Page 65 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

Charlotte’s spirits soared. She didn’t let them fly too high. This wasn’t a treasure hunt in a sensation novel. It was a real-life search with real-life consequences. “With impunity?” she asked.

“Tear it apart,” he answered. “Nothing is sacred here, as you see.”

There was a thread of fatalism in the words. Of a man without hope. One who was—and who had been for a long while—resigned to his fate.

Some of Charlotte’s excitement dissipated to hear it. But only a little. “I’d best get started,” she said. “Miss Champion will be expecting me back soon. I can’t stay above two hours.”

Magnus strode across the hall, Chance close at his heels. He jerked open the door of the parlor.

Turner promptly stopped hammering.

“Miss Beresford will be taking this room,” Magnus told him.

“Thank the Gods,” the valet said. “I’m needing a cup of tea.”

“You’ve had your tea.”

“But sir⁠—”

“The upstairs guest chambers need searching. Start with the east wing. I’ll join you there presently.”

Turner gave an inaudible reply. It was followed by a more clearly enunciated: “Yes, my lord.”

Charlotte entered the shadowy parlor just as the grumbling valet was exiting it. An odd smell assailed her nostrils. A disconcerting pungency, redolent of decaying plaster, rotting paper hangings, and the acrid tang of…metal? Or was it blood?

An icy shiver traced down Charlotte’s spine.

Could the smell of blood linger this long?

Charlotte didn’t know. She could only feel. And what she felt as she advanced into the confines of the small parlor was foreboding. If the rest of the house was a tomb, this suffocating antechamber was something worse. A dark and forsaken place. As though it had been shut after the tragedy and never opened again.

The wall by the door bore evidence of Turner’s aborted efforts in the form of torn paper-hangings and partially cracked wood. It was the only sign that the room had been touched in an age. Everything else appeared just as Charlotte imagined it must have when Mr. Farr and his sister had confronted Magnus here so long ago.

There was a plain mahogany settee, with neither seat cushions nor upholstery, arranged in front of the fireplace in company with a pair of equally unwelcoming hardback chairs. A simple, slant-front writing desk stood under the sole window opposite. Another hard chair was near to hand. It was the sum total of the room’s furnishings. None were designed for comfort. Indeed, it appeared that all had been expressly chosen to discourage unwelcome visitors from staying too long.

“One of the servants admitted him into the small parlor,” Magnus had told her yesterday. “Another slight, Jeremiah believed, which only made things worse.”

Charlotte didn’t wonder at Mr. Farr’s assumption. This was not a place where a guest would be at ease. It was a mere waiting area.

Her gaze fell to the carpet, landing on a discolored patch near the hearth. It was difficult to tell the difference between rot, wear, and any other kind of damage. Even so…

Was it her imagination, or was that a scorch mark?

She glanced back at Magnus. He hadn’t followed her into the room. He remained in the doorway with Chance, giving no sign he intended to enter. “You haven’t searched in here at all yet?” she inquired.

“I have not,” he said.

Charlotte returned to the door. “Is there a particular reason?” She winced. “Aside from the obvious, I mean.”

“My father never entered this room afterward. It was kept locked until the inquest. It remained locked.”

“Forever?” Charlotte stopped in front of him. “You can’t know that.”

“I know him.”

Her chest tightened on an ache of sympathy. “Oh, Magnus. I can’t imagine⁠—”

“Don’t,” he said gruffly. “And don’t attempt to start prying off the paneling yourself. If you find a likely hiding place⁠—”