Page 2 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Do they?

Farah shooed the thought away. She’d made up her mind. At this point, any marriage would do. Making the best out of things was her specialty, and her marriage to Francis would be no different. The only thing that really worried her was her ability to keep the farce going. If she wanted her family’s support, she would have to sell this as a love match.

The longer she searched for her perfect partner, the more behind she felt. It was time to get on with it all. The good news was that something else could occupy her thoughts for the next five years. No more sitting up all night wondering when lightning might strike, or if a handsome stranger might happen to visit Painswick. No more scanning crowds while on holiday, hoping to make electric eye contact with a handsome gentleman.

No more.

From now on, Farah Rafiq’s energy could go elsewhere.

Her search was over.

Chapter One

Painswick, England—1847

“If I had been destined for a love match, all my attempts at making an attachment would have gone somewhere,” Farah grumbled, pressing the blade of a small knife against the delicate stem of a chamomile stalk. Placing the cutting in a basket, she moved on to the next victim of her harvest. Beneath the myriad of plants and herbs lay an opened letter from Francis.

Perhaps she ought to have been grateful that he’d sent one at all. He had forgotten all about her last month, if his lack of correspondence had been anything to go by. The note he’d sent was, as always, a boring recount of his activities in London and Bath. As hard as she tried, Farah was unable to coax an interesting letter from the man. There was nothing she could ask, no anecdotes she could share, that would inspire Francis to put a shred of personality in his writing to her.

It was no wonder, then, that she’d spent far too much time over the last two years mulling over the understanding she’d formed with him. And that was after she’d promised herself to relocate her energy elsewhere. Granted, she had stopped wondering about the when of it all, which was something of a blessing.

Much to her chagrin, however, the why still nagged at her. Why couldn’t it have been easier? With long, beautiful hair and a soft, round frame, Farah possessed all the beauty her Kurdish roots had to offer. Yes, she had a dense smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose that maybe looked like she’d accidentally smeared dirt on herself while out of doors, but she was perfectly lovely otherwise. She possessed a natural curiosity about the world, was adept at making even the gloomiest of people smile, and could always be relied upon for fresh salves, tonics, and teas courtesy of her beloved herb garden. All in all, everything that was acceptable in a young woman of her age and circumstance.

“The plan was to make the best of things,” she reminded herself, placing a handful of cuttings in her basket. “Let’s not dwell.”

Her skin began to prick with discomfort as the sun beat down against her back, prompting her retreat to Northborough. She’d spent an age growing her garden in the far corner of the estate where the light was best. The cuttings would eventually find themselves in the products she sold to her neighbors for a few shillings apiece.

Once through the door of her family home, she tugged her bonnet off her head, allowing it to hang down her back. As if on cue, her brother’s head poked out of the parlor.

“There you are.” Dameer, only two years her senior, towered above Farah in a tangle of lanky limbs. He sported their mother’s golden curls and wide eyes—cherubic features for a man who had, overall, inherited the sharp planes of their father’s face.

“I was picking herbs,” Farah chirped, swinging her basket.

“I almost came to find you, but the heat is unbearable today,” Dameer said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Did news of this year’s holiday destination reach you already?”

Farah perked. She loved her family’s annual travels. While they spent their winters in Painswick, summertime was always reserved for the best of adventures.

“No! Where are we off to?”

“You’ll be pleased with this one,” Dameer told her. “Wales.”

A wide smile took over Farah’s face. “You mean the exact place I’ve suggested for the past two years?”

Dameer matched her smile with a grin of his own. “The very same. It’ll be a bit of a crowd, too.”

“Will Kalila and Oliver be joining us?” Farah asked, gesturing for her brother to follow her. He trailed her up the stairs to her room, where she tossed her bonnet on the bed and placed her basket on her worktable. “When are we leaving?”

“Yes, and in three weeks.” Dameer propped himself on the edge of her desk. “Would Mr. Beaumont like an invitation, do you think?”

Farah’s cheeks colored. “Oh! Well—maybe. I doubt he’d accept, though. He’s really very busy.”

Dameer studied her with a critical eye. “How long until you’re officially engaged again?”

“Three years,” Farah said with forced cheer.

“And you’re not engaged now because—?”

I wish I could be.