Page 4 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

The row house was nearly dark. Shelbourne almost sprawled onto the parquet of the foyer. At the last moment, he caught himself against the paneling and burped an apology. James ignored him. A servant rushed down the hall toward them—the same steward James had paid off only that evening. The man stopped abruptly, his eyes wide.

“Light a fire in a sitting room,” James said, taking charge. Shelbourne was still braced against the wall, taking heaving breaths. “Get me an empty coal bucket, in case he’s sick. Then brew some very strong tea and make some sandwiches.”

The steward jerked a nod and hustled through to the first room off the hallway to obey James’s clipped orders.

By the time James half guided, half wrestled Shelbourne onto a leather sofa, an empty bucket sat atop a towel by the spot closest to the fire. Shelbourne moaned, his head in hands, his elbows braced on his knees. James set the bucket between his legs and moved to the fireplace to wait.

After the inevitable retching, Shelbourne spent some time heaving deep breaths and staring into the bucket as if the contents were his deepest regrets. Then he blinked at the small towel draped over his own leg, wiped his face and mouth, and looked up.

“Oh, Canterbury.” His eyes widened. “Terribly sorry. It seems my supper didn’t agree with me.”

James had retreated to the furthest reaches of the room and now leaned against a bookcase, arms folded.

“Undoubtedly.” He nodded toward a tray set on the low table before Shelbourne’s sofa. “I took the liberty of ordering some restoratives.”

Shelbourne wasted no time in slurping back the cup of strong tea his steward had poured when he’d delivered the tray—though it was probably just a bit warmer than the room at that point. James waited as Shelbourne ate one half of the large sandwich and drank two more cups of tea liberally doused with sugar and cream. The steward cleared the first bucket and replaced it with a clean one, just in case.

By the stoic manner of the steward—marred only by the slightest curl of a lip out of Shelbourne’s view—James thought this wasn't such a rare occurrence.

The sandwich was finished, the teapot drained, and Shelbourne didn’t appear to require a repeat of his previous disgusting performance with the bucket. Color crept back to his face, and a hint of intelligence now gleamed in his bleary eyes.

“Shelbourne.” James came forward and took a seat across from him. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“Ah, the nightcap. Blenkinship!” he called. “Bring the whiskey!”

“Neither of us needs to imbibe during this conversation, though you may certainly have the desire by the end.”

Shelbourne didn’t seem to hear him; he was frowning at the doorway in expectation, though it remained empty.

“Shelbourne,” James said, more sharply. “I’m here to request that you return to London and fulfill your promises there.”

“What?” The man finally left off staring after his whiskey and faced James.

“You’re betrothed.” His voice nearly caught on the word. “Certainly you realize you’ve been gone too long.”

Shelbourne’s face screwed up like a wadded dishrag. “She sent you? As if it isn’t bad enough I have to deal with her letters arriving every other week, now she’s sent you after me like...like some kind of dog catcher?”

The accuracy of Shelbourne’s analogy wasn’t lost on James—the man before him was a mangy mutt, wayward and lost in every sense of the word.

“Lady Candace doesn’t even know I’m here. But that doesn’t absolve you of the responsibility you have toward her, toward your engagement.”

Shelbourne shook his head, his lips pressed together, his brow lowered. “She got what she wanted—a betrothal.”

“Betrothals are meant to lead to marriage, and you’ve been gone over a year.”

“She hasn’t taken up with someone else, has she?”

“Of course not.” James’s words were a whip. “She’s an honorable young lady.”

“Honorable,” Shelbourne scoffed. He slugged back the rest of his tea. “If you say so.”

“It would be very unwise of you to besmirch her name in my presence.” James’s words were a glacier—unyielding, cold. They left the impression that if Shelbourne weren’t careful, he’d suffer a slow, freezing death.

“You want me to marry the chit? Why do you care?”

“I’m a friend of her family.”

“Wish I’d known how many friends her family had before I set eyes upon her,” he grumbled, staring into the fire.