Page 5 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

“How much?” Turner asked. “A few pounds? More? Best to be up front about these things with backward people like the sort what live in the village. I once had a cousin who was backward and he⁠—”

“Are you still talking?”

“I was just saying, sir⁠—”

“The doctor, Turner.” Magnus’s voice was hard as steel. “Before I lose my temper.”

Magnus trusted that after all these years together, traversing the length and breadth of Europe, India, and the Far East, he didn’t need to make his threat any more explicit than that.

“Apologies, your lordship.” Turner bobbed his head with what was lately becoming an infuriating show of deference. “Just saying you shouldn’t expect any miracles is all.”

“I never do.” Magnus continued down the hall toward the set of tall double doors that led to the master’s chamber. It was the only room in the house that was occupied thus far. Magnus had seen no purpose in making the others fit for company. He wasn’t intending on staying long.

Turner stopped behind him. “Might take me a spell to fetch someone,” he said. “What’ll you do in the meanwhile?”

“I don’t know,” Magnus grumbled. “Something.”

A cold compress? A sip of whiskey? A tourniquet to stop the bleeding?

Was she bleeding?

Her cheek was scratched, presumably by the thorns. But it was her head that had struck the ground when she’d fallen, not her face. A head that was presently hidden within the confines of a bonnet gone woefully askew.

He kicked open the doors to the bedroom. Striding inside, he laid her carefully upon the unmade bed.

“Might try a purgative!” Turner called as he departed. “Worked wonders for you in Japan!”

“A purgative bedamned,” Magnus muttered. He lit the lamp on the bedside table. The flame sprung to life beneath the clouded glass, casting a diffuse glow over the girl’s face.

Magnus hadn’t got a proper look at her before. He’d been too angry when he’d seen her standing on the wall to care if she was plain or fair. It was enough that she’d been spying on him. Another infernal busybody from the village, he’d thought. Someone who had discovered he’d returned and had come here to disturb his precarious peace. To poke, to peep, to pry. And then to spread the word like some hateful village crier, broadcasting to all of Yorkshire what a monster Magnus had become—as much in form now as he’d once been in reputation

And possibly that’s exactly who and what she was, and what she’d intended.

But as Magnus untied the satin ribbons of her bonnet, he felt a faint flicker of doubt.

She wasn’t as humbly dressed as a village lass. Her bonnet was exquisitely woven and trimmed. So was the close-fitting redingote she wore buttoned up over her gown. Expensive garments, possibly London or Paris made. They were far out of the reach of the people of Bead’s Hollow.

And her complexion.

It was deathly pale, to be sure. It was also flawless, save for the ragged scratch; her skin completely unmarred by the ravages of the sun or the storm.

A pit began to form in his midsection as the truth sank in.

This was no overly curious country girl, toiling for her supper. This was something far worse. This was a young lady.

Good God. What was that she’d said in the seconds before she fell? Something about a dog?

Cursing his bad luck under his breath, Magnus removed her bonnet, revealing a luxuriant tumble of dark auburn hair half falling from its pins. He scanned the disheveled tresses for blood. His stomach dropped when he found it.

A head wound, sure enough. It had already bled profusely, matting her hair at the roots. No wonder she was corpse white. Her dark brows and long black lashes stood out in stark relief. All she lacked was a burial shroud to complete the picture.

“Bloody perfect,” he muttered to himself as he rose from the bed. “Another scandal with another girl.”

He stalked to the marble-topped mahogany washstand in the corner. Filling the basin with a pitcher of cold water, he wet a dingy cloth and wrung it out. “A dog?” he questioned, returning to the bed. He sank down beside her. “Your dog?”

The young lady didn’t reply. Her eyes remained closed, her body limp as a ragdoll as he took hold of her chin to turn her head. Her skin was rose-petal soft beneath his callused fingers.

“Or was that just an excuse to sate your curiosity?” he asked. “To pry into my affairs so you could report your unscrupulous findings back to your legion of giggling comrades?”