Page 28 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Devonshire nodded. “I believe he left for Paris the very next day. I’ve wondered whether attending our wedding impressed upon him the permanence of such a decision.”

James grunted. He didn’t really care whether Shelbourne had been scared off or not. The man was a reprobate, and had treated Candace abominably.

“I trust you’ll make use of this information.” Devonshire stood.

“Indeed. Thank you.”

By the time James was seated upon his horse, he’d compiled a mental list of tasks that required completion before he could leave the city. He put gentle heels to his horse and smiled. Springtime in the Devon countryside—what could be better?

CHAPTER 10- CANDACE

From the Quentin Daily-

Seen riding through Mayfair streets: one of the most noble and eligible men of society. If the size of the bouquet he carried was any indicator, perhaps he’s in the market for a wife! Does he marry for love, or are rumors of his imminent financial insolvency true? More to come!

Devon Manor was a sturdy stone house that looked as if the main structure had been drawn by someone who dearly loved using a straight-edge ruler. Its decidedly dour, masculine facade was rectangular in shape, three stories tall, and marched in three straight lines out from the central point of its main entryway.

Thus, the building itself closely resembled a letter T from a raven’s perspective, although two lines of the building—the wing that ran straight back from the front door, and the wing that ran left—were walled in behind to form a large rectangular gated garden. Upon Candace’s brother Percy’s last visit, a quarter of this had been replanted with the regular vegetables for a kitchen garden; the rest had been left to the whims of nature. As it stood, the walled yard was a wild, ungainly ode to the lovely rose garden it must have once been.

One such industrious rose had, over time, sent out enterprising tendrils and clambered its way to the top of the high stone wall. Finding the sunlight on the exterior of its confinement far superior and more conducive to producing a plethora of ruffled pink blooms, she’d whispered her finding to her similarly situated friends, and over the years, climbing roses—light pink and white—had taken up residence all along the front of the manor.

Certainly the original owner—a precise, unyielding military man who’d planned the walled-in garden in case of prolonged siege—would have balked at such an invasion, but the result was charming. The roses could do little harm to stone walls three feet thick and designed to withstand trebuchets. At Percy’s instructions, they’d been left to ramble, only trimmed regularly to keep their curious, wandering fingers from prying open the windows, and the heads of their blooms from obstructing the views like a tall man in the front row of the theatre.

When the carriage rasped up the gravel drive that led to the front door—with a shocking lack of portico—Candace sighed wistfully at the riot of pink and white that greeted her. It felt as if things might be hopeful again someday. Not now, perhaps. But someday.

“This is lovely,” Vera sighed, echoing her thoughts. “Have you been here before?”

“Not since I was very young. I figured—” She pressed her lips together.

It was the last place they’d think to look for her.

Not that she planned on staying hidden forever—that was impossible, unless she was interested in South America, or even further—the wilds of California, perhaps. Her nose wrinkled reflexively; she was a creature of comfort and had little interest in a ocean voyage that took months—if the ship arrived at all.

That part of her—the part that loved refinement in all things—was another reason she’d chosen Devon Manor. Her brother had made little secret of the repairs needed throughout the place and the incredible expense of a new slate roof. The previous steward of the property had been a thief and a miser—the worst combination for a property manager. Those who knew Candace would think to look nearer to London.

As close friends often did, Vera read her silence like block letters printed on a page. She winced sympathetically. “No one will know we’re here, Candace. No one will come looking until they’re invited.”

Candace nodded briskly as the carriage door opened. She took the footman’s proffered help with a grey-gloved hand.

Never waste white gloves on travelling, darling, her mother used to say. They’ll be grey once you arrive.

A staggering wave of nostalgia and years-worn grief rose within her—she missed her mother sometimes with an intensity that made her breath hitch. If only her mother were here to offer guidance now.

Candace descended the steps and stared up at the house to collect herself. She could only imagine the set-down the late Marchioness of Salisbury would have given Shelbourne. She would have approved of Hortense’s treatment of the man; she herself most likely would have unleashed a horsewhip upon him for what he’d done to her daughter.

Vera came to stand next to her, looking up at the house in silent solidarity, Hortense a comforting presence at their backs. Behind them, footmen unloaded several small trunks and valises from the carriage.

Candace took a deep breath and smiled wanly at Vera. “Shall we?”

“It will be an adventure. Just like that last roadside inn.”

She couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s relentless optimism—it bolstered her. She strode for the entry, pea gravel crunching beneath her elegant leather boots, and pulled the chain to the side of the large double doors. A loud clanging echoed from just inside.

They waited long enough for Candace’s lips to form a line of tension. What if there were no servants about? What if the housekeeper had fired everyone and absconded with the silver? What if they’d travelled all this way for nothing?

But the door thrust open and a grey-haired head popped out. “I’ve told you ten times, Gerald, use the servants’ entrance; it’s fixed now. Oh!”

The last was said upon glimpsing Candace and Vera standing shoulder to shoulder on the flagstone entry. The woman wore a navy dress buttoned all the way to the throat, her hair pulled tightly into submission into a large bun at the nape of her neck. Smile lines bracketed her mouth and creased the corners of her eyes.