Page 33 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

“I’m sure that isn’t true. Doctors are men of science. Surely there’s some other explanation for why—" Charlotte broke off at the furious sound of footsteps racing up the hall.

Turner pounded on the bedroom door, hard enough to rattle the rotting doorframe. “My lord?” he called franticly. “My lord!”

With a bone-weary sigh, Magnus rose to answer the summons. He opened the door. “What is it now?”

She caught a glimpse of the valet’s face. It was white as milk.

“Someone’s come, sir,” he said.

Charlotte stood. “The doctor,” she concluded. “Didn’t I tell you, Magnus?”

“Not the doctor, my lady.” Turner’s attention remained on his master. “It’s the constable.”

Chapter Eleven

Magnus met his uninvited guests in what had once been the formal drawing room. The constable hadn’t come alone. He was accompanied by a whip-thin older woman in a black stuff dress. She was possessed of hard, flintlike eyes. Familiar eyes.

It was Mrs. Kitteridge.

Magnus’s stomach knotted at the sight of her. The redoubtable village busybody had been one of the rallying voices during his long-ago fall from grace. He well remembered the things she’d said then. Had it been up to her, he would have been hanged for murder.

They faced each other across the vast expanse of motheaten blue-and-gold carpet, mildewed French furnishings, and the dust-ridden oil painting of Magnus’s late mother that hung above the cold marble fireplace.

“It’s true then,” Mrs. Kitteridge said, raking Magnus with her gaze. “The demon has finally returned to his den.”

The constable stood at attention by the mantel. He was a man of early middle age, with a heavy mustache and an impressive pair of side-whiskers. Not anyone Magnus recognized. A newcomer very probably. “Now, now, ma’am,” he interjected, holding up a staying hand. “You agreed to bridle your tongue.”

“There’s no disputing his nature,” Mrs. Kitteridge replied. “Just look at him. If you can see him in all this infernal murk.” She surveyed the shadowy room with blatant contempt. “I’m not surprised to find him living in darkness.”

Magnus made no move to open the curtains or light a lamp. This wasn’t a social call.

“Does your manservant speak truly?” the constable asked him. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the new Earl of Eversleigh?”

“A dubious pleasure,” Mrs. Kitteridge remarked under her breath.

Magnus ignored her. “I am Eversleigh,” he said. “And you are?”

“Constable Reeves.” The man made a curt bow. “I’ve had several reports in the district. All of them mentioned Moorcross Manor. It’s caused quite a stir in the village, you’ll understand.”

“Is that what brings you to my door?” Magnus asked. “Village gossip?”

“More than gossip, my lord,” the constable replied. “Your manservant was described to me by three separate tradespeople. First asking after a doctor, then after a missing girl. Which gave me pause considering the history of this place, I don’t mind telling you.”

“If you’ve got a girl held prisoner here, you may be assured we’ll find her,” Mrs. Kitteridge said to Magnus. “And this time we’ll finish what was started eleven years ago.”

“Mrs. Kitteridge, please,” Constable Reeves said. “I won’t warn you again.”

She clamped her lips shut with a mutinous glower.

Once, Magnus had been unmanned by that look. It had brought perspiration to his brow and provoked a queasy dread in his stomach. He recalled how they’d stood in this very room. How his pleas to his father had fallen upon deaf ears.

But that was a long time ago. Magnus had been an untried lad then, young and naïve. He was a man now. One who had known battle. One who had seen death. This provincial woman was no threat to him in the scheme of things. He’d already lost his home, his family, his reputation. There was nothing much remaining, save his desire to protect his privacy.

The unwanted reminder of the bleak days leading up to his exile nevertheless made his blood boil.

“Is there a girl being kept here, Lord Eversleigh?” the constable asked Magnus.

Magnus held back a biting retort. His temper wouldn’t serve him here. Not with these two. The wise thing was to placate them. To come out with the plain truth and pray that, this time, cooler heads would prevail.