Page 72 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

No, it can’t, he reminded himself. You are not attached.

Even this far from London, Grey could sense his cousin’s presence hanging over him. Francis would not fit in here. He would not mesh with them, would not understand their ways. Even so, he knew Francis would be welcomed with warm, open arms—a thought that was better discarded than dwelt upon.

Grey closed his eyes, pleading for sleep to come. The room was noiseless and cool. There was no reason for him not to fall asleep this very instant. Perhaps he ought to think about work. After all, he would return to mountains of paperwork at Hawkins & Montgomery. Tedious, boring paperwork.

He sat up, running a hand over his face. Movement was a decent remedy for restlessness and likely his only option unless he wanted to remain under the coverlet with only his thoughts occupying the space next to him. After tucking his shirt into his trousers, he tugged on his boots and took quiet, careful steps through the sleeping house until he was able to slip out the door. The air was crisp, and the moon hung round and full above him. For a moment, he stopped and stared at the stars that pierced the inky blue of the sky, unsure of where to go or what to do with himself.

He forged ahead, his boots glistening with the nighttime dew by the time he reached the prayer house. He hadn’t intended to come here, and he hesitated by the entrance before stepping in. The moon shone through the windows, illuminating the calligraphy on the wall. A box of tinder sat by a lone candle on a shelf, and he brought the wick to life before settling on the bench by the prayer carpets.

It was difficult not to think about his grandmother, and equally difficult not to think about his grandfather, who had on more than one occasion accused Grey of having too much of Leila in him. Perhaps George had thought Grey’s roughness inherited, his blood tainted by the East.

Hypocritical bastard.

Reaching behind him, Grey pulled a tome off the shelf and flipped it open. Fine, even script greeted him, recognizable only because it matched the writing in his grandmother’s books. Farah had made mention of Grey living on the periphery, and he knew his heritage was no exception. His grandfather had made sure that Grey had never felt fit for English society, and his grandmother—

His grandmother had been forced to keep an English home. But Montgomery House had changed, even if Grey had resisted changing with it. He participated in whatever ways Leila asked him to, of course, but he tended to keep his distance otherwise. When he’d shared his background with Farah, she’d accepted it without question. At the time, it had been something of a relief, knowing she didn’t seem to care. Now that he was at Northborough, he understood why.

It was because all of this was normal to her. She’d grown up surrounded by her own and moved through the world paying very little mind to what made her different. That she could just be—that her place in the grand design never seemed to trouble her—was enviable. Farah knew she belonged somewhere, her discontent arising more from her belief that she would be better off belonging to someone.

In her, he could see both. He could belong to something, to someplace. And he could belong to someone. To her.

Snapping the book closed, he sighed. It was just like him to marinate on the impossible in the middle of the night. Returning the volume to the shelf, he made his way back to the house, pausing when he saw a figure crouched in an overgrown patch of shrubbery.

Farah. And all he could do was stare, spellbound by the way the silvery moonlight played against her form. She was dressed in her nightgown, her body bent over as she scribbled across a piece of paper.

“I know you’re there,” she said, almost scaring the wits out of him.

Caught, Grey crept toward her. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Pulling her legs out from underneath her, she stood, clutching the paper to her chest. “And before you ask, I’m all right. I needed to think, and I wasn’t getting anywhere in my room.”

Grey ran his fingers over a spiny stem. “Are these your herbs?”

She brightened. “They are! I grow all my own herbs here except for lavender, which only likes to grow behind the prayer house.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “Magic.”

“Right. I should have guessed.”

A giggle escaped her before she sobered. “This is my favorite place. I know it’s only a few paces from the house, but it feels like another world entirely. Like a sanctuary that’s all my own.”

Sanctuary.

His was at Montgomery House, beneath the willow tree. Hers was here, standing barefoot among the aromatic, thorny herbs. It occurred to him that he might be intruding, and he wondered if he ought to bid her good night and leave her in peace.

When she next spoke, it was to say, “I’m trying to write a letter to Francis.”

Grey snapped to attention. “Francis?”

She tightened her grip around the paper she held in her hands, the edges crinkling. “Emphasis on trying. The words won’t come.”

A hush fell as Grey studied her, hoping to discover what she intended to tell his cousin through sight alone. There was something melancholy and exhausted in her eyes, and it intermingled with something he was unable to place.

He almost wanted to call it resignation, but Farah Rafiq was not like him. She wasn’t the type to resign herself to anything.

“Is it something I can help with?” he asked, the question startling him as much as it did her. But this was love, wasn’t it? His discomfort, his deep-seated hatred for his cousin—none of it could hold a candle to what he felt for her. Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, he would do. It was as if being in her very presence killed any trace of selfishness in him, leaving behind a man even Grey could not fully recognize.