Page 18 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

He didn’t retake his chair until James was seated behind the desk—an unnecessary deference, where James was concerned, but others noticed and appreciated such things.

James glanced up at the footman standing unobtrusively near the door. Like his other footmen, he’d been chosen for strength and loyalty, not the fineness of his features. He was a hulking brute, like the lot of them, but woe to any man who tried to lift a hand against one of the residents of the house.

“Thank you; that will be all.”

The footman gave a nod and went away, closing the door behind him. James was aware of the whispers within society—that his was the homeliest household of servants in all of England. He didn’t care; he hired individuals for their competence, discretion, and loyalty, nothing more. The result was a mish-mash of countenances, to be sure, but his household was as tight as a new wine barrel—no rumors leaked from within these walls.

“Reginald, I have a delicate matter to discuss with you.”

His steward nodded, waiting.

James pressed his lips together and considered his next words. However, when he spoke, he chose the most efficient route—that of blunt honesty. This was Reginald, after all; they had more than twenty years of trust between them.

“There’s an individual who has wronged one of my friends. I hope you might look into him, his holdings, his dealings, and come upon some...fortuitous information I might make use of.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Reginald nodded. If the man thought the request strange, his face didn’t betray it in the least. “Who is this individual?”

“The Marquess Shelbourne.”

“To help me know what to look for, is Your Grace’s goal mere irritation, or...?”

James huffed a laugh, leaned back in his chair, and threaded his fingers together over his midsection. “Irritation, ruination. Anything I can do within the bounds of law to make him regret he was ever born.”

Finally a reaction—the man lifted an eyebrow. James didn’t blame him; he was notoriously even-keeled. This request was a wild deviation from the norm.

“May I ask what he did to warrant such treatment, Your Grace?”

“No, Reginald. Though, as you are a clever man, I expect you’ll be able to figure out such a thing for yourself in time. Once you do, I’d rather never discuss it. Also, I’d like my war against the gentleman to be kept as quiet as possible. I don’t want him to know it’s me yanking these particular strings. Him or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He nodded and sipped his tea. “Would you only be interested in information of a fiscal nature, or would you like other information, as well?”

James pressed his lips together. “Within the bounds of law. That is my boundary, and I’ll stick to it, but anything within those parameters is free for the taking.”

“Say no more. I have several individuals who’ll be glad for the work.”

James’s eyebrows drew together in unspoken question. He opened his mouth, but Reginald added, “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it’s better if you don’t know all the particulars.”

He frowned. “That’s not a particularly comforting statement, not when I specifically said nothing be illegal.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Your Grace, but there’s a wide expanse of grey between what’s legal and illegal. That patch of land is too murky for your boots to trod and be soiled in. Mine, either, as I’m respectably employed by yourself. But there are individuals I trust implicitly who make their living in that claggy ground.”

“Very well. If you trust them.”

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll see to it immediately.”

Reginald stood, picked up the cake—the last holdout on the tea tray—wrapped it into his handkerchief with practiced speed, and tucked it into his pocket. James didn’t so much as blink; he was used to Reginald’s personal code, which as far as James could figure, was “no pastry left behind.”

Reginald gave a short bow. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

As James watched the fine tweed of Reginald’s coat retreat out the door of his study, he wondered what precisely he had just set into motion. Whatever it was, Candace must never come to know of it.

CHAPTER 7- CANDACE

From the Quentin Daily-

Runaway carriage in Cheapside! Calamity and death as a large draft horse barrelled into a sausage-seller’s cart yesterday! “There was at least three dead,” Penelope Perkins, a local resident, claims. “Probably more!” More details to follow as we chase down this developing story of destruction and sadness!

While mist still obscured the trees in the park, well before appropriate visiting hours, Candace ordered the carriage. On the way to Shelbourne’s townhouse, she sat grimly on the plush seat, not daring to so much as push open the window shade to check their progress. All the while, she practiced the succinct speech she’d written in her mind.