Page 4 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

F rom the Quentin Daily -

Scandal! What can one think when the progeny born to two fair-haired parents has hair as black as coal?

Our readers may come to the same conclusion as the husband, who’s since sent his wife and heir off to the country for the foreseeable future!

Is it any coincidence that a dark-haired footman was removed from service in the household the very same week?

Madame Aubert’s shop was tucked between a milliner’s and a respectable cobbler. The black lacquered door was marked only by a discreet brass plaque inscribed with M. Aubert . If one didn’t know the dressmaker was there, one would never see it.

Of course, every lady in the ton knew of Madame Aubert, even those who couldn’t afford her creations.

Perhaps especially those who couldn’t afford her.

Luckily for Candace, she and the famed courtier were well past introduction, so long on a first-name basis that one might mistake them for something bordering on friends.

Not that anyone would be crass enough to say so.

Candace breezed through the glossy door as if she owned not only the shop and the fabric inside, but the city block and all of London beyond. Vera and Candace’s maid followed closely behind her.

Vera pressed her lips together. “Is she expecting us? What if she has another customer?”

Candace blinked, momentarily flummoxed. “I sent word ahead.”

“Fifteen minutes isn’t much of a warning, Candace.” But her voice was teasing, as if she found her friend’s confidence mildly amusing.

Candace smiled. “If she has another customer, we can admire the silks while we wait.”

The shop girl who minded the waiting room did indeed show them into the fabric room.

An enormous, gilt-framed mirror spanned one wall—it was an antique, mottled and pitted, barely casting a reflection back onto the room.

It hardly mattered; no one paid attention to the dim mirror, as the rest of the walls featured bolt upon bolt of lustrous fabric.

Hortense took a position against the wall near the doorway.

She was a sturdy young woman of French descent who was a conscientiously hard worker.

For some reason, she felt great protectiveness and personal investment in Candace.

Candace never had to wake her upon returning to her room after a late dinner, and Hortense wielded a keen eye and a vicious, thick-handled umbrella at potential pickpockets and snarling stray dogs alike .

Candace and Vera immediately gravitated toward the silks—two butterflies fluttering over a flower bed, deciding where to land. Vera removed one of her bulky gloves and cautiously trailed her bare fingers over a grey-green precisely the shade of sea foam.

“I don’t know how she procures the finest of everything. She always has the best.”

Shopping at Madame Aubert’s practically guaranteed one would stand out in a ballroom.

She wasn’t just a genius with cutting and stitching; she had cloth exclusive only to her shop, while other dressmakers purchased their bolts of fabric from the same supplier.

There was no embarrassment quite like that of showing up in the same silk as another lady.

It had happened to Candace one time, and she’d never forgotten the way her confidence had wilted and shriveled like a cut bloom left in the sun.

“It’s part of what makes her the best. One of her many secrets.” Candace nodded toward a pale-peach shantung. “Do you think that would clash horribly with my hair?”

“I hardly think you need to be asking me for advice. You know what they say behind my back.”

Candace winced. She did know, but she cared too much for her friend to repeat it. “It’s your mother with the horrid taste, not you.”

“It hardly matters. The result is the same.” Vera’s voice was as flat and listless as the unlined bow perched awkwardly on her posterior.

Today, her dress was a pale tan and a yellow that was nearly too timid to claim the moniker. It was a sallow, off-white kind of yellow that gave the impression of a neglected old sofa discolored by direct sunlight over many years.

“Please, let me buy you just one.” Candace threaded her fingers together in supplication.

“We’ve had this discussion a thousand times. It would be a waste of your money; Mother would never allow me to wear it. I wouldn’t put it past her to rip it to shreds the moment it crossed our threshold.”

“What if it never crosses your threshold?”

Vera’s eyes lit with a moment of interest, then she shook her head. “It isn’t worth the trouble I’d get into once Mother found out.”

“We could tell her that a terrible calamity befell your outfit and you had to borrow one of mine.”

Vera raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly down at her shorter, curvaceous figure, then at Candace’s tall, lithe one.

“All right,” Candace relented. “We could say it was a gown my cousin left behind when she visited from Scotland.”

“You have a cousin from Scotland?”

“Of course not, but it’s far enough away to make it plausible why I didn’t just return the gown. Imagine it, Vera: one night of dressing how you wish to.”

Her friend deserved that much. She was the kindest, cleverest young lady Candace knew, and that was a true compliment, as Candace was surrounded by many kind and clever ladies.

Vera’s eyes lit; her head tilted.

“That does it.” Candace clasped her elbow as if she might escape. “You’re getting measured today. I won’t hear no for an answer. ”

Vera laughed and shook her arm free. “Has anyone called you ruthlessly stubborn?”

“They’d be foolish to do so within my hearing.”

Vera grinned and opened her mouth; Hortense pointedly cleared her throat.

“Ah, I thought that was you.” Daisy Knope stood in the doorway. Her lady’s maid, a grizzled woman worn well past her age—by constant nagging, no doubt—stood behind her as a staunch, beleaguered shadow.

Candace’s smile tightened like a drawstring purse. Vera drew closer to her shoulder—to offer or receive support, Candace couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was a bit of both. Buzzards like Daisy were best faced in number.

“Good morning, Daisy.” Candace nodded. “What brings you to Madame Aubert’s?”

“Finishing the hem on my gown for the Balewicks’ ball. It’s going to be the social event of the season.” Daisy’s blink and the slow smile that followed put Candace on edge. “Of course, I don’t need to tell you that. You must be so very excited .”

Candace held her benign smile firmly in place while she racked her brain as to the significance in Daisy’s words. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what the lady meant.

“Of course,” she said when the remaining silence dictated she should speak.

“Have you come to order a new gown to coordinate with what he’ll be wearing?”

He? Candace cast about for understanding. It wasn’t often she was adrift in a conversation; she found she hated the sensation. Her mind landed on her friend, the Duke of Canterbury. But why would Candace strive to match his waistcoat, when that was something couples did?

Thankfully, Daisy never met a silence she couldn’t fill.

“I confess I was surprised when I heard the marquess had returned to London days ago. I wondered why you hadn’t announced it yourself—possibly with an outing together.

But you do seem to be the model of ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ Doubtless you two are very fond of each other by now. ”

With a final snakelike smile, Daisy turned and swept away. Candace waited until the bell trilled lightly at the exterior door, signaling her exit. She turned to Vera, her eyes wide.

“Maybe it’s not true,” Vera whispered.

For they both knew how it looked, Shelbourne returning to London and not calling upon Candace immediately.

A pit yawned within her stomach. “I think it must be. Daisy is many things, but creative isn’t one of them.”

“Surely he’s at your door as we speak.”

“Do you think so?” Hope raised Candace’s eyebrows.

“It’s very probable. You know how fastidious he is about his appearance. Doubtless, he wanted to bathe and shave and rest…”

“She said he’d been back for days.”

“Perhaps he had to buy a new coat?” Vera’s voice was as thin and tremulous as the possibility that Shelbourne required days to prepare himself to visit his betrothed.

Candace pressed a hand to her stomach. “I feel sick.”

Vera guided her to a small chair against the wall. “Shall I fetch you water? Would you like me to call the carriage? ”

Candace closed her eyes against the questions and took a deep breath. Shelbourne had returned to London but hadn’t come to see her. What on earth was he playing at? Surely he knew he was supposed to visit her upon his return...right?

Then again, there was no handbook on how one behaved once one was engaged. There were strict guidelines as to how one behaved before a proposal, but not much on what came between the contract and the wedding. Could it be that he was simply... ignorant ?

As soon as the word landed in her mind, Candace felt a palpable relief. Yes, that was it—Shelbourne just didn’t know how it looked . Men had many matters to attend to besides social appearances.

“No, I’m quite all right. I’ll send a note to him when we return, gently pointing out his mistake. I’m sure he’ll deliver a massive apology bouquet in person and all will be rectified.”

“Are you certain?”

She nodded. “It would take far more than Daisy Knope and an unthinking man to keep me from Madame Aubert’s designs. Let’s get you measured and pick out some silk.”

Vera smiled encouragingly. But as they debated blue grey versus grey green and held tails of bolts against their cheeks to check which suited their skin tones, doubt turned like a rock at the center of Candace’s gut.