Page 37 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

“Well, of course that’s drivel.”

“That’s precisely my point—all of it is! And anyone who’d believe any of it is—” Vera cut off, possibly noting Candace’s protruding lower lip, her narrowed eyes.

“Is what?”

“You shouldn’t pay attention to it, is all I’m saying.”

“But other people will.”

“You should have learned by now that you cannot control what other people do. Or what they think, for that matter.”

Candace spluttered something incoherent and sat upright once more. “But what am I to do about it?”

“Nothing, of course. They are the proverbial churchyard bully—ignore them and eventually they’ll go away.”

“I’d rather hit them square in the nose,” she mumbled.

“Yes, well, that option isn’t available to you.”

“Lord Fettiwig certainly believes the papers.”

Vera scrunched her nose. “What does that old goat have to do with anything?”

Candace swiped one of the crumpled parchments from the floor and thrust it at Vera.

She smoothed and read it, then looked up with a sneaky smile. “Things are already looking brighter. It’s barely been more than a week, and already you’ve had another proposal.”

Vera neatly dodged the pillow thrown at her head.

“He’s seventy!” Candace said.

“And single.” Vera waggled her eyebrows.

Candace moaned and flopped back onto the sofa.

“I’m only joking. I have an idea. How about we go on one of those long country walks in the fresh air like you promised me back in London?”

Candace flopped a limp arm over her eyes. “You go on ahead. Take Hortense. I’m not feeling up to it.”

“I think I will.” Vera huffed a laugh through her nose and stood. “You know, if you’re feeling particularly melodramatic, there are filled decanters on the sideboard.”

CHAPTER 13- JAMES

From the Quentin Daily-

Missing! A prominent noble lady has called off her engagement and hasn’t been seen since! Has the lady closeted herself in her house out of shame, or is something more nefarious afoot? A source close to the situation, who wishes to remain anonymous for their own safety, reports, “We all know he killed her. She went back on the betrothal and he struck her in the head with a candlestick out of rage. He paid off the watchmen and the judge!” Is this a case of cold feet or a cold corpse? You decide!

James left for Devon the morning after he met with the Duke of Devonshire, but his journey wasn’t as swift as he would have liked. Travelling with an entourage—in this case, his son and a large dog, among others—was never as quick as travelling alone.

Arthur begged to stop at every roadside inn, no matter how dilapidated, and James said no so often he felt obligated to stop at several of the more reputable ones. The horses needed resting, as James was loathe to switch them out.

Altogether, it was nearly five days before he arrived at his manor house. It took another half a day to settle his son in the rambling estate well enough that James felt he could saddle a horse and leave.

The impatience in his chest eased slightly when Lord Salisbury’s stone manor came into view. It wasn’t nearly as dour as it had been the last time James visited, nearly ten years ago. Climbing roses had overtaken the facade, softening the overall appearance and adding a touch of romantic whimsy.

James huffed an indignant laugh at himself. Romantic whimsy, indeed.

His boots crunched into the pea gravel as he swung himself down from his gelding. He handed the reins off to the boy who came running from the stable and tugged his jacket into place before approaching the door. He shouldn’t be as nervous as he was—he was a friend of the family, had visited Candace many times. But he’d never followed a lady halfway across England before.