Page 4 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“Pages upon pages of complaints about her husband, I’d wager,” Dameer grumbled from behind his teacup.

Zahra tut-tutted. “Now, Dameer.”

“What? Andrew Jennings stole Kalila’s research. I don’t have to say nice things about him.”

Dameer was right, in a way. If the letter in Farah’s hand had been from Helena, it would have likely included a few key paragraphs about her insufferable husband. They had only been married a year before Helena had realized what an utter rat he was.

Or, rather, before she’d realized that no woman could reform a rat. At least Francis wasn’t out and about stealing other people’s work. He merely partook in the same leisurely activities that the men of his rank did—something Farah was grateful for.

“Poor Helena,” Farah murmured.

Her father looked up from his newspaper. “Speaking of Jennings, what business is he in now?”

“He’s been attempting to recruit people into his very own scientific society,” Dameer replied. “And doing a terrible job of it.”

“Kalila, meanwhile, cannot even begin to accommodate all the people who want to participate in her research,” Farah said, hearing the pride in her own voice. “I’m sure she’ll be breaking several hearts by closing her laboratory to join us in Wales.”

Sami fixed her with an odd look. “Have you considered sending an invitation to Mr. Beaumont?”

“Sami—” Zahra began.

“I have, though he really is quite busy,” Farah answered, the words painstakingly rehearsed after her conversation with her brother. “I very much doubt he’ll be able to come.”

Her father let out a contemplative hum. “Perhaps we ought to visit him in Bath ourselves.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Farah squeaked.

“Of course it’s necessary,” Sami insisted. “I’m not going to see you married off to just anybody.”

“What matters it that Farah thinks he’s well-suited,” Zahra said, shooting Farah a glance that said, Please ignore your father.

“I think I’ll go upstairs to read this.” Farah waved the letter in the air. “If Helena is in need of advice, I’d like to write her back as soon as possible.”

Bidding her family good night, Farah bounded up the stairs, slamming the door to her room shut behind her. Sinking down onto her bed, she broke the wax seal and began to read.

Dear Miss Rafiq,

Thank you for writing. I understand your desire to be done with all this waiting. After reading your letter, it occurred to me that we ought to try to work around the issue. As you know, two conditions must be satisfied before we can be married. First, I must reach thirty years of age. Second, I must wed. It is the first condition that is standing in our way, but given that my grandfather is no longer with us, I see no reason to satisfy it. The issue is that my inheritance is being kept under lock and key by my solicitor—who also happens to be my cousin. If there is one thing I am certain of, it’s that he will not budge in the face of my pleading. If you, however, would be willing to meet with him the next time you are in London, you might be able to persuade him to release my fortune to me. He works at Hawkins & Montgomery on Fleet Street. Ask for Mr. Montgomery.

F.B.

Farah gaped as she read and re-read the missive. Francis had, naturally, made no mention of the stories she’d shared about the scar cream and skin tonic, but Farah couldn’t find it in her to care. For once, there was a sense of urgency in his writing. For once, it seemed that he actually cared about the quandary they were in.

It would take far more to inspire love in her, but it was a start.

Now, to the problem at hand—the solicitor. Francis had never been good at expressing himself, so it was possible that Mr. Montgomery didn’t realize the gravity of the situation. If he knew he was preventing his cousin from finding happiness—if Farah could convince him to relent, then—

Farah bit her lip as she realized what she had to do. Making a mental note of the general location of Hawkins & Montgomery, she tossed Francis’s letter into the dying fire before returning to the parlor.

“I thought you’d retired for the evening,” her mother said.

Farah wrung her hands together. “Yes, well—I was wondering if you’d mind terribly if I didn’t go to Wales with you after all.”

Dameer, who had been taking a healthy gulp of tea, choked and began to cough.

“Is everything all right?” Zahra asked, patting Dameer on the back until his coughing fit subsided.

“Yes!” Farah breathed. “I just—I really ought to spend some time with Helena. She’s so unhappy.”