Page 5 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” Shelbourne patted his pockets, came up with a flask, unscrewed it and tipped it upside down into his mouth, then frowned and tossed it to the carpet. He rummaged again and produced a fresh cheroot and lit it, letting it hang from the corner of his mouth.

James fought the urge to take the man by his lapels and shake him.

Shelbourne stared into the fire, then his eyes narrowed and returned to James. “And what if I don’t?”

“Surely even someone of your character can see that this solution won’t resolve itself. However, if you throw Lady Candace over, there will be repercussions.”

He snorted. “Like what?”

“The natural disdain of society, for one. The enmity of some very powerful people, for another.”

“I’m a marquess.”

And such a wonderful example of one, James wanted to retort. Instead, he swallowed his vitriol. “Even marquesses need friends in higher places.”

The inference was clear—Shelbourne may have been a marquess, but so was Candace’s brother, Percy, and James himself was a duke. If Shelbourne wanted to toy with the heart of a noble lady without consequences, Candace was a very poor target indeed.

“Fine. I’ll return to London. Paris is becoming dull, anyway.”

“Very good. I’ll expect to see you within the month.” James stood, uncaring if Shelbourne saw how eager he was to quit the room and its disgusting company.

Shelbourne didn’t reply, just sullenly puffed at his cheroot and stared into the fire.

CHAPTER 3- CANDACE

From the Quentin Daily-

Scandal! What can one think when the progeny born to two fair-haired parents has hair as black as coal? Our readers may come to the same conclusion as the husband, who’s since sent his wife and heir off to the country for the foreseeable future! Is it any coincidence that a dark-haired footman was removed from service in the household the very same week?

Madame Aubert’s shop was tucked between a milliner’s and a respectable cobbler. The black lacquered door was marked only by a discreet brass plaque inscribed with M. Aubert. If one didn’t know the dressmaker was there, one would never see it.

Of course, every lady in the ton knew of Madame Aubert, even those who couldn’t afford her creations. Perhaps especially those who couldn’t afford her. Luckily for Candace, she and the famed courtier were well past introduction, so long on a first-name basis that one might mistake them for something bordering on friends. Not that anyone would be crass enough to say so.

Candace breezed through the glossy door as if she owned not only the shop and the fabric inside, but the city block and all of London beyond. Vera and Candace’s maid followed closely behind her.

Vera pressed her lips together. “Is she expecting us? What if she has another customer?”

Candace blinked, momentarily flummoxed. “I sent word ahead.”

“Fifteen minutes isn’t much of a warning, Candace.” But her voice was teasing, as if she found her friend’s confidence mildly amusing.

Candace smiled. “If she has another customer, we can admire the silks while we wait.”

The shop girl who minded the waiting room did indeed show them into the fabric room. An enormous, gilt-framed mirror spanned one wall—it was an antique, mottled and pitted, barely casting a reflection back onto the room. It hardly mattered; no one paid attention to the dim mirror, as the rest of the walls featured bolt upon bolt of lustrous fabric.

Hortense took a position against the wall near the doorway. She was a sturdy young woman of French descent who was a conscientiously hard worker. For some reason, she felt great protectiveness and personal investment in Candace. Candace never had to wake her upon returning to her room after a late dinner, and Hortense wielded a keen eye and a vicious, thick-handled umbrella at potential pickpockets and snarling stray dogs alike.

Candace and Vera immediately gravitated toward the silks—two butterflies fluttering over a flower bed, deciding where to land. Vera removed one of her bulky gloves and cautiously trailed her bare fingers over a grey-green precisely the shade of sea foam.

“I don’t know how she procures the finest of everything. She always has the best.”

Shopping at Madame Aubert’s practically guaranteed one would stand out in a ballroom. She wasn’t just a genius with cutting and stitching; she had cloth exclusive only to her shop, while other dressmakers purchased their bolts of fabric from the same supplier. There was no embarrassment quite like that of showing up in the same silk as another lady. It had happened to Candace one time, and she’d never forgotten the way her confidence had wilted and shriveled like a cut bloom left in the sun.

“It’s part of what makes her the best. One of her many secrets.” Candace nodded toward a pale-peach shantung. “Do you think that would clash horribly with my hair?”

“I hardly think you need to be asking me for advice. You know what they say behind my back.”