Page 34 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

He was just about to do so when Charlotte’s voice rang out behind him, more authoritative and aristocratic than he’d ever heard it before.

“I am not being kept here,” she said.

Mrs. Kitteridge gasped as Charlotte entered the drawing room. She was still in her rumpled bodice and skirts, her hair disposed in a wild tangle over her shoulder. The very picture of a lady who had lately been debauched.

Magnus’s eyes closed briefly on a private groan.

Charlotte came to a halt at his side. “Lord Eversleigh and his servants have been looking after me ever since I injured myself on his property.”

He cocked a brow at her. Servants? Plural?

“His lordship’s valet, Mr. Turner, went for the doctor multiple times,” Charlotte continued. “We’d hoped you were him.”

“And just who are you, miss?” the constable asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Kitteridge joined in. “Who are you? And how is it you find yourself in the clutches of this foul monster?”

Charlotte lifted her chin. Her back straightened so that she seemed to grow a full three inches in height. “I am Miss Beresford,” she replied in that same disconcertingly regal tone. “Daughter of James Beresford, Viscount St. Clare of Beasley Park in Somerset, and granddaughter of the Earl of Allendale.”

There was an audible inhalation of breath from Mrs. Kitteridge.

Constable Reeves stared at Charlotte with an expression of incredulity.

Magnus was hard pressed not to stare as well. His blood had gone cold.

“And Lord Eversleigh isn’t a monster,” Charlotte continued, as if she hadn’t just tipped his world on its axis. “To be sure, ma’am, I believe his actions may very well have saved my life.”

Charlotte didn’t owe Magnus anything. Not after discovering how many lies he’d told her.

Well, not lies, precisely. More like untruths.

Or half-truths.

And while he may not have uttered those lies outright, he’d certainly made no effort to correct her many misapprehensions. Not the least of which was her mortifying belief that the two of them were married.

Charlotte couldn’t think of it without blushing. And now was decidedly not the time to blush. She’d overheard the hostile tones of the strangers’ voices as she’d approached. Their condemning words and accusing questions. This wasn’t a cordial call. This was a distinctly unfriendly confrontation.

If you’ve got a girl held prisoner here, you may be assured we’ll find her, the woman had threatened. And this time we’ll finish what was started eleven years ago.

What was it that had happened eleven years ago? Charlotte wondered. Was it when the “terrible things” she’d mentioned in her letter to Agatha had occurred?

Charlotte didn’t know. And now wasn’t the time to satisfy her curiosity. In this moment, all that mattered was convincing these two overbearing villagers that her presence at Moorcross Manor was not only innocent, but that it had been temporarily necessary.

She set her hand on Magnus’s arm. He’d scarcely looked at her since she’d entered. She suspected he was angry, though it was impossible to tell from his face. “If you would assist me to a seat, my lord?” she said. “I find I’m rather lightheaded.”

Magnus’s eyes met hers. There was a frown at the back of them, as though he couldn’t tell if she was in earnest or if she was merely putting on a show of frailty for the constable.

It was a little of both if Charlotte was honest.

“Of course,” Magnus said. He guided her to a sofa near the fireplace. The damask upholstery had been eaten away in places, either by mice or by burrowing insects. Charlotte inwardly recoiled from sitting upon it.

But needs must.

Stiffening her back, she sank onto the rotting cushion. It was slightly damp beneath her skirts. A perfect complement to the rest of the house, she thought to herself. And to this musty, dreary, inadequately lit room. In comparison, Magnus’s bedchamber was practically luxurious.

The constable stepped forward in concern. “You look very ill, Miss Beresford,” he said. “Would you mind telling me⁠—”

“Would you mind sitting down, sir?” Charlotte interrupted politely. “It pains me to crane my neck.”