Page 116 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Candace smiled. “I can’t imagine.”

“They sleep in late, too. I have to go to the kitchens to eat because by the time regular breakfast happens, I’m starving.”

Candace dug in the earth, listening.

“I don’t know why Mrs. Taylor even bothers—the men take sandwiches with them, and the ladies don’t eat anything, ’cept for a bit of scrambled eggs and oranges. I heard Mrs. Taylor grumbling about the waste, so I helped by eating bacon sandwiches and cold sausage for lunch.”

“Thoughtful of you.”

He hummed his agreement and jabbed the toe of his boot back into the hole. “But the worst part is I can’t work on my puzzle.”

“Whyever not?”

“Seamus has to stay out of the first floor while the ladies are up. Because they’re scared.” He huffed his indignation through his nose and gestured at Seamus again.

The dog had flopped down in a patch of sunshine and was gently smacking his jowls, eyes closed, as if the warmth were especially delicious today.

Candace had to admit she agreed with Arthur’s incredulity. Apart from his prodigious bladder and his drool and the occasional stray piece of hair, Seamus posed very little threat at all.

“Is that the only reason you don’t like them?” she asked lightly.

She shouldn’t prod Arthur to dislike anyone, but since his opinions were already settled on the matter, she didn’t think it any harm to ask. Besides, something in her was warmed that he found the ladies wanting when she knew he liked her well enough.

“They don’t like puzzles. They aren’t interested in military tactics.”

Candace felt that perhaps she should point out that she herself had only pretended to be rapt with attention when Arthur showed her the diorama he’d built to depict the battle of Waterloo, complete with brightly colored tin soldiers and several household items that were meant to be various artillery.

Then she thought better of it—it might hurt his feelings to hear the truth, and if the other ladies didn’t have enough sense to even pretend to be interested, that was squarely on them.

His little shoulders heaved with a sigh. He shook his head with the precise tilt that James used, and a rush of affection for both father and son warmed her.

“This is the chance for a wonderful lesson, Arthur. If you can learn it early in life, you’ll be far ahead of those who never learn it at all.”

“What?”

“You’ve ascertained that the ladies aren’t interested in anything you’re interested in, but have you bothered to find out what they like?”

Arthur’s forehead wrinkled. He chewed his lip. “I guess not.”

“If you ask people about what they like, and be genuinely interested in it, you’ll be the best conversationalist in the room.”

His hands flopped at his sides, palms up. “But how do I be interested in something I don’t care about?”

“That is the tricky part,” she admitted. “However, there’s usually part of something they like that you can find interesting.”

“Like what?”

“For instance, if I say I like painting, you might ask if I’ve ever painted anything before. Or how I became interested in it in the first place. Even the dullest people will often surprise you by saying something of note.”

He wrinkled his nose. “But I don’t want to talk to dull people.”

“Then you’ll be a very lonely person, indeed.”

“You’re not dull. Neither is Miss Vera, or the baroness, or Father.”

She nodded. “But all of us say dull things sometimes. If you didn’t get to know us, or if you stopped our friendship the first time we bored you, you’d never know how interesting we could be.”

“I guess so.”