Page 36 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Vera pursed her lips. “Are you feeling well this morning? Did you not sleep?”

“I slept very well.”

It was the truth—even if Candace failed to mention that she could have slept seventeen more hours and had considered simply staying in her crisp sheets indefinitely.

“I did too. I was so warm.”

Candace blinked. “Do you not have a fireplace in your bedroom in London?”

Vera dropped her eyes to her plate. “Of course I do.”

Candace frowned and opened her mouth to address the niggling suspicion in her mind, but Mrs. Penn bustled through the far door. “How can I be of service, my lady?”

“Thank you for coming. I was wondering what the post is like between here and London. How long does it take to receive letters or items?”

“When the weather’s well enough, two to three days. The innkeeper in town sorts and holds the mail, then sends it along with the coach.”

Candace nodded. “I wish to send a letter first thing this morning. There might already be some post for me in town as well.”

“Very good, my lady. We’ll send someone as soon as you have the letter ready.”

After Mrs. Penn retreated, Vera frowned at Candace. “I thought no one knew where we are.”

“No one does. Well, except for the Duke of Devonshire, and he certainly won’t share the information.” Candace smoothed her napkin over her skirts, not meeting Vera’s eyes.

“Then how are you already expecting post?”

Candace lifted one shoulder in a jerky shrug.

Vera dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “Oh, Candace, you didn’t. The whole purpose of coming here was to escape such nonsense.”

“I want to know what they’re saying, at the very least.”

“Who cares what they’re saying? The Quentin Daily is absolute garbage, a gossip rag.”

Candace’s chin jutted. “Which everyone reads.”

“But you don’t have to. Wasn’t that half the point of travelling all the way out here, to avoid their pernicious lies?”

“I just want to know. My imagination is far worse than any reality, I assure you.”

Vera narrowed her eyes. “It’s going to be awful. That’s all they ever print—awful things.”

She stabbed her fork into the French toast. “I can handle it.”

“I thought you said you could handle it.” Vera sighed.

The morning had come and gone, and the post had arrived. Candace sprawled ignominiously on the leather sofa, her face hidden beneath a needlepoint pillow. Several crumpled news sheets littered the floor.

Candace sat up. The pillow rose with her, teetering for a moment on the top of her head before sliding off.

Candace ignored it; she stared at Vera, wide-eyed. “They’re calling me an opportunist. Insinuating that Shelbourne found me lacking, that it was really he who called off the engagement.”

“Of course they are,” Vera responded gently. “They’re awful people. Terrible liars, and even worse writers, which is really saying something.”

Candace flopped back down with a muffled groan.

“Look.” Vera smoothed a gossip sheet. “This one claims that Parliament is a cult, that they slaughter small animals every session and take blood oaths.”