Page 1 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Prologue

Painswick by way of Cheltenham, England—1845

Farah Rafiq was in a bit of a predicament.

It wasn’t one entirely of her own making. The fact was that any single woman surrounded by relationships born of perfect love stories would want one of her own. Her family, naturally, didn’t waste a single second thinking on this fact. But Farah was certain that it was one acknowledged by every unattached woman in England—herself most of all.

She glanced across the carriage at her mother, who was absorbed in placing the finishing touches on the traditional embroidery she intended to stitch onto some unsuspecting pillow or another. Zahra Barzani had literally fallen into the arms of her future husband while searching for beads at an open-air market in Baghdad, a happenstance Farah envied for its simplicity. Her gaze shifted over to her Aunt Jwan, who was lost in the pages of a thick novel. The man who had fallen in love with her had given up everything—his home, even his family—for the privilege of marrying her.

It made sense, then, that Farah wanted her life to be painted with the same romantic brush. For a time, she had played the part of patient gentlewoman, waiting for the opportunity to fall into her lap. When that hadn’t happened, she’d resorted to calculated attempts at attracting attention. Par exemple—while on holiday last year, she’d lingered by Notre Dame for an age, dropping her handkerchief on an endless loop before a passing Frenchman finally took notice and decided to lose his heart to her. It had, ultimately, been a waste of time, as it had taken him all of two months to stop responding to her letters.

Typical. She’d had a shocking number of attachments, if one could even refer to them as such. There were those that never blossomed, those that fizzled out upon deeper acquaintance, and those that refused to rest purely because the men involved were bored enough to send her one correspondence a year asking after her health. Making a match should have been easy for a woman like Farah, interesting and clever as she was. A veritable catch that, for whatever reason, nobody bothered catching. All of it—the constant trying, the fact that she could often think of little else—was wearying, which was why she was committed to seeing her latest seaside beau to the altar. She would squeeze a life-altering romance out of him if it was the last thing she did.

She cleared her throat and waited for her mother and aunt to look at her.

“I am in love,” she announced.

Her aunt raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“With Mr. Francis Beaumont,” Farah said. “And I intend to marry him.”

Her mother responded with an unconvinced, “How exciting!”

Farah didn’t take her tone to heart. The entire family knew that she was quick to declare her affections for the men that crossed her path.

“The only problem,” Farah continued, “is that we have to wait.”

“Wait?” Jwan echoed. “Wait for what?”

“He’s to inherit a rather large sum of money in five years,” Farah explained. “From his grandfather.”

Zahra’s eyes widened. “Five years?”

Farah shrugged. “His grandfather has already passed, but his will states that Francis will only receive his fortune once he marries and reaches at least thirty years of age. Both conditions must be satisfied if he’s to see a shilling.” She paused. “It’s quite the fortune, actually. I’ll be well taken care of.”

“I’m sure you will.” Zahra made a quick return to her needlework. “Be sure to tell your father. He’d hate to be party to a surprise offer for your hand in five years.”

“I will.” Farah knew full well that her father would respond to the news with a flood of very good questions. “I’ve already written Dameer. He’ll tell Kalila, I’m sure.”

Despite having been the one to mention her cousin, Farah felt herself wilt. Yet another story of a woman from the Rafiq-Darwish clan that had found herself in the throes of perfect romance before she’d even realized it. What’s worse was that Kalila hadn’t even intended on falling in love. It was almost as though Farah were the only one of them doomed to have to put in effort of the most unnatural kind.

“I’ve no doubt Dameer will return to Painswick with your letter in hand,” Zahra said with a fond half-smile.

Farah hummed in agreement. Dameer had a nervous constitution and would also drown her under a deluge of very good questions about Francis.

Does he come from a good family?

Yes.

Where will you live?

Bath. Or London? She actually hadn’t the faintest idea.

Are you really willing to wait five years?

Biting her lip, Farah turned her attention to the window. She didn’t want to wait five years, but she was tired of the endless cycle of disappointment that seemed to dominate her life. It was exhausting to have to expend so much energy, especially when everybody around her seemed to fall in love by accident. At least her father and brother wouldn’t ask whether she found Francis attractive, or if he was passionate. Those questions would by and large be left to Farah’s close friend Helena.

The truth was that Francis had a mustache Farah wasn’t entirely fond of, and he tended to be a touch too moody for her liking. But they needed one another—she for the companionship, and he for his inheritance. That was something, wasn’t it? Not to mention that women reformed men all the time.