Page 75 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“I worked.” It was a pathetic response. How had the course of the conversation changed so quickly? “I worked until you broke into my office.”

“It was unlocked, as you well know,” she said with a cheeky twinkle. Then, more quietly, “And I know we’ve never discussed your scar, but that can’t have come from something easy.”

“No,” he rasped. “Not at all.”

“It’s all wrapped up in Mrs. Steele,” she said, “is it not?”

Grey frowned. What would she think of him if she knew the whole sordid tale? The foolishness he’d engaged in, how much like Francis he’d behaved—would it break the spell?

Would it force her to redefine what she thought of him—what she thought of their time together?

“I don’t think I can bear—” Grey swallowed and tried again. “I don’t think I can bear disappointing you.”

“I won’t be disappointed,” she said, giving his forearm a squeeze. “No matter what you did, I won’t be disappointed. I know you, Grey.”

And he knew her. Which was how he found himself in his current position. Here, with her, overwhelmed and almost suffocated by love.

There was no guarantee she would ever love him. But if there was to be any hope at all, it would be brought about by his own honesty.

By his vulnerability, something he’d thought a veritable disease mere weeks ago.

He looked down at where she touched him, lifting his free arm to cover her hand with his. “And I know you, Farah. I know how clever you are, how you’ve likely pieced together the whole puzzle already.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“What I told you about Susanna—about our attachment and the man that came between us—was all true.”

“And the scuffle?”

“Also true, but it was far more than a scuffle.”

She considered this before guiding him down to sit beside her, herbs surrounding them on all sides. The scent of rosemary and fennel met his nose as the chill of the ground beneath them seeped into his skin.

“I harbor no ill will toward Susanna,” Grey said, aware of Farah’s hands in his. “None of it was her fault.”

“But you think it was yours?”

“A little,” Grey admitted. She knew him too well. “But only a little. You already know who else is to blame, I think.”

“Francis.”

Grey nodded, jaw clenched. “I’d hated him for years before I met Susanna, obviously. But I was still capable of civility, still able to share meals with him.”

“And the scar?”

“You need to know—you must know—” Grey tightened his hold on her hands. “I didn’t think Francis capable of hurting you. If I had, I would have warned you against your understanding with him from the start. And if he’d ever dared, I would have killed him myself.”

“I know.”

“But yes,” Grey bit out. “The scar is Francis’s handiwork, through and through. Because if he ever thought to hurt someone—physically hurt someone—it would be me. Always me.”

Chapter Eighteen

Five years ago, at the bright young age of twenty-nine, Grey Montgomery had fallen in love. Susanna was, in many ways, his exact opposite. She was refined where he was rough, socially adept where he was withdrawn. After their first meeting, she began to frequent Montgomery House under the guise of visiting with Leila. Mostly, however, she spent time with Grey, engaged in conversation beneath the willow tree. All this time, and he still remembered her laughter—as well as his confusion at having been the one to inspire mirth in her to begin with. He was, after all, not a humorous man.

“It’s because she loved you,” Farah told him.

“So she said,” Grey replied, the sting of old heartbreak returning with a vicious vengeance, seeping into places it was not welcome. “She was the first of us to say the words.”