Page 26 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

James gratefully transferred the perfumed bundle to the butler’s arms.

When the man was some distance away, Devonshire added in a low voice, “It’s the truth, even if I’m not the admirer and she was not the intended recipient.”

Devonshire laughed at his own joke while James struggled to keep himself from slapping the back of the man’s head. He refrained—though they were of a friendly nature to one another, he didn’t know if their relationship could survive an assault.

“Please sit.” Devonshire led him into a large study and nodded at the chairs facing the enormous desk.

Devonshire took the one next to James after he sat—a kind gesture—and levied a serious look at him. “I have my suspicions as to why you’ve arrived so early with flowers in hand, but my dear wife constantly reminds me that I don’t know everything. Therefore, I think it’s best to hear it from you.”

Now that he was here, James didn’t know quite how to begin. On the ride over, he’d devised a hundred things to say, a hundred questions he wanted answered. Now he was concerned that any question from his quarter might stir up gossip of the worst kind.

He pressed his lips together.

Devonshire nodded as if perfectly reading his expression. “I’ve always liked you, Canterbury. You show a patience and dignity that few of our peers possess these days. However, I would also observe that perhaps it is your patience that has brought you to this point. In matters of the heart, perhaps patience is overrated.”

James arched an eyebrow in warning. “I beg your pardon.”

“Begging will not be necessary.” Devonshire leaned forward and plucked an open letter from the surface of his desk. “Percy gave me great leeway when it comes to his personal affairs, which might have been because he was anxious to start his honeymoon. However, I don’t think it’s out of bounds to share this information with you, provided you use it to rectify both of our wrongs.”

“What is the wrong you think I’ve committed?”

“Patience,” Devonshire repeated enigmatically. “However, I fear that my offense is far greater than yours.”

Devonshire tapped the letter maddeningly against his knee. James clenched his jaw and waited.

As if coming to a sudden decision, Devonshire turned and and met his eyes. “Did Candace ever tell you how she came to be engaged to Shelbourne in the first place?”

“She mentioned you, actually.”

“I am partly to blame, but when I share the story, you’ll undoubtedly see how I arrived at the decision I did. Though a story of such a nature might be difficult to receive, especially for one in your position.”

“And what position am I in?”

Devonshire smirked. “Please don’t make me embarrass the both of us by saying it aloud. Suffice it to say that if your sin is patience in this matter, then mine is observance. I see much more than I ever share. Though I hardly regret anything more than what I observed one particular evening many months ago at the Baron De Gournay’s ball.”

James stiffened, and Devonshire nodded as if he’d asked a question. “You must swear never to repeat what I’m about to say, to anyone. Not even to the lady herself. It would cause great embarrassment, as well as putting a flame to her reputation and any hope of a future within noble society if it got out.”

“Upon my honor, I’ll never repeat this.” James could not have sat more stiffly if his veins had suddenly been filled with iron.

Based upon Devonshire’s preliminary words, he could guess at what he was about to hear. It was no different than many a story that had been whispered over brandy in any private club in London, but to hear it about Candace was a different thing altogether.

Devonshire nodded. “I was taking air in the gardens as I’m fond of doing at balls.”

He paused, and James nodded at him to continue. It was well known that Devonshire wasn’t fond of society and, until his marriage to his duchess, had eschewed it altogether.

“I came around the corner and caught the Marquess Shelbourne kissing Lady Candace.”

James’s hands curled into fists on the arms of the chair. He’d braced himself for it, but the molten jealousy that erupted in his chest still surprised him.

“Just kissing?” he choked.

“I assure you, Canterbury,” Devonshire said in a deadly, low voice, “if it had been more than kissing, Shelbourne would have met me at dawn.”

“Continue.”

“Forgive my indelicacy, but there is no subtle way to put this. It was clear to me upon walking up to them, that while the marquess was experienced in such matters, the lady was not. She did not participate with enthusiasm.”

“He was forcing himself⁠—?”