Page 52 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Candace blinked at Vera, who grinned before hurrying after the baroness.

Bertforth House wasn’t at all what Candace had been expecting. If she were honest, she’d admit she thought the baroness’s home would be stark and uninviting, and very possibly full of dead animals mounted to the walls.

Instead, the front foyer was bright and lovely and clean, with polished wide-plank wood floors that stretched down a gracious hallway. Classic wood paneling covered the bottom half of the walls, while the upper was a smooth ivory plaster. Numerous oil paintings in gilt frames hung from the picture rail at the ceiling. There seemed no rhyme or reason to the collection—here a landscape with a weeping willow next to a brook, there a portrait of a hunting hound. Still, the arrangement was charming.

A round black table rested in the center of the wide entryway, holding a collection of bleached clay pots, each with bright green shoots topped with sweet-smelling white blooms.

“My bulb collection,” the baroness explained when she saw Candace examining them. “When winter descends, I long for the flowers of spring. This is how I see myself through to the thaw.”

“They’re lovely.”

Candace gently nudged a small bloom with her knuckle. It was a tiny white bell that drooped from the green stem. Delicate and impactfully eye-catching—if the flowers had been atop a hat, she would have snatched it up at once.

“Lily of the valley, one of my favorites. How are your forced bulbs coming along? Any success?”

Candace winced. “There was an accident—the pot was knocked over.”

“A shame, but you should try again. Plants are very forgiving. Hortense,” Jacqueline said, nodding to a footman, “he’ll show you to the kitchens. I’ve instructed the housekeeper to make you a plate; you’ll be very welcome there.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I believe luncheon is ready if we are.” She led them down the lovely hallway. Tall sets of doors opened on either side of them, affording glimpses of comfortably furnished rooms as they passed. “It will be a delight to have company. My eldest is the only one of my sons civilized enough to dine with you ladies, and he’s still out of the country—though, by the sounds of his last letter, he may finally be missing home.”

The room the baroness led them to was a relatively small, circular space, ringed all the way around in floor-to-ceiling windows. Perhaps some would have used it as a solarium; instead, there was a round table in the center, set with three places, and a small buffet pushed near the door that held a thickly frosted layer cake beneath a glass dome.

“Ah, wonderful, there’s a cake; I spy it upon the sideboard. I don’t boast in much, but my cook’s cakes are worth much household pride.”

Once the three ladies were seated, napkins spread across their laps and food upon their plates, Vera asked, “Forgive me, Jacqueline, but you mentioned your eldest son is out of the country. Is he taking a tour?”

She fairly snorted. “If only. Grand tours have an end. Unfortunately, my Stephen suffers from a much more pernicious affliction than simple wanderlust. It’s honor that caused him to travel—he’s idealistic.”

“Oh?” Candace arched an eyebrow.

“My son has always had a fondness for healing. I thought he’d end up working with horses on our estate, but instead, he went and became a doctor—attended lectures for it and apprenticed with some of the best in London. Then what did he do? Ran off to India to help the native populace.” Jacqueline shook her head as if were the most confounding thing.

“Your eldest is a doctor?” Vera tilted her head.

“It is unusual,” Jacqueline answered the unspoken question.

“How long has he been abroad?”

“Six years, which is a bit excessive, even for my great patience. He believes in what he’s doing, though. And I believe in my son.”

Vera blinked rapidly. Candace frowned—was her friend fighting tears?

In order to distract the baroness from such a possibility, Candace quickly said, “How wonderfully supportive. Do you get letters from him often?”

“He writes me every Sunday night, but of course I get bundles of letters at a time.” She frowned. “It’s been a while since I received a letter, though his last set hinted he may return to England with a new baroness in tow.”

“Congratulations!” Candace said. “Do you know the lady?”

“Judging by previous letters, she’s the daughter of a captain recently arrived in port.”

“Ah.” Candace smiled and nodded—her customary response when she didn’t quite know what to say. Then she added, “It’s very noble of him to want to help those in need in India.”

“Noble. And idiotic. Strange fevers run rampant down there, you know. He could have had a very comfortable existence here. Instead, he chose that. I cannot blame anyone but myself, however. One cannot expect to live a life on their own terms and not have their children pick up some of their example. I couldn’t very well raise my sons to accept my flouting of the unnecessary expectations of society without expecting them to do some flouting of their own.”

“Is he happy?”