Page 83 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

Charlotte contained a wince. Lucy had apologized profusely over the course of the last two days, enough that Charlotte had quickly come to regret the tone she’d taken with her friend when she’d first learned of her betrayal. “I was shocked,” she replied. “You can hardly blame me.”

“So long as you’re not cross.”

“I’m not cross,” Charlotte assured her.

The truth was, she couldn’t blame Lucy for sending a letter to Agatha. For all Lucy knew, Charlotte had been dead on the side of a road somewhere. Naturally she would make an appeal for help to Charlotte’s relations.

As for Agatha…

Charlotte couldn’t wholly blame her either. Nor could she fault her sister’s logic in conveying Lucy’s letter to Papa. Having Nick or Arthur coming to Charlotte’s aid would have been no end of trouble. And dear Mama would never have departed for Yorkshire without first telling Papa the reason why.

No. If anyone was to put things right, it would surely be Papa.

Or Charlotte herself.

She wandered to the bedroom window. “What I am,” she said, “is resolved.”

Lucy joined her. “Upon what?”

“Having my part in things,” Charlotte said. “My father is impossible to withstand at the best of times, but it’s my future, not his. He shan’t have it all his way.”

As she spoke, Charlotte absently drew open the curtain, casting a distracted glance down at the drive. She fully expected it to be empty, just as it had been since Papa’s arrival, his hired coach tucked safely away in the Champions’ carriage house.

It wasn’t.

The coach was parked outside the front steps of the house, the horses hitched, the driver on the box, and Mr. Tate standing patiently outside the vehicle’s door.

Charlotte’s pulse leapt on a rush of pure excitement. “He’s going at last!”

Lucy came forward. “Who’s going?”

“My father.” Charlotte let the curtain fall. Spinning around, she rushed to the wardrobe on the opposite side of the room. “Help me dress, Lucy.”

Lucy’s gave her a look of alarm. “To go where?”

Charlotte flashed her a smile. “Why, to Moorcross Manor, of course.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Magnus signed his name to the letter he’d written to his father’s solicitor before unceremoniously stuffing the missive into an envelope. It was a task he’d been putting off for days. One he didn’t relish. He’d never enjoyed revealing his weaknesses, particularly when they were of the financial variety.

Exiting the master bedchamber, he made his way to the staircase. Chance accompanied him down the steps, off his lead now and almost entirely independent. The little dog had shown no interest in escaping, or even in hiding, since his daily ration had begun containing bacon.

Magnus was halfway down the stairs, letter in hand, when someone—a very firm-handed someone—applied the bronze knocker to the front door.

His mouth compressed with aggravation.

It had been two days since the tradesmen had made their deliveries, and they had called at the back door, not the main entrance. It was where Charlotte called as well whenever she came to see him.

Whoever this was, the intrusion could be nothing to the good.

Tucking his letter into his waistcoat pocket, Magnus bounded the rest of the way down the steps. He crossed the floor to the set of tall double doors. They were secured by an iron bar and heavy bolt. The knocker sounded again as he searched his pockets for the key.

“Just a bloody minute,” he muttered.

Chance danced anxiously around his feet, nails skittering on the stone floor.

At last finding his key, Magnus unlocked the bolt and removed the iron bar. He jerked the door open, prepared to bring the full weight of his wrath down upon the encroaching villager who had dared set foot on his property uninvited.