Page 59 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Chapter Fourteen

Farah awoke with the sun, limbs tangled with Grey’s. Tilting her head, she studied him, his features made all the more harsh by the bright light sneaking in through the curtains. He really was beautiful, in his own roughened way. If she’d been blessed with the gift of eloquence, she’d have conjured up all sorts of poetry to describe him.

But she was no poet, and he was nothing like the man she’d imagined for herself.

She closed her eyes in an attempt to keep the pinpricks of doubt in her chest at bay. Farah had always made the best of things, but how did one make the best of this?

What of Francis’s inheritance? If she didn’t find a way to recover it, Grey would be the one to suffer the consequences. The reputation of Hawkins & Montgomery would crumble and goodness knew what would become of Grey’s already strained relationship with Francis. She needed to track down the one thousand pounds, and she needed to do it for Grey.

Right. Now admit the next bit to yourself.

Farah allowed a small sigh to escape her, grateful that Grey appeared to be a heavy sleeper. She’d wanted Francis’s inheritance recovered for her own sake. Its absence had been nothing but another obstacle on her way to the parish. But now—now she wanted it back for Grey. And while she could very well chalk it up to feelings of friendship, she knew her affection for him ran deeper. Perhaps far deeper than she was willing to admit, which was a curiosity in and of itself. Why would Farah, who’d desperately dreamed of romantic love her whole life, not want to declare her adoration from London’s rooftops? It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

She put the thought aside, aware that she lacked the capacity to deal with it at present. Besides, there was another thing to fret over: last night.

Last night had been constructed of every hope she’d ever cast aside, and—should she feel guilty? It wasn’t as though Francis had been saving himself for her. And they weren’t quite engaged yet.

Except when you are engaged, Grey will be a member of your new family.

Farah buried her face in her pillow, stifling a groan of frustration. Regret was as far from her mind as it ever had been, but what she was supposed to do with the events of the evening prior eluded her. And what of Grey’s expectations?

Whatever the answers to all her questions, they wouldn’t be found in the sheets of his bed. Wiggling away from him, she left the warmth of the covers and located her scattered clothing.

She hesitated at the door, glancing over her shoulder at Grey’s sleeping form. The last thing she wanted was to worry him, so she padded toward the small table that sat in the corner of the room with the intention of leaving a scribbled note behind. A pencil and a tidy stack of paper had been left atop the cherry wood, and she held the former in her hand for a spell, considering.

Goodness, what was one meant to write in such a situation? Was she meant to thank him? Tell him she was anxious about having created an unsolvable dilemma? Admit to feeling something other than friendship?

Eventually, she forced her hand, pressing the lead tip of the pencil onto a sheet of paper.

Dear Grey,

I’ve gone to Willow House. All is well, so please don’t worry.

Farah

There. Short and to the point. Leaving the note on her pillow, she left the room, closing the door behind her. After a quick trip down the stairs, she managed her escape. Grey’s carriage idled outside of Montgomery House, his coachman leaning against it with his nose buried in the day’s paper. Farah cleared her throat, and he jumped.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, trying to fight her embarrassment, “but could you please take me to Willow House?”

“I most certainly can, miss.” He folded the paper into a tidy square. “Will Mr. Montgomery be joining you?”

“No!” Farah squeaked, her cheeks flushing crimson. “It’s just me today.”

To her relief, the coachman made no further inquiries, and she was dropped off at Willow House before she had a chance to properly collect herself. She lifted her hand to the knocker, the entrance swinging open before she could drop the brass loop against the door.

“I thought I’d hallucinated seeing you through the window, but here you are,” Dalia said. Her dark eyes traveled over Farah’s rumpled costume, her warm expression of welcome transforming into one of interest. “And it appears you have a story to tell.”

Farah followed her aunt into the parlor she and Grey had sat in only two weeks ago. Sinking onto a chaise, she said, “I’ve gotten myself into a—a bit of a mess.”

“A mess named Grey Montgomery, perhaps?”

Farah paled. “Is it really that obvious?”

Dalia shrugged. “The minute I saw the two of you together, I knew.”

“Knew?” Farah repeated, accepting a cup of tea. “Knew what?”

“That he’d be the man to convince you to leave Francis Beaumont on the doorstep where he belongs.”