Page 18 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“Tight, rather.”

“It is.” He paused before speaking again. “I should apologize. I didn’t mean to scandalize you that day. My doctor has me doing these ridiculous exercises to stretch the skin and I—I was trying to see if any progress had been made.”

“This salve will help,” Farah promised, fighting back the absurd urge to comfort him. “It’s a proprietary mix of lavender, chamomile, marigold, and beeswax.”

“It’s not proprietary if you go around sharing all the ingredients,” was his wry response.

“All of the ingredients, but none of the measurements. I assure you, Mr. Montgomery, that by the time we part, your office will be organized, your injury made bearable, and your family’s money restored.”

“Big promises.”

“It’s very fortunate, then, that I do not make promises I cannot keep.”

He took on a serious air then, and a flicker of something like disappointment danced in his eyes. Though what could have possibly inspired it, Farah did not know. After all, she’d just offered her services to him on a silver platter.

Really, he ought to be overjoyed.

“Fine,” he said. “One month.”

Farah squeaked in unabashed delight as she hopped out of her chair. “Wonderful! You and I will be fast friends, Mr. Montgomery. You’ll see.”

All she received in return was an unconvinced scoff.

*

She was too much.

Not in a bad way, of course, but just—too much. To Grey, it was like having an energetic whirlwind rip through his office.

Through the peaceful, uneventful life he’d painstakingly built for himself over the past five years.

Beneath the wide neckline of her dress sat a line of gold buttons with tiny leaves carefully fashioned into each one—a far cry from the plain buttons on the navy-blue gown he’d first seen her in, which—

Pull yourself together. They’re buttons, for God’s sake.

After he’d shooed her away yesterday, he’d pulled on his coat, ready to file his report with the constable. Halfway to the entrance, he’d realized that Francis would become involved in the whole mess. And, without any warning, his grandfather’s voice had crept into his head to reprimand him. Irresponsible. Unintelligent. Burdensome. Unable to care for the family.

And for all it was a stroke of misfortune, the descriptors favored by George Montgomery began to sink in, feeling more and more true with every passing second. He’d thought about Leila, about how he might go about telling her. That had sent him back into his office, where he’d glowered at his desk. When exhaustion had crept into his bones, he’d glowered on the couch in the corner instead.

He’d have continued said glowering had Miss Rafiq not burst in, offering her services. Every interaction with her had him at a loss. Every time he thought he had her pegged, she somehow proved him wrong. She existed in a strange, undefined space, both gentlewoman and oddity.

And she claimed to love Francis.

Glancing over, Grey saw her crouched over scattered papers. She gathered them into a pile, stood, and placed them on his desk. Her dark eyes met his, and she gave him an uncertain smile.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked, looking away. Everything about her was too much, and he didn’t like it.

He wasn’t supposed to like it.

“I’m surprised you managed to forget it already.” She moved somewhere behind him and the sound of more papers being shuffled together met his ears. “R-a-f-i-q. Rafiq.”

He would end up grinding his teeth into dust if he tried to bite back every smile she coaxed out of him, he thought while doing so anyway.

“Your—” He knew better than to say Christian name, so he didn’t. “Your first name.”

She breezed past him to tackle another corner of the office. She left an unlikely scent in her wake—that of freshly sheared grass after the rain. “It’s Farah, though I’m quite sure you aren’t allowed to address me as such.”

He turned to examine the contents of the cabinet. As long as he wasn’t looking at her, all would be well. “I wouldn’t dare. What does it mean?”