Page 25 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Bernard staggered beneath the sudden weight but caught the bushel of perfumed stems admirably.

“Apologies, Your Grace. I couldn’t quite see it was you because of the flowers. For anyone else, I would say that Her Ladyship is not at home to receive visitors at this time. But for you, I’ll just say, with all honesty, that Her Ladyship is not at home.”

“What do you mean she’s not home? Where is she?”

“It would be highly inappropriate for me to discuss the whereabouts of Her Ladyship, Your Grace.”

James seethed. For a moment, he considered throttling the man.

Perhaps Bernard saw it on his face, for the butler suddenly offered, “But I feel very comfortable discussing the whereabouts of Lord Salisbury’s carriage, if Your Grace would enjoy such a topic.”

James grit his teeth. “Indeed.”

“His Lordship’s carriage left this house at approximately three-thirty yesterday afternoon, bound for His Lordship’s country estate in Devon. I do believe that Her Ladyship has written several letters indicating her plans of travel. One of them was addressed to her brother.”

“Her brother is in France on his honeymoon.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. However, all of his personal correspondence has been forwarded to his close friend and business partner, the Duke of Devonshire.”

“Thank you, Bernard.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

James turned for his horse, which had not yet been led away by the footman, but a sharp clearing of the throat behind him had him turning back. He blinked in surprise when the butler thrust the unwieldy arrangement at him in such a manner that he was forced to catch it with a grunt.

“Your flowers, Your Grace,” the butler said, a merry twinkle in his eye.

Then he shut the door before James could cast about for suitable reply. Was Bernard laughing at him? As far as problems went, that should be catalogued as firmly down the list. Right now, James needed to discover the contents of the letter that Candace had sent her brother.

Half an hour later, James stood in front of a much more impressive front door, still holding the massive bouquet. He’d meant to toss it somewhere along the route, but his journey took him directly through the most fashionable parts of London, and James was soon spotted by several young men and ladies of his acquaintance. They’d bent their heads together, doubtless speculating about why James was carrying such an arrangement.

James’s cheeks threatened to burn; he’d gritted his teeth together in frustration as any hope of dropping the bouquet evaporated. If James carrying a bouquet caused a whisper, those same people finding the bouquet scattered amongst the cobblestones of a Mayfair Street would certainly produce gossip.

He tried to thrust the bouquet off on the young stable hand who came running the second he arrived at Devonshire’s house, but the boy shook his head frantically with wide eyes, as if James had offered him a lice-infested blanket rather than expensive blooms.

So once more, James found himself knocking on a polished front door holding a riot of tulips, hyacinths, roses, delphiniums, peonies, and lisianthus. The door was opened on the second knock by none other than the master of the house himself.

“Canterbury,” Devonshire said, smiling mildly at James’s frown. “How lovely to see you. And you brought me flowers. How thoughtful.”

James pushed his way through the front door, past a set of golden retrievers who thought the appropriate greeting was to paw at James’s chest and bluntly sniff the front of his trousers.

“Down, Sir O’Connor. Down, Podwickle. Very sorry, Canterbury. Every time I attempt to teach them manners, my lovely wife and son undo all my work within the hour.”

“No apology necessary,” James said.

He didn’t give a whit about the dogs; no golden retriever could come close to inflicting the damage that his own son’s English Mastiff regularly—though unintentionally—visited upon his person. He’d suffered bruises, a gash in his lower leg, and a hundred painful indignities to his manhood inflicted by a whipping tail. And that was to say nothing of the fur that constantly fell from Seamus’s person as if he were a prolific maple tree at the height of fall. And then there was the drool.

“Come into my study. I doubt you would’ve arrived this early bearing gifts if you didn’t have something interesting to discuss.”

James followed him, casting his eyes about for an unwitting servant he could hand the blooms off to.

As if sensing his distress, Devonshire called out, “Huntley.”

A proud-looking man with dark hair emerged from just around the corner and skimmed toward them. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Please put these blooms in water and deliver them to the duchess. Tell her they’re from an ardent admirer.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”