Page 85 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

Charlotte scrunched her nose with distaste at the directive. She stood from petting the dog. “Perhaps we might walk in the garden instead? It’s far nicer than⁠—”

“The drawing room will suit me very well,” Lord St. Clare said.

Charlotte’s face fell.

Magnus contained a grimace. He’d known the drawing room was bad, but surely it wasn’t that bad? Not when compared with the small parlor or the library anyway.

“This way, sirs.” Turner mounted the stairs. “Mind the broken steps.”

Charlotte moved to follow him.

Her father stopped her with a look. “I think not.”

Magnus stilled. So did Turner and Mr. Tate.

Charlotte returned her father’s gaze, a question in her eyes.

Lord St. Clare addressed Magnus. “On this occasion, I will speak to you alone.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to object. “But Papa⁠—”

“My daughter will join us when we’re finished,” Lord St. Clare said. “Until such time, perhaps your man might offer her some refreshment?”

“An excellent idea,” Magnus replied before Charlotte could make another protest. “Turner? Escort Miss Beresford to the kitchen and give her some tea. Take the dog with you.”

“Yes, my lord.” Turner came back down the stairs, obedient for once in his life. He opened the door to the servants’ stair.

Chance immediately shot through it. His attachment to Magnus notwithstanding, he never missed an opportunity to return to what had lately become his favorite room in the house.

“If you please, miss,” Turner said.

Charlotte’s cheeks flushed to find herself thwarted. “Well, I must say that this is very unfair.”

“Charlotte,” her father said in the same quiet tone.

“Oh, very well,” she huffed. “But I shan’t stay down there forever.” With a swish of her skirts, she departed with Turner.

Magnus gestured for Lord St. Clare and his secretary to precede him up the staircase.

Together, the three of them repaired to the drawing room. It was markedly worse in appearance than when the constable had come. Not only dank and deteriorating, but now lacking the majority of its paper hangings and paneling.

Magnus had removed nearly all of it in the course of his search. He’d even taken down the painting of his mother. It was presently leaning against what remained of the wall behind the fireplace.

He crossed the room to open the draperies, stirring up the dust and the muck. Sun filtered through the filthy glass. Rather than brightening the surroundings, it only served to cast them in a starker light. Every bit of rot was harshly revealed. Every speck of dust, disintegrating piece of fabric, and scrap of broken plaster discolored by the damp.

“I apologize for the state of the place,” Magnus said. “It’s been grievously neglected in my absence.”

“My daughter informs me that you have only recently returned home,” Lord St. Clare replied.

“That’s not all she informed you of, I assume. Else you wouldn’t be here.” Magnus motioned to the pair of faded armchairs by the hearth. “You and Mr. Tate may have a seat. Though I wouldn’t blame you if you refrained. I can’t vouch for the upholstery.”

Lord St. Clare flicked a pointed glance at his secretary. The man immediately withdrew to the far end of the room, perching himself on a spoon-back chair in the corner. Lord St. Clare took a seat in one of the armchairs. He directed Magnus to the remaining one. “It seems I have you to thank for saving my daughter’s life.”

“Is that what she’s told you?” Magnus asked as he joined him.

“You dispute her account?”

“She’s overgenerous in it.”