Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Magnus signed his name to the letter he’d written to his father’s solicitor before unceremoniously stuffing the missive into an envelope.
It was a task he’d been putting off for days.
One he didn’t relish. He’d never enjoyed revealing his weaknesses, particularly when they were of the financial variety.
Exiting the master bedchamber, he made his way to the staircase. Chance accompanied him down the steps, off his lead now and almost entirely independent. The little dog had shown no interest in escaping, or even in hiding, since his daily ration had begun containing bacon.
Magnus was halfway down the stairs, letter in hand, when someone—a very firm-handed someone—applied the bronze knocker to the front door.
His mouth compressed with aggravation.
It had been two days since the tradesmen had made their deliveries, and they had called at the back door, not the main entrance. It was where Charlotte called as well whenever she came to see him.
Whoever this was, the intrusion could be nothing to the good.
Tucking his letter into his waistcoat pocket, Magnus bounded the rest of the way down the steps. He crossed the floor to the set of tall double doors. They were secured by an iron bar and heavy bolt. The knocker sounded again as he searched his pockets for the key.
“Just a bloody minute,” he muttered.
Chance danced anxiously around his feet, nails skittering on the stone floor.
At last finding his key, Magnus unlocked the bolt and removed the iron bar. He jerked the door open, prepared to bring the full weight of his wrath down upon the encroaching villager who had dared set foot on his property uninvited.
But it wasn’t a villager.
It was an impeccably dressed and indisputably aristocratic older blond gentleman. A shorter fellow was at his left, carrying a leather briefcase and wearing the nondescript attire of a clerk. And at his right…
Magnus’s chest constricted.
It was Charlotte. She too was dressed in elegant style, wearing a fetching mulberry-colored frock, with a ruffled skirt that gathered at the back in a fashionable cascade of fabric and a bodice that emphasized the narrow curve of her waist. Her hand was set on the older gentleman’s arm.
“Lord Eversleigh?” she said before any of the men could speak.
“Allow me to present my father, Viscount St. Clare. He arrived but two days ago, rather unexpectedly. Papa, this is Lord Eversleigh.”
Time ground to a halt.
Magnus felt it in his blood and in his bones. The harsh echo of the past.
He hadn’t been the one to welcome Jeremaih Farr into the house eleven years ago.
A servant had already put him in the small parlor when Magnus had come to face him.
The similarities between that confrontation and this one were, nevertheless, too striking to ignore.
A young lady wronged and a gentleman come to call Magnus to account.
Though, admittedly, this gentleman didn’t appear to be carrying a loaded pistol.
“Lord Eversleigh.” Viscount St. Clare inclined his head to Magnus in a glacial approximation of a bow.
He wasn’t very like Charlotte. Not on the surface.
Indeed, outwardly, they differed in nearly every regard.
She was warm to his cold, her blue eyes and auburn tresses standing in marked contrast to his ice gray gaze and golden-wheat shaded hair.
Yet there was something in the turn of their countenance—a certain depth of confidence—that made their relationship plain.
“Lord St. Clare.” Magnus returned the viscount’s stiff salute. “Miss Beresford.”
“And this is my secretary, Mr. Tate,” Lord St. Clare said. “He always accompanies me on matters of business.”
Ah.
So, it wasn’t a pistol, then.
Charlotte’s father, it seemed, had different weapons in his arsenal. Which would he employ today, Magnus wondered. Money? Power? Influence? To the average gentleman of reputation and breeding, any one of them would be sufficient to do harm.
Unlike those good and honorable men, however, Magnus had very little left to lose.
He stepped back to admit them. “You’re welcome to come in,” he said. “But I warn you, the house isn’t fit for receiving company.”
Chance retreated to the foot of the staircase behind Magnus. He eyed the visitors warily as they entered, ready to bolt up the steps at the first sign of danger.
Charlotte caught Magnus’s gaze as she came into the hall. There was a distinct glint of apology in her own. It suggested that this visit had not been her idea. “My father doesn’t mind,” she said brightly. “He never judges on appearances.”
Magnus gave her a wry look. Was she referring to the house? Or to him?
He suspected the latter.
Unlike her and her father, Magnus was neither elegantly, nor suitably dressed.
He’d been working in the house since dawn and was still clad in his shirtsleeves.
Add to that, the ink stains on his fingers from his letter writing, his unpomaded hair, and the shadows on his face from lack of sleep, and he likely appeared every bit the coarse and ill-mannered brute people said he was.
That he’d opened the front door himself rather than relegating the office to a servant did nothing to diminish this unfortunate picture.
God only knew where Turner was at the moment.
The kitchen very probably, indulging in another of his endless cups of tea.
Like Chance, the valet had been making the most of their newly acquired surplus.
Charlotte looked past Magnus’s shoulder, her face transformed by a smile. “There he is, Papa! That’s the new dog I was telling you about.”
Breaking free of her father, she went to greet the little canine. She sank down in front of him in a pool of ruffled skirts in order to stroke the dog’s ears with both of her gloved hands.
Lord St. Clare remained where he stood, his expression inscrutable. His secretary stayed beside him, equally impassive.
Magnus looked steadily back at them. The situation was volatile, that was evident. Magnus had compromised this gentleman’s daughter. And here Magnus was receiving him, not in a lavish estate, but a ruin.
There was no question in Magnus’s mind that Charlotte’s father believed him to be some variety of fortune hunter. A man to be ruthlessly dispatched.
“My lord?” Turner materialized at the door to the servants’ stair to goggle at the visitors. “Begging your pardon. Shall I—”
“You may show my guests to the drawing room,” Magnus said.
Charlotte scrunched her nose with distaste at the directive. She stood from petting the dog. “Perhaps we might walk in the garden instead? It’s far nicer than—”
“The drawing room will suit me very well,” Lord St. Clare said.
Charlotte’s face fell.
Magnus contained a grimace. He’d known the drawing room was bad, but surely it wasn’t that bad? Not when compared with the small parlor or the library anyway.
“This way, sirs.” Turner mounted the stairs. “Mind the broken steps.”
Charlotte moved to follow him.
Her father stopped her with a look. “I think not.”
Magnus stilled. So did Turner and Mr. Tate.
Charlotte returned her father’s gaze, a question in her eyes.
Lord St. Clare addressed Magnus. “On this occasion, I will speak to you alone.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to object. “But Papa—”
“My daughter will join us when we’re finished,” Lord St. Clare said. “Until such time, perhaps your man might offer her some refreshment?”
“An excellent idea,” Magnus replied before Charlotte could make another protest. “Turner? Escort Miss Beresford to the kitchen and give her some tea. Take the dog with you.”
“Yes, my lord.” Turner came back down the stairs, obedient for once in his life. He opened the door to the servants’ stair.
Chance immediately shot through it. His attachment to Magnus notwithstanding, he never missed an opportunity to return to what had lately become his favorite room in the house.
“If you please, miss,” Turner said.
Charlotte’s cheeks flushed to find herself thwarted. “Well, I must say that this is very unfair.”
“Charlotte,” her father said in the same quiet tone.
“Oh, very well,” she huffed. “But I shan’t stay down there forever.” With a swish of her skirts, she departed with Turner.
Magnus gestured for Lord St. Clare and his secretary to precede him up the staircase.
Together, the three of them repaired to the drawing room. It was markedly worse in appearance than when the constable had come. Not only dank and deteriorating, but now lacking the majority of its paper hangings and paneling.
Magnus had removed nearly all of it in the course of his search. He’d even taken down the painting of his mother. It was presently leaning against what remained of the wall behind the fireplace.
He crossed the room to open the draperies, stirring up the dust and the muck.
Sun filtered through the filthy glass. Rather than brightening the surroundings, it only served to cast them in a starker light.
Every bit of rot was harshly revealed. Every speck of dust, disintegrating piece of fabric, and scrap of broken plaster discolored by the damp.
“I apologize for the state of the place,” Magnus said. “It’s been grievously neglected in my absence.”
“My daughter informs me that you have only recently returned home,” Lord St. Clare replied.
“That’s not all she informed you of, I assume. Else you wouldn’t be here.” Magnus motioned to the pair of faded armchairs by the hearth. “You and Mr. Tate may have a seat. Though I wouldn’t blame you if you refrained. I can’t vouch for the upholstery.”
Lord St. Clare flicked a pointed glance at his secretary.
The man immediately withdrew to the far end of the room, perching himself on a spoon-back chair in the corner.
Lord St. Clare took a seat in one of the armchairs.
He directed Magnus to the remaining one.
“It seems I have you to thank for saving my daughter’s life. ”
“Is that what she’s told you?” Magnus asked as he joined him.
“You dispute her account?”
“She’s overgenerous in it.”