Page 3 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

She immediately turned to double back. Before she could finish the motion, a streak of black moved at her periphery. Her head jerked reflexively to follow it, even as her pulse jumped with alarm. The words of Lucy and Mrs. Goodenough ricocheted through her head. Curses! Evil! The devil!

But it was none of those things.

Charlotte’s breath shuddered out of her in relief. It was only a black dog.

A limping black dog.

He stopped a few feet from the wall surrounding the evil earl’s estate, staring at Charlotte with wary eyes. He was undeniably injured—his right front paw held close to his chest. He was also quite small. Just a trifling little thing. Some unfortunate mix of spaniel, terrier, and long-eared lapdog, possibly.

Charlotte’s heart swelled with pity. “Poor dear.” She slowly advanced on him. “It’s all right. I mean you no harm.”

The dog hopped closer to the wall before stopping again to look at her over his scrawny shoulder.

“No, no,” she said. “Don’t run away.”

Ignoring her entreaties, the dog pressed his face into the brambles as though looking for a means of entrance.

Charlotte continued toward him, step by cautious step. “Easy,” she said. “You must let me help you.”

All at once, the dog shoved his body into the brambles. There was a sharp “yip!” of pain, a frantic rustling, then he was gone.

Charlotte raced forward. The devious little scoundrel! He’d managed to get through the wall. There must be a crack in it somewhere.

She stopped to examine the brambles. There was no means of entry that she could see. Yet, the dog had found one. Which meant he was now inside this terrible abandoned place.

What if he couldn’t find his way out again?

Or worse.

What if he chose not to come out? Wounded animals often hid themselves away in dark, lonely places, resigned to die rather than accept aid.

Charlotte suppressed a frustrated groan. She had been raised by her mother to love and value all animals. She couldn’t recall the number of times as children that she and her siblings had risked life and limb to help a creature in peril. To abandon this one now went against everything Charlotte stood for.

But what to do? She couldn’t very well follow the dog through a crack in the wall. Although…

That didn’t mean she couldn’t follow him another way.

Settling her basket more firmly over her arm, she stuck her booted foot into the brambles. A toehold established, she gripped the treacherous vines with her hands and proceeded to half climb, half hoist herself, up the wall.

“I did promise Lucy I would avoid this wretched estate,” she muttered as she went. “But these must be counted as extraordinary circumstances.”

Sharp thorns caught at her basket and skirts and pricked at her hands through her gloves. “Oh bother!” she cried as one scratched her face. A warm trickle of blood rolled down her cheek. She couldn’t spare a hand to brush it away. She was nearly at the top.

“Thank God,” she gasped when she reached it. With a final surge of strength, she pulled herself to a sitting position atop the wall. The brambles crunched loudly beneath her weight. Pausing briefly to catch her breath, she vaguely registered the stings of what must be dozens of thorn pricks on her limbs. But that was a problem for later. Now, she could think only of the injured little dog.

Alas, she still couldn’t see him. Her view of the grounds was obscured by a tangle of trees and shrubs, as overgrown as the brambles were. Her only hope was to climb even higher. An impossibility, given she’d already scaled to the top of the wall. However…

She could certainly stand up.

That would give her an additional five feet and five inches at least. Surely enough to get a better vantage point.

“It’s fortunate I’m not afraid of heights.” She rose into a crouch, her basket swinging precariously from her arm. “Well done on that score, Charlotte.” With the aid of one of the tree branches, she slowly straightened to a standing position. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now you can practically see⁠—”

“What the devil are you doing up there, you little spy?” a deep, growling voice cracked out.

Charlotte started. A distance away, just visible through the chaotic remains of what must have once been a magnificent rose garden, stood a figure all in black. It was a man, she realized in swift alarm. A furious man, with wild raven hair and a face like thunder.

A scarred face.