Page 27 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

She offered no insight as to why her dog and her cat might share the same moniker. And she made no mention of her similarly named sweetheart. Magnus didn’t dare bring it up himself. Not when he had only Turner’s word for that sweetheart’s existence.

When Charlotte was safely settled back in his room, Magnus wasted no time in seeking out his useless worm of a valet. He found him in the kitchen indulging in a cup of tea.

“Not slacking, sir,” Turner said from his seat at the long, plank table. “Only fortifying myself for my next venture into town. Unless you’ve changed your mind about me going door to door⁠—”

Magnus cut him off without preamble. “That letter you found in the garden yesterday. Where is it?”

“The letter, my lord?” Turner sat down his cup. “Why, I’ve got it, don’t I?” He patted the pocket of his coat. “Thought I’d show it to any folk I meet who think they might know the girl.”

Magnus extended an impatient hand. “Give it to me.”

Turner extracted the missive from his pocket. He handed it to Magnus with a puzzled frown.

Magnus unfolded the creased and soiled paper. His brow lowered as he read its contents.

Dearest Agatha, it began.

A letter to Charlotte’s sister, indeed.

Just as Turner had originally said, it contained aspersions about Magnus’s character. Claims that he was an “evil gentleman” who had done “terrible things.” But Charlotte wasn’t making assertions. It appeared she was merely repeating what she’d heard—and with a distinct air of doubt about the information.

Indeed, this wasn’t the writing of a crafty, arrogant, highbred young lady. It was the voice of a high-spirited, adventurous girl with a distinctly fanciful nature.

As to her sweetheart back in Somerset⁠—

Please convey my regards to Mr. Aloysius (courtesy of a cuddle and a kiss). Tell him I shall be back with him soon. And do remember to give Artemis an extra bucket of mash when you ride her.”

Why the devil would Charlotte be asking her sister to give a “cuddle and a kiss” to Charlotte’s sweetheart? And in the same breath as she requested that same sister give a bucket of mash to a horse?

There could only be one answer.

Magnus felt an unaccountable wave of relief. “He’s not her sweetheart,” he said. “He’s her bloody cat.”

Or possibly her dog.

“Who’s her cat, sir?” Turner asked, bewildered.

And what about Charlotte’s secret rendezvous with yet another man at the bridge? Magnus poured over the pertinent lines.

I’m heading into the village this morning, and then to a very pretty bridge nearby where I mean to sketch and to read. An assignation, as you would say, with the person I like the best.

Who was it who Charlotte liked best? A person, she’d written, not a pet. But did it follow that it was a man? And if so, what were the odds that she’d share that scandalous fact so casually with her sister? Unless…

Magnus recalled the few times he’d overhead her voice echoing from his bedchamber in solo conversation.

He was surprised into a huff of amusement. “She’s talking about herself, by God.”

“I don’t follow,” Turner said.

Magnus shot him a look. “That much is abundantly plain.”

“Sir?”

“There’s no sweetheart, by the way.” Magnus lowered the letter. “And no secret lover awaiting her at a bridge.”

She was unattached, if Magnus had interpreted her words correctly. As for her character, it was reckless, whimsical, and infuriating, to be sure. It was also unimpeachable.

Which meant that he hadn’t been keeping a woman of questionable virtue in his house overnight. He’d been keeping a respectable young lady.