Page 7 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

The second room also proved to be a disappointment, which left her with one last area to investigate before she was forced to give up.

Not that giving up meant that she wouldn’t be back tomorrow, but still.

Placing a light touch on the doorknob, Farah prayed for a tiny bit of luck.

And that prayer was answered, because the door swung open before she could give it a push, scaring the wits out of her. A man—a very large man—stood before her, bare-chested and annoyed. Farah’s eyes snapped to the horrible, twisted scar that graced his right side, and then to the gorgeous, hard planes of his stomach.

She’d never seen—

“Who in the hell are you?”

Farah jumped, her study interrupted. Heat threatened to take over her face as she realized that she’d been staring at—well, gawking at—this half-naked man in complete silence.

“Mr. Montgomery?” She forced herself to meet his storm-gray eyes. They were far too pretty to belong to a man but were offset rather harshly by the dark stubble on his face.

“Who’s asking?”

Farah stuck her hand out before him in an attempt to initiate a handshake. “Miss Farah Rafiq. Could I come inside?”

*

Of all the ridiculous things Peregrine Montgomery expected to see today, a well-dressed lady wasn’t one of them. And yet here she was, her hand suspended in the space between them, a determined grin on her round face.

“There’s nobody around to help, do you know that?” she asked.

“Of course I know that,” he said, ignoring her hand. “Hawkins is off on holiday, and we’ve been without a secretary for months.”

She lowered her arm. “How dreadful. Well, I suppose it’s lucky that I managed to run into you, then.”

Grey—nobody called him Peregrine, save for his grandmother—looked down at her, unable to hide his confusion. Here he was, hideous scar on full display, and all she seemed compelled to do was comment on the particulars of how his business was being run.

“I am not seeing clients today, Miss Rafiq,” he said. “Clearly.”

“Clearly?” she repeated, frowning. “Oh, I see. Is that why you’re without a shirt?”

What in God’s name is happening here?

“If you must know, yes,” he said. “Now, Miss Rafiq—”

“That’s a terrible scar.”

There was a very good possibility that Grey had died and gone to hell. What other explanation was there for his current predicament?

“I am aware, thank you. Now, if you could please—”

“I would ask how you came by it, but I’m in a bit of a rush,” she interrupted, beaming up at him.

Grey stared at her, finding himself at a complete loss.

“I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Montgomery. Will you let me into your office? And perhaps find a shirt?”

Without waiting for him to respond, she bustled past, somehow knowing he’d move aside rather than risk having her brush against him. Grey watched as she entered his office, propping herself on a wooden chair.

“Miss Rafiq,” Grey said, retrieving his shirt and pulling it over his head, “what part of I am not seeing clients today did you not understand?”

“I’m not a client,” she replied. “I’m here to ask a favor of you.”

“I don’t deal in favors.” He seated himself behind his desk, gratified by the barrier it provided. Something about this woman unsettled him.