Page 101 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

“Everyone, I should imagine.” She took her customary place at the puzzle table. “I guess at least a hundred or so.”

“I would double that number if I were you.” James smiled. “Free food and a chance to ramble past a fine house? Word will undoubtedly spread to nearby villages.”

Candace chewed her lip. “Do you think so? I’ll have Mrs. Penn adjust the numbers. Perhaps we might borrow a couple of your footmen to help keep people from the house and stables on the day of?”

“Of course. I’ll bring the lot of them. I expect they’ll all want to have a gander at the statues, too.”

“Thank you, James.” She glanced around the parlor. “Where’s Arthur?”

“He somehow managed to fall headfirst into a mud puddle directly after lunch. He’ll be down shortly after his bath.”

She snickered at his droll tone. “It’s the nature of boys to be perpetually dirty, you know.”

“It’s a wonder you’re trying to educate me on such matters, when I was once a boy myself.”

“And what kind of boy were you?” She grinned as if she were delighted to imagine it.

He lied through his teeth. “I was kind. Respectful. Obedient to a fault.”

“It’s as if you forget that Percy was several years behind you in Eton. He’s told me some stories.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Such as?”

“Wasn’t there something about a dead fish in the headmaster’s office?”

James's eyes went wide. “He told you that?”

“After a few snifters of brandy, my brother becomes quite chatty indeed.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.”

James forced his eyes resolutely to his ledger to try to end the topic. He was going to kill Percy the next time they met. Some stories should remain firmly with the masculine set.

“I wouldn’t, except there are so many of them.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Like the lizard in the chamber pot escapade, or the time you nearly set fire to the stable with some fireworks, or...”

“Who set fire to a stable?” Arthur asked.

His dark hair was still wet from his bath. He shoved a finger in his ear and rooted around as if there might be treasure contained within.

“Remove your finger from your person,” James said firmly.

If he had a pound for every time he’d said such, he could have bought all of Scotland.

“Sorry, Father.” Arthur wiped the offending digit on his now formerly clean trousers.

James sighed; Candace covered her smile.

“Who set fire to a stable?” Arthur repeated doggedly, taking his seat at the puzzle table.

“This happened many years ago in London,” Candace replied smoothly. “A foolish boy was playing with matches. Which is why you must never do so. The animals are always the ones who suffer—they become frightened and cannot find the exits. If you ever think of acting so irresponsibly, just imagine poor Seamus caught in a blaze. It’s imperative that you never play with fire.”

The boy’s eyes went wide; he looked at his beloved dog and nodded solemnly. “I won’t. I promise.”

James hid his smile. He’d stressed the importance of never idly striking matches to Arthur, but he’d never been clever enough to tie the idea to his son’s beloved mastiff. He had to commend Candace for her smooth deflection and her impressive lesson, both.

She turned to him. “Any word from your hunting party?”

“I expect the gentlemen any day. Though on their timetable, that could mean they arrive well in time for your garden party, or well after it.”