Page 50 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“So close,” Francis crowed. “But, as usual, not close enough.”

The implication alone made Grey shove Francis against the nearest tree, holding him up by the lapels of his red jacket. “Do not—”

“Good Lord, Grey,” Francis choked out. “What is this really about? Susanna? Grandfather?”

No. Yes. Neither of them. Both of them—Grey didn’t bloody know anymore. All he knew was that Francis had been a catalyst in every terrible part of his life. Every conflict, every disagreement.

Every injury.

And the sheer thought of him ending his days with Farah Rafiq at his side was so monumentally unjust that Grey just wanted to snap.

“Grey?”

Francis tore his gaze away from Grey. “Miss Rafiq! What a surprise.”

A gentle hand wrapped around Grey’s forearm. Farah stood beside him, her face filled with worry.

Whether it was on Francis’s behalf or his own, he did not know.

The realization of how he must appear dawned on him. Shame barreled through him as he dropped Francis to the ground, shaking out his injured hand. What must she think of him, seeing him with bloody knuckles, his cousin pinned to a tree?

Uncouth.

It was unsurprising, really, that his grandfather’s voice was the first in his mind. George had never let a single one of Grey’s childhood outbursts slide. Where Francis could see unfairness and shrug it off, Grey could not. He’d never been able to. Not even now, decades into adulthood.

Never mind that Francis was the common denominator in every unfair situation he could recall. Never mind that his cousin had never experienced said unfairness at the hands of their grandfather. It had always been Grey.

Farah placed her hands on her hips. “I didn’t know you were in London, Mr. Beaumont.”

Francis made to re-arrange his neckcloth. “I planned on calling on you tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sure.” She sounded unconvinced. To the mermaid, she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

To her credit, the mermaid seemed aware that she’d overstayed her welcome and was quick to gather her iridescent skirts in her hands. “I was just leaving. Do enjoy the rest of the evening.”

They watched her escape in strained silence, Grey still drowning in his own mortification. Farah stood between him and Francis, giving the impression of a lady lost in thought.

Possibly wondering what she’d overlooked, why she’d willingly spent so much time in Grey’s company to begin with.

Francis cleared his throat. “Well, then! Have you made any progress, Miss Rafiq?”

She frowned. “Progress?”

“You did come to London to help speed things along with—in relation to our wedding, did you not?”

Grey raised his eyebrows, unable to fathom the depths of Francis’s stupidity. Of all the times to ask about his inheritance. But then, it likely hadn’t occurred to him that he’d done anything wrong to begin with.

“Yes, I did,” was Farah’s curt reply. “But I’m afraid no progress has been made.”

“That’s a shame.”

Already tired of being subjected to this brief back-and-forth, Grey spoke. “This is neither the time nor place to discuss such things, Francis.”

Farah straightened at the sound of his voice, as if she’d forgotten that he was there. Her face glowed in the moonlight, something in her expression broken. He wished he had something to say—anything that would absolve him—but the chaos of his thoughts was interrupted by her dismayed gasp. “You’re hurt.”

Puzzled, Grey shook his head. “No, I’m—”

“Yes, you are,” she insisted. For some unearthly reason, she turned her back to Francis and positioned herself beside Grey. Lifting his hand in hers, she sighed. “Your knuckles. See?”