Page 80 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Farah Rafiq was in a bit of a predicament.

She recognized this as she awoke from a deep sleep, surprised to find herself back in her bed. The last thing she remembered was drifting off in the herb garden still nestled in Grey’s arms. He must have carried her home and been so gentle that she hadn’t stirred.

The thought sent a burst of warmth dancing through her veins. Which, of course, brought her back to her predicament.

Finally, after years of longing, she was in love.

And it didn’t feel as she’d hoped it would. While it was as magical and life-changing and perfect as she’d anticipated, the certainty of it all was missing. In fact, it was all very uncertain, and the fault was hers. How could she trust herself? She, who had been prepared to dart down the aisle to a terrible man. She, who had believed herself able to coax a romance out of said man, as if that was something one could just do.

She, who clearly knew nothing of love because she had been willing to give up all that was important about it in favor of claiming to have caught it like an elusive butterfly in a net.

If she’d had even the slightest inkling about love, she’d have never thought to settle for Francis. She’d have held on, weathered the storm, remembered that the little things were just as important as the big.

And now she was in a predicament because her heart insisted it was in love even as her brain scoffed with criticality at the declaration. Kicking her coverlet off in frustration, she sat up, spotting her grass-stained nightgown folded into a perfect square at the foot of the bed.

Goodness, she had to be in love, because it certainly wasn’t normal to feel all aglow at the sight of laundry.

Was it?

Either way, her nakedness needed rectifying. Slipping out of bed, she made quick work of dressing, coiling her hair into a crown of braids atop her head. As she fastened the buttons on her bodice, she caught sight of the paper and pencil she’d taken to her herb garden, now placed in the center of her untidy work desk. With a sigh, she remembered she still had to write Francis. She sat down with a thud, picked up her pencil, and began to tap at the desk in impatience.

What was she supposed to write, anyway?

Dear Francis,

I must put an end to our understanding as I have fallen in love with your cousin who, I have just realized, may very well not return the sentiment. I am sorry to end our relationship in such an abrupt fashion, but not as sorry as I am to have discovered that you are, in fact, a rat.

Yours, &c.

F.R.

No, that wouldn’t do at all. She disposed of the offending sheet of paper, grateful that it had, at least, made her feel a little better.

Tap, tap, tap.

Was there any real need for her to explain herself? Perhaps a polite note would suffice. It wasn’t as if Francis would care. He’d probably toss the missive over his shoulder and return to his game of cards.

Armed with this knowledge, she tried again.

Dear Francis,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to let you know that I have decided I will no longer be pursuing our understanding. Please know it was not a decision I made lightly and that I pray you find whatever it is you need to ensure your happiness.

Yours, &c.

F.R.

There. Nice, simple, and about as many sentences as Francis was willing to read in one sitting. She doubted she would receive a response and, for the first time, was relieved by it.

Just as the wax seal had solidified, securing the letter in a somewhat imperfect rectangle, a soft knock caught her ear.

“Come in,” she called, moving to stand.

The door opened to reveal a maid, a small silver tray in her hand. “A letter for you, miss.”

“Gemma! How lucky,” Farah said, a weight she hadn’t been aware of lifting off her shoulders. “I also have a letter, and here you are. I’d like it posted, please.”

Gemma grinned as they made the trade. “It’s from Mr. Jennings.”