Page 67 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

He shouldn’t have come here. All he was doing was pushing the dagger deeper, causing more damage, drawing more blood.

If he loitered around the carriage any longer, he might appear rude. Still, it took his legs a minute or two to react before he was able to approach Farah, his jaw clenched in anticipatory anxiety. When she saw him, her face broke into a radiant smile.

Like clockwork, he thought I love her, hoping with desperation that it didn’t show on his face. The woman next to Farah—Kalila, she’d said—quirked an eyebrow almost imperceptibly in his direction. She stood taller than Farah, her hazel eyes massive against her drawn features.

“This is Mr. Montgomery,” Farah was saying, having clearly chosen to revert to formalities. “Aunt Dalia asked him to accompany me. He’s her solicitor.”

Kalila stuck a hand out, which Grey took. She gave his hand a firm shake before dropping it. “Kalila Darwish. A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Darwish,” Grey said, her name awkward in his mouth.

“Kalila will do,” she said.

Grey nodded in obedience, feeling distinctly uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze.

“Is this your first time in Gloucestershire?” she asked, turning on her heel to lead them into the house.

“It is,” Grey murmured, unable to stop his eyes from darting every which way at the glittering light and soft, calming colors of Northborough. Montgomery House was a veritable rabbit’s burrow in comparison, but some similarities made themselves plain—carpets hanging from the walls, Mesopotamian metalwork, pillows embroidered with repeating geometric patterns. Northborough was everything that was Eastern hiding behind an English facade, an aesthetic that had become familiar to him in the wake of his grandfather’s death.

“Someone’s first time in Gloucestershire?” a voice inquired. Grey turned to see a man poke his head out of a nearby room, brown eyes twinkling with unrestrained curiosity.

A joyful gasp came from Farah. “Oliver!”

“Farah!” Oliver returned, coming toward her. He took her hand and gave her a little twirl. Grey observed them with what he hoped was an impassive air despite the old pinpricks of jealousy that threatened. He could sense Kalila watching him and wondered what it was that she found so terribly interesting.

Oliver turned toward him with a boyish, friendly grin, and it occurred to Grey that it was likely very difficult for anyone to remain annoyed in the face of such charm. “Now let me guess—Francis Beaumont?”

The silence that fell was swift and deafening enough to erase the grin from Oliver’s face. In its place, he offered Grey an uncertain smile, a nervous chuckle escaping him.

“Mr. Montgomery, actually,” Kalila said, coming to his rescue. “Aunt Dalia’s solicitor.”

Oliver cleared his throat, the crooked grin returning to his face. “Mr. Montgomery, then! My apologies, I thought—”

“An easy mistake,” Grey said, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Of course they expected the man Farah had promised herself to. Instead, they were being asked to make do with him, a random solicitor who had, for some ungodly reason, shown up at their doorstep with Farah in tow.

When Farah spoke, it was to say, “Where’s Dameer?”

“Sulking in his room,” Kalila replied, making the abrupt decision to lead them up the stairs. When Grey hesitated, she glanced over her shoulder and added, “You’re welcome to join us, Mr. Montgomery.”

Grey bit back a sigh before following. It wasn’t as if idling downstairs would be any less painful. Kalila took them down a hallway and to a door, on which she gave a sharp knock. Despite the irritable voice inviting them in, Grey lingered by the doorway as Farah approached the bed. A young man with a head full of golden curls was nestled in the sheets, his bandaged leg poking out for all to see.

“Hello, Dameer,” Farah said.

Dameer sat up in surprise. “Farah? What are you doing here?”

“Kalila wrote me.” Farah propped herself on the edge of the mattress. “Tell me Amelia enjoyed the apple you picked for her, at least.”

“She might have,” Oliver said with mock gravity, “if Dameer had actually made it that far.”

Kalila settled into a chair by the bed. “It’s nothing more than a minor fracture.”

“I almost died,” Dameer responded bitterly. “In fact, I may very well die during recovery. For all you know—”

He stopped speaking the moment his dark eyes settled on Grey.

“Oh, Dameer,” Kalila began, her words coming out in a hurry, “this is—”

“Francis Beaumont finally come to call?” Dameer guessed, his expression one of pure criticality.