Page 47 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

But he had nothing to offer her, no alternate path to place her on. She had made her choice, and it was clear that she intended to see it through. And perhaps it was his fault that she was still hellbent on seeing Francis to the altar. Perhaps if he were honest, things would be different.

His scar began to ache.

“And I promise to convince Francis to accept whatever you propose for his half of Montgomery House,” she continued, squeezing his hands. “So you’re welcome to offer him as little as possible.”

Unable to help himself, Grey smiled. “Are you telling me to cheat my own cousin?”

“I am.” She released his hands to gesture at the garden. “Your grandmother told me about your fondness for flowers.”

Grey’s skin grew warm with embarrassment.

Remember, killing your grandmother is a crime. You are a solicitor. Solicitors are not meant to engage in criminal activity.

“It’s hard not to like them,” he admitted, aware he wouldn’t escape with any form of denial.

“I once read a book about the language of flowers,” she said. “Your garden makes me wish I’d committed it to memory.”

“What would you think of me if I said I knew what messages my flowers are meant to send?”

She flashed a cheeky smile. “I’d think you a most dedicated gardener.”

“That I am.”

“Tell me, then! I want to know,” she said, scooting closer to him with eagerness. She pointed at the patch of overgrown cornflowers. “Start with the blue ones. The cornflowers.”

Softly, he told her, “Be gentle with me.”

“And the honeysuckles?”

“Devoted affection.”

Farah hummed as she scanned the foliage. “What are those?”

Grey followed her gaze. “Carnations.”

“They’re so lively,” she murmured with a happy sigh. “I’m far better at remembering the names of herbs than flowers. Which is a bit of a shame, considering I’m surrounded by far more of the latter living in the country.”

Grey could picture her away from the flowers with ease, crouched in a secluded patch of herbs, smudges of earth on her sun-tinged skin as she cut away at her bounty with a knife. Dedicated to creating something soothing out of the harvest.

“What message do they send?” she asked. “The carnations, I mean.”

Damn you to the deepest depths of hell, Francis.

“My heart aches for you.”

Chapter Eleven

“My goodness, you’re terrifying!”

Grey lifted his mask and looked up at Farah, who had been awaiting him on the crowded steps of Ramsbury House. “What in the hell are you supposed to be? An owl?”

“Close, but no.” She gave him a quick twirl. “I’m Kilili, the Mesopotamian demon of haunted places!”

She was dressed in loose silks of cloudy gray and purple, her gold curls tied in a low knot to accommodate the wispy horns that had been affixed to her head. Black wings hung off her back, the feathers of which rustled in the evening breeze.

“And where is your mask?” he asked, trying to suppress the smile that threatened.

Farah lifted a hand, showing him a simple half-mask of dark silk. “I can assure you that every element of my costume has been accounted for. What are you supposed to be?”