Page 97 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“Well?” he demanded, exasperated. “What do you want?”

“The same thing I’ve always wanted,” she said. “I simply decided to seek it elsewhere.”

Another hush, this time prolonged by Francis’s sudden, intense glare. “It’s him, isn’t it? You were at the masked ball together. You had to be—I know Grey would never willingly leave his office to attend an engagement alone.”

“Really, Francis, I don’t think this is necessary.”

“You won’t get what you need from him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

For a moment, Farah almost pitied him. “That doesn’t matter to me.”

He faltered. “What?”

“I hope he returns my feelings, of course,” she said, “but even if he doesn’t—I’m not looking to replace one man’s heart with another, you understand. This is about being true to myself, whatever the cost.”

“And if the cost is your heart?”

“Then so be it.”

“That’s—” He placed his hands on his hips in indignation. “That’s ludicrous!”

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But it isn’t as if you’re capable of giving me what I need, either.”

“That’s nothing but an assumption,” he said, his petulance clear. “I’m convinced you know nothing of Grey, because if you did—”

“Do you feel badly?”

Confusion crashed over him, his shoulders slumping. “Badly? About what?”

“You shot him, did you not?” Farah asked. “Two paces instead of three.”

Francis blanched, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Th-that was an accident. Grey knows that.”

“What about everything else?” Farah pressed. “You saw the way your grandfather mistreated him, but you never stepped in.”

“No,” he bit out. “I did not.”

“And Susanna? Would you have pursued her if Grey hadn’t told you of their attachment?”

Francis pondered this before responding. “Yes.”

It wasn’t the answer Farah had been expecting. “Really?”

“Why not?” He gave her a noncommittal shrug. “She was right there.”

Ah, yes. Just like Farah had been right there when they’d stumbled upon one another at the seaside. Goodness, but she’d been a fool for thinking anyone would do. Grey had saved her—not from Francis, but from herself. She’d thought of love as some separate, fantastical entity, one unattached to a living being. A shining orb she had to chase, the person it hovered around be damned.

Now, however, all she could equate it with was Grey. With his tender gaze, his eyes the color of rain clouds before a storm. With the comfort of his embrace. Even with the scar that graced his side, as much as he despised it. It was part of him and therefore worthy of her love.

Eager to be rid of Francis, she stood. “How much do you need?”

“Sorry?”

“Money.” She folded her arms across her chest. “How much do you need to settle your debts?”

“Two thousand pounds,” he grumbled, suddenly absorbed by the carpet beneath his feet.

“If I make sure you receive it, will you promise me something?”