Page 96 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Once she had returned to the house, she retired to her room, falling into bed and drifting off to sleep. The next week promised a marked increase in activity, so it was wise to take her rest where and when she could. After what felt like a minute, she was jolted awake by a knock at the door. Outside, the sun had recently set, painting her room in shades of orange and purple. Sitting up, she made a poor attempt at rearranging her tangled curls before calling, “Come in!”

A maid opened the door and slipped inside, a small tray in her hands. “Someone has come to call for you, miss.”

Farah’s heart leapt in her chest at the thought of Grey awaiting her downstairs. “Did they give you a card?”

“He didn’t have one, he said. A Mr. Francis Beaumont?”

Farah’s blood froze in her veins. Why in God’s name would Francis come to call? She considered asking for him to be turned away but hesitated. Perhaps seeing him would be best. That way, she could close the door on their now-dead agreement for good.

“Would you send him to the library, please? I’ll be down in a moment.”

Once alone, she made minor adjustments to her appearance, making sure she was nothing more than presentable. There was a dull anger thrumming through her, the image of Francis raising his pistol to Grey, shooting two paces in, playing out in her mind in an endless loop. When she went down to the library, she saw the man in question studying the packed shelves with his back to the door. Farah cleared her throat, and he whirled around, a forced smile on his face.

“Miss Rafiq!”

“Mr. Beaumont,” Farah returned, leaving the door ajar. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Awful lot of books,” Francis remarked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

She looked around the room, wishing he’d get on with it. “Yes, I suppose there are.”

“So,” he said, beginning to wander, “I received your letter.”

Realizing this would take longer than she’d hoped, Farah sank into an armchair. “I do hope you’ll respect the decision I’ve made.”

He came to a stop in front of her. “I do! Yes, of course I do. It’s just—would you reconsider?”

“I’m not sure asking someone to reconsider falls in line with respecting their decision.”

At this, he resumed his pacing. “But—but—well, don’t you feel anything for me at all?”

Farah raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You ought to take pity on me,” he said. “Seeing as how you’ve broken my heart.”

“I have broken your heart?” Laughter began to bubble in her throat. “You cannot be serious.”

“Is that so hard to believe?” he asked with an exaggerated frown.

“Yes,” she said, “because I know you feel nothing for me, let alone love.”

“I—well—you don’t know that,” he stammered.

“Of course I do.” Farah busied herself by fluffing her skirts. When she finally lifted her head, it was to see that he wore a crestfallen expression upon his face. “What’s the matter?”

His voice was tight. “You seemed so eager to marry.”

“I was,” she said with a shrug. Dropping all formality, she continued. “What is this really about, Francis? Do you need money?”

The silence that followed her question seemed to stretch on forever. Francis stared at her, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Fine,” he said. “I need money. Are you happy now?”

“That you’re being honest? Yes.”

“But you always knew that,” he said. “Always. And I thought I was also giving you what you wanted by agreeing to our understanding.”

“I thought you were, too.”