouse, who’d fairly chucked James’s bouquet back at him a week ago.

James frowned. Perhaps he should have brought flowers today. Nothing like the astronomically expensive arrangement he’d accidentally designed in London, but something simpler.

He glanced around the entryway and turned his hat round in his hands before hanging it upon the waiting hall tree.

Was it rude that he had arrived empty-handed?

He wasn’t precisely courting Candace, but anyone with half a brain would read the signs correctly.

James only hoped that Candace was too distraught to aim her very capable two halves at him right now.

The butler reappeared. “Follow me, Your Grace.”

James barely saw the spacious hall hung with pleasant groupings of paintings as he was led to a large sitting room facing the back gardens.

Candace sat upon a leather sofa that flanked one of the large fireplaces on either end of the room.

Surprisingly, she didn’t rise to greet him; instead, she flapped a hand in his general direction.

The butler gave a short bow and left with marked alacrity.

James frowned and came forward, noting the half-empty bottle on the low table before her and the slightly fuzzy smile she offered.

“James,” she said. “Delightful to see you. What brings you to this part of the country?”

You , he wanted to say, but of course he didn’t.

He smiled indulgently instead. “Candace, lovely to see that you’ve made yourself at home here. How are you feeling?”

“I am excellent .”

“Indeed?”

“Come, join me,” she whispered, pouring another tipple into her glass. “I’ve got into the gin and it’s marvelous .”

He stooped down to where she was huddled on the sofa. “Why are we whispering?”

“Because I don’t want Perce to catch us.”

“He’s all the way in France, my dear. I don’t think he’s going to find out.”

“He has his ways.” She waggled her fingertips in the air for emphasis.

“Your brother’s on his honeymoon with his charming new bride. I’m sure his attentions are quite diverted.” He gently pried the gin bottle from her hand and set it on the delicate table behind him. “Now, just how much of the gin did you have?”

“Not quite enough, as I can still remember my utter shame and misery.”

He chuckled at her, not unkindly. “You are the loveliest lady in all of Britain, and by far the most intelligent of my acquaintance. There’s no one who could put you to shame unless you allow it.”

“Damn Shelbourne!” she hissed, then clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes comically round. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I don’t know why not. He’s certainly earned the sentiment. I believe I might have been saying something along those lines just the other day.”

He crossed the room, pulled a tassel along the wall, then returned to Candace.

“It isn’t just his fault.” She sighed, and her head listed to one side. “I shouldn’t have been swept up in all of it. I should have been more prudent about the whole thing.”

“What whole thing, precisely?”

“Deciding who to marry. I should have been more sensible. Chosen someone sensible. Like you.”

“You think I’m sensible ?” The word had never bothered him before, not until she applied it to him.

“Very.” She gave an exaggerated nod. “But I wanted romance. Flowers. Chocolates. Attention. I wanted grand gestures and picnic outings and riding horses through the park. And maybe I wanted people’s jealousy, too.

Maybe I wanted them to see that I was good enough, worthy enough, for the biggest rake in all of England to settle down and choose me.

I never loved him, you know. Not at all, I don’t think. ”

Mrs. Penn appeared in the doorway. “Someone rang, my lady?”

James said, “Would it be possible to have some hearty sandwiches and some very strong tea? ”

Mrs. Penn glanced to where Candace appeared to be nodding off to sleep in the middle of her sentence. A smile plucked at the corners of the housekeeper’s mouth. “Right away, Your Grace.”

“So perhaps it was my fault as much as his,” Candace said, as if she hadn’t even been aware of Mrs. Penn’s momentary presence. “Maybe I brought this all down upon myself with my pride.”

“Regardless of that, the marquess behaved abominably toward you. He shouldn’t have...done the things he did that evening of the ball. He shouldn’t have run off to Paris when he realized your engagement was quite serious.”

“He was a terrible kisser.” Candace stared stupidly at the fireplace. “Simply awful . It’s a wonder, because if one listens to the gossips, he should’ve had plenty of practice.”

Canterbury didn’t quite know how to respond to that—he didn’t think laughter was appropriate, but it bubbled within him all the same. Besides, there was a rather larger part of him that enjoyed hearing her criticism of the man—especially in such an area.

“He just put his tongue there. Like a dead fish.” She flopped her forearm down upon a pillow to illustrate her point.

“As if I was supposed to know what to do with that !” Candace turned to him, wide-eyed, as if looking for explanation.

“I’d never been kissed before. And the very worst part of it is that now I shall never be kissed again!

I’ve been thrown over, very public— hic —very publicly, mind you.

No one will want me as a bride. No one except Lord Fettiwig, and a man that old won’t have any dregs of passion left in him.

He’s all wrinkled and wrung out. Like a dishrag! Like me! Oh, what is to become of me? ”

She flung herself down upon the cushions and began to cry. Canterbury wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of her words, but the sight of her grief did something odd and uncomfortable to his stomach.

“Please don’t cry.” He patted her shoulder gently, retrieved his embroidered silk handkerchief, and pressed it into her hand.

She promptly blew her nose into it, noisily, which was a little off-putting, but he supposed that under the circumstances, it couldn’t be helped.

“You are not a wrung-out old dishrag. I’d wager my entire estate that your best years have yet to find you.

The marquess was a terrible mistake, but one mistake doesn’t have to ruin your whole life. ”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do.”

There was so much he wanted to say, about the kind of man she should choose, about how she should choose him , but he helped her sit up and did his best not to wince as she blew her nose again.

There was no coming back from that kind of treatment, not for silk.

It would have to be thrown into the fire.

“You need something to take your mind off that wastrel. He never deserved you. In time, I believe you’ll come to view this as the closest you ever came to true misery.”

“But I am miserable now . Nothing can take my mind off it—nothing but gin.” She peered around James’s large form. “What happened to the gin?”

“It’s all gone,” he lied smoothly.

“Oh, dear. The whiskey, too?”

“Indeed. ”

“Percy’s going to kill me.”

“Hardly. You forget I’ve whittled away several evenings under his exuberant hosting. If the gin is all gone, he’ll assume he drank it himself and just forgot.”

“Very well.” She sank back upon the cushions and folded her hands over her stomach.

“I’m glad to see you’re amenable to suggestion in such a state, at least.”

“I always listen to reason.” Her blinks lengthened until her eyes closed altogether.

“Excellent. Then what kind of project will you undertake to distract yourself?”

“Distract myself from what?” she mumbled, eyes still closed.

“From... nevermind. Here are the sandwiches.”

A quarter of an hour later, after Candace was finished with the sandwiches—and the dancing—he called Mrs. Penn back and instructed her to put Candace directly to bed. That task was half-done already—the lady could barely keep her eyes open after her hearty meal.

James was fairly certain that Mrs. Penn had intended the platter of sandwiches to be enough to feed both of them, but Candace had set upon them with such ravenous hunger that James would have worried for his fingers if he’d tried to take one.

Still, he closed the front door behind him with a lightness in his heart. Candace would be all right—he was convinced of it. She was much more concerned with the loss of her bright future and the damage done to her reputation than she was at losing Shelbourne himself.

It had been a relief to hear it from the lady’s own lips—she’d never loved him at all.