Page 33 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

“Of course.” She chewed her lower lip.

“We should probably get started right away.” Vera glanced out the window. “The planting season will be past before long.”

“Will it?” Candace plopped onto the sofa cushion next to her friend, jostling Vera abruptly. Candace didn’t appear to notice. “Perhaps I haven’t thought this through.”

James frowned at the little pucker of uncertainty that appeared between her eyebrows. “Thinking is rarely as effective as doing, Candace. You have an eye for beauty, for color. I’ve no doubt you’ll design the most beautiful garden our dear homeland has ever seen.”

“I’ve never done anything of the sort,” she said, but her eyes had lifted to meet his, and they held a modicum of hope once more.

“Madame Aubert never designed a gown, until she did. Mrs. Davis never baked a cake, until she did. There is always time to do the things you might have done, if you’re willing to face the uncertainty that comes with trying something new for the very first time.”

Vera leaned forward and smiled. “This is the perfect place to try such a thing. The gardens are in such disarray you couldn’t possibly make them worse. Which of course, you won’t,” she hurriedly added. “It would be impossible to mess up flowers, after all. They’re beautiful.”

“Very true. Thankfully, Percy seems to have only purchased flowers in a complimentary color palette—light pinks, yellows, white, and purple. Not a red flower to be seen. Nothing will clash.”

“Precisely.” Vera nodded emphatically.

“You might start sketching some ideas,” James said. “I believe I have some books in my library that might help you gather thoughts where that’s concerned. I’ll bring them by as soon as I lay hands upon them.”

“Thank you, James. That would be very helpful.” She turned and aimed the full power of her smile squarely at him. If he were standing, he might have staggered under the weight of such a blow.

Instead, he stood and schooled his features into gravity. “Apologies for the short visit, ladies, but I must go and see to my son.”

A convenient excuse—one he wasn’t certain was convincing to Vera—but Candace didn’t seem to realize she’d altered his existence with her expression.

He bowed his way out and left the ladies discussing plans for the Devon Manor garden.

Several days later, James sat at the enormous mahogany desk in his study, the gas lamp at the corner turned high.

A fire burned low in the grate, chasing away the chill that permeated the early spring evening.

The post had finally arrived, and by the look of things, his long-awaited parcel was amongst them.

He had lied, but it was one of those little white ones that wouldn’t hurt anyone. He didn’t have the books in his library at Devon as he’d claimed. Instead, he’d sent a list to his steward in London, ordering them to be sent.

When he’d told Candace he had the books, he’d overlooked the unintended consequence of him not being able to visit until the books arrived. This was shortly thought of, and James spent a few evenings pacing before the fireplace wondering if they’d be delivered on the morrow.

But now, the books had finally arrived, along with a hastily written letter from one of his stewards, who sounded quite distressed.

The man apologized for the omission of the additional title James had requested, stating that all the copies in London were sold out, but that the last book would be on its way from Oxford within the fortnight.

James carefully unwrapped the neat parcels and stacked the books so their spines were aligned, in order from largest to smallest. He’d deliver them the next morning.

Perhaps he’d go earlier than usual and thereby invite himself to breakfast; the ladies wouldn’t mind.

Neither would Mrs. Penn, who would be the only one truly inconvenienced by his presence.

James sorted the rest of his correspondence quickly.

His latest project demanded much of his attention of late, and he didn’t see that requirement lessening as time went on.

Instead, he hoped the demands on his time in that area would only pleasantly increase.

Still, there were ledgers to attend to, stewards to write, bills to approve.

He slid the tip of his desk knife into the string at a top of a parcel, then read the attached letter. It was from Devonshire, of all people.

Canterbury,

Though I am loathe to spread gossip, I feel it important that you’re aware of the temperature of the London nobility.

For whatever reason—a slow news cycle, a lack of imagination, or just plain laziness—the gossip rags have yet to find a more attractive story than the one regarding Candace and Shelbourne.

Attached are the most odious examples, but the other sheets are filled with much the same.

I have several individuals well positioned to fight back against said nonsense, but sometimes allowing a fire to burn out from lack of fuel is the best method. Often, if one tries to smother a fire, they only feed it instead. What are your thoughts on the matter?

-Devonshire

One by one, James read the gossip sheets.

Several of them made him swear viciously; he was grateful for the thick stone walls that muffled every word.

Candace’s absence had been read as an admission of guilt, as far as the papers were concerned.

They painted her as either a harpy or a seductress who’d duped Shelbourne, then left him heartbroken.

It didn’t matter that half the ton had been in attendance the night of the Balewicks’ ball and had seen the despicable way Shelbourne had treated her. The story was far more salacious when told from this angle, so that was the angle they’d chosen.

Though Shelbourne didn’t own the scandal sheets, he could have helped the situation by keeping a low profile or returning to Paris.

Instead, the scoundrel was dancing with every unmarried young lady who’d accept his name on their card.

In short, he was participating in the charade that he’d been freed from some calamitous engagement.

He was propping up the narrative that the fault lay entirely with Candace.

In light of this new information, James dashed a letter off to Reginald Wright, unleashing him upon the situation. The man had written only last week to say there were several vulnerable points at which Shelbourne could be pinched; James told him to pinch away, at all of them.

Ruin him, James wrote. Or at least inflict as much pain as possible, within the bounds of law.