Page 49 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

Turner’s voice emanated through a crack in the chamber door. “Did you get him, sir?”

“I’ve got him.” Magnus set Chance on the floor.

The still-snarling dog immediately lunged forward. He got as far as the length of lead before being stopped by the harness. His liquid brown eyes flashed to Magnus with a canine glare of accusation.

Magnus’s mouth tipped with brief amusement. “That’s right, my friend. There’ll be no more hiding. From now on, you and I are going to be spending a great deal of time together.”

Chapter Sixteen

It was nearly four days before Dr. Calthrop pronounced Charlotte fit enough to walk into the village. The morning after he finally did, she was up at dawn, freshly bathed, perfumed, and dressed in her smartest walking gown, a new pair of kid gloves buttoned at her wrists, and a fetching small-brimmed straw hat with cornflower blue ribbons perched atop her upswept hair.

Lucy was still in bed, as was her habit. Which was all to the good. The last thing Charlotte wanted to deal with on this errand was the unreliable nerves of her school friend.

And they’d been quite unreliable of late.

Indeed, as Lucy had kept Charlotte company over the last several days—sitting with her in her room, walking with her in the garden, and playing endless hands of cards—she’d seemed jumpier than ever before. Every time there was a knock at the door, she’d nearly jumped straight out of her skin.

“You’re as skittish as a cat,” Charlotte had scolded her yesterday.

Lucy had guiltily averted her eyes. “I do sometimes overreact when people come to call.”

Charlotte had sighed, knowing full well what it was that had her friend in such a state. “You’re surely not expecting Lord Eversleigh to come to Sowerby Hall, are you?”

“Lord Eversleigh?” Lucy had seemed genuinely surprised. “Er…no.”

“I’m aware he makes you nervous,” Charlotte had said. “But you needn’t be. I’m quite certain he’d never call here.”

Which is exactly why Charlotte must go to him.

Buttoning the final button on her right glove, she made her way down to the kitchen.

“I still don’t like it,” Mrs. Goodenough said as Charlotte packed a wicker basket. “In my day, a girl who suffered a fall like yours would still be abed.”

“But these are modern times, Mrs. Goodenough.” Charlotte selected a jar of blackberry jam from the pantry shelf. “And I’m a modern girl.”

The housekeeper sniffed. “You’re something, Miss Beresford, I will admit to that. But modern ain’t it.”

Ignoring the criticism, Charlotte discreetly packed another few items in her basket. Sun shone through the clean glass windows at her back, sparkling over the equally clean kitchen. Bleak as Sowerby Hall was, it was vastly superior to Moorcross Manor in terms of tidiness. More superior still when it came to the offerings in the pantry. The shelves were lined with all manner of boxes, tins, and jars. Charlotte doubted her modest selections would be missed.

Mrs. Goodenough remained at her shoulder as she exited the pantry. There were several loaves of freshly baked bread laid out on the counter. Freshly churned butter, too.

“You think me foolish, I know,” Charlotte said as she went to them.

The housekeeper followed. “Foolhardy, more like. After what I told you about Moorcross Manor⁠—”

Charlotte’s gloved hand stilled on one of the loaves. “I never mentioned going to Moorcross Manor.”

“You pass through the crossroads to get to the village, don’t you? That’s close enough to my mind.”

“Yes, I see.” Charlotte exhaled a private breath of relief. For a moment, she’d feared that she had given her intentions away.

Of course she planned to visit Moorcross Manor. How could she not after hearing the story of what Magnus had done? Any lady of reasonable curiosity would require answers. And Charlotte counted herself more curious than most.

Was it true? Had he been responsible for three people’s deaths?

The possibility had been plaguing Charlotte ever since she’d first heard the tale. That Magnus might be a bad man, in truth. An evil man, capable of untold acts of violence against young ladies, young gentlemen, even their fathers.

It was so much at odds with Charlotte’s own experience of him.