Page 27 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“Small blessing,” Grey muttered.

Once they were in his carriage—God, they were going to be spending a lot of time in here, weren’t they?—Farah instructed the coachman to take them to St. James’s.

“Aren’t we meant to be going to Mayfair?” Grey asked as the carriage lurched forward, inching its way through the usual afternoon crush.

Farah blinked at him. “You’re going to the Flower Ball too, you know.”

“And?”

“Do you mean to tell me you already have an ensemble in mind?”

“I highly doubt anyone will notice my veering from the dress code.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “We should have a waistcoat made for you, at least. Black flowers against cream silk, maybe.”

Grey’s eyebrows shot up as he tried to stifle his secret pleasure at the idea. “Black flowers against cream silk.”

“Anything we can do to blend in will be most helpful to our investigation,” she said, all business. “The best detectives are able to hide in plain sight, you know.”

Grey sighed in resignation. St. James’s it was, then.

“A black silk cravat would look lovely on you, actually,” she added.

His eyes snapped to hers. She was regarding him with her usual sunny expression, not realizing that it had been years since he’d been complimented by a woman who wasn’t his grandmother. Completely oblivious to his bewilderment, Farah continued to chatter. She told him about Painswick, about her herb garden, and about the ointments and tinctures she’d sold to the villagers. As much as he hated to admit it, the stories about the customers she’d serviced—and those she’d accidentally upset—made for fine entertainment.

It was nice, he thought, that she didn’t seem to require his input. He didn’t mind listening.

As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop, Farah hopped out and led Grey through the doors of a shop. After a polite exchange of pleasantries, she asked after the tailor’s stock of cream fabrics.

Grey was happy to let her take charge, watching with mild interest as she examined the bolts that were brought down for her, running her gloved hands over each one as if testing them for softness.

He struggled not to picture her doing the same once said fabrics were on his body. This, of course, had nothing to do with Farah herself. It was what any man would think while in forced proximity to a shining beacon of a woman.

Grey was ushered to a platform, where his measurements for a waistcoat were taken.

“It’s wonderful to see a wife so interested in her husband’s clothing,” the tailor remarked, stretching his measuring chain across Grey’s shoulders.

Wife?

In a moment of stupidity, he allowed himself to envision it—to envision having a wife who was interested in all aspects of his life, just as he was interested in hers. To have a companion who didn’t want to live on separate planes of existence. It wasn’t the norm, of course. Far from it.

But it was what he’d been chasing before his damned injury.

“Thank you,” Farah said, without missing a beat.

She was far too tranquil for Grey’s taste. It wouldn’t do.

“Thank you, darling,” he said. In the mirror, he saw her face turn beet red with startling swiftness.

“Newlyweds, then,” the tailor decided. “You may step off, sir.”

Clearing her throat, Farah began her appeal, asking if the waistcoat, complete with embroidery, could be finished by Thursday afternoon. She offered to overpay but was refused by the tailor, who appeared rather enamored by her enthusiasm.

“I don’t think we could do without a cravat of black silk,” she threw in. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

All her effervescence seemed to dissipate, however, once they returned to their vehicle. She stared out of the window in silence as they journeyed toward Mayfair.

Grey spoke, the quiet grating on his nerves. “You might have told him you were my secretary.”