Page 66 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

“Shout out for you or Turner,” she finished for him. “Yes, I remember.”

He gave her a stiff nod. “I leave you to it, then.” With that, he and Chance took their leave, crossing the entry hall and mounting the curving stairs.

Charlotte watched them go from the small parlor’s doorway, a pensive frown notching her brows.

And then she closed the door.

Chapter Twenty-One

Charlotte cast her gaze over the cramped little room. Her heart thudded in her ears. There was nothing to fear here, she told herself. It was only stale air and old furniture.

“Very stale,” she amended. “And very old.”

Crossing to the window, she briskly opened the curtains. A foul cloud of dust engulfed her, making her gasp and sneeze. “Oh bother!”

Such filth. Ugh! She could feel it on her hands—the cold, tacky grit of rot and decay.

But sunshine rewarded her efforts. It shone through the streaked panes of leaded glass, illuminating the darkened room around her, and going some small way to calming her ridiculous anxieties. It was a result well worth any temporary disgust.

Wiping her grimy hands on her skirts, she wandered across the floor. Her eyes moved over the slant-front writing desk, the settee, the chairs. Reaching the stark, stone-framed fireplace, she sank down to examine the scorch mark on the carpet. But on closer inspection, it didn’t appear to be a scorch mark at all. Merely another patch of rot.

“Possibly I have been reading too many novels,” Charlotte murmured.

She nevertheless sensed that this was where the tragedy must have taken place. The three young people poised here in heated confrontation. Perhaps Miss Farr had fallen on this very spot.

“Poor Magnus.” Charlotte stood. “No wonder he didn’t wish to enter.”

This room must bring back awful memories for him. He blamed himself, it was clear. And perhaps he was to blame in some regard.

How could Charlotte know for certain? She had only Magnus’s own account to go upon. It made sense that his account would paint him in favorable terms.

Though he hadn’t made them too favorable, had he?

To be sure, the picture Charlotte had formed as she’d listened to his tale yesterday was not of an arrogant young heir to an earldom, careless of the feelings of others, but of an oblivious lad who wasn’t mature enough to understand the possible repercussions of his actions. Of the likely result of offering a ride to an unmarried young lady in a closed carriage, piloting her rowboat at the village fete, or driving her in an open gig.

Kindness was to blame, Magnus had said.

And he had, indeed, been kind to Miss Farr. Perhaps, deep down, he had even been flattered by her attentions, just as his father had been.

Charlotte’s own brothers might well have felt the same. She didn’t know much about their dealings with local girls, but she did recall that village lasses regularly batted their eyes at Nick and Arthur. There were whispers, giggles, and blushing faces. Charlotte had often noted them.

What she hadn’t ever done was consider such attentions from her brothers’ points of view. What did it feel like to be chased after? To have young ladies set out lures for them?

She wondered if Nick or Arthur might fall into those traps as easily as Magnus had, not out of interest for the girl involved, but out of mere kindness?

“I’m glad I asked him about it,” she said to herself. “Else I’d fear he was only being kind to me.”

She didn’t think he was. Didn’t feel he was, certainly.

Why else had he allowed her back today? Why else had he taken greater pains with his appearance? He must care for her. He must.

“If I can only help him.” She crossed back to the window. “Redeem his reputation somehow.”

Or prove to herself beyond all doubt that he was deserving of the reputation he already had.

Charlotte couldn’t discount the possibility that he might be. A slim possibility, she was sure, but a possibility nonetheless.

You have only his word for anything, Agatha would doubtless counsel her. But⁠—