The Runaway Countess (13 page)

“How long did you live with the Romani?”

She arranged her skirts as a lady would. “Only a month or two. It wasn’t the life for me.”

He smiled. “I do find some comfort in your transiency. You may scorn the aristocracy, but the gypsies fare no better. You will run from any group that would claim you.”

She looked up, her brows lifted in surprise.

“Mazie?”

“My lord?”

“Is there anything else I should know? Perhaps you lived in the jungles of Africa for a time?”

“No, it seems you have most of the story. Scary really, how quick my life was discovered.”

He held back a snort. He suspected there was a lot more to this woman than he had discovered. She was drenched in layers of truth and lies and passion and mystery.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth and watched her. A slight breeze from the window played with the red ribbons on her dress. How had such a creature come to be cold, hungry, desperate? “You never told me your side of leaving the Carringtons’ employ.” Had she been scared? “Why are you wanted for the theft of two silver candlesticks?”

She plucked at her skirts. “Seems Mr. Carrington thought I owed him favors of a distinctly vulgar nature. My protests meant nothing to him, but a silver candlestick to the head made the point. I was forced to flee with no back wages and no letter of reference. I took one candlestick as payment and brought the second so they wouldn’t be lonely for each other.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I thought so.” She ignored his sarcastic tone. “Even with the candlesticks, I soon ran out of funds. The Rom happened to be in the village I was staying in, and one thing led to another. I traveled with a woman my age and her young children.”

He tapped his hand on the surface of his desk. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“It didn’t seem important.”

“A lie by omission is still a lie. You must uphold your side of the bargain for it to work.” He held her gaze for a long moment. He did not trust her one bit and would not condone such obvious prevarication. “Is the Midnight Rider a gypsy?”

“No, I told you before.”

He looked down at his hands, considering the implications of her answer. Had Mazie told the highwayman about the gypsy encampment? Suggested it as a meeting place? Or perhaps she had never met him there at all and was using it as a source of false information.

“So you came to town with the gypsies, alighted from their caravan in Radford and secured employment with Mrs. Pearl.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Does Mrs. Pearl know you traveled with the Rom?”

“Yes.”

“Does she know about Mr. Carrington?”

“Yes.”

“And she knows you were…friendly with the Midnight Rider?”

“Er, yes.”

“And Mrs. Pearl has met him?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I seem to be telling you things you already know.”

He raked his hand through his hair. Who the hell was this Mrs. Pearl? “Is it common for an elderly woman to allow her companion to associate with the local riff-raff?”

Mazie stiffened but did not reply.

Something did not seem right. He had yet to understand how she became involved with this highwayman. The obvious answer was that she played Maid Marian to his Robin Hood. But, as he was quickly learning with Mazie, the obvious answer was never the right one.

“I would like to pay a visit to Mrs. Pearl.” Maybe she could shed light on things.

“What?” Mazie came to her feet, alarmed. “Why? She is an old lady, Trent, she doesn’t have any information for you. She is not of good health—”

“You will do as I say.” Really, the woman had no notion of acquiescence.

“Of course, my esteemed lordship.”

“We will visit her this afternoon.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Of course you do.” Her full lower lip pressed forward in stubbornness.

They glared at each other for a moment.

“Very well.” Mazie planted her hands on her hips. “If you insist on bothering my friends, perhaps we should talk about yours.”

He scowled. What friends? He was too busy with Parliament to play the socialite.

“You must get rid of Harrington. He is a beast.” Her face scrunched up in disgust. “He reflects poorly on you, as you are his employer. He is a brute and a bully and is greatly disliked by the people he is charged to protect.”

Trent raised his brows. Who was she to say such things to him? Even if she was right, which he would never admit aloud, she had no place demanding anything of him. “No one likes the law, Mazie. Of course the villagers dislike Harrington. He has the terrible responsibility of punishing them. Unlike you and your friends, we in Radford are not free to simply do as we please. There are repercussions when the rules are dismissed.”

“But that is just the thing. He punishes people out of context.” She paused, looked at him askance. “Do you even know what goes on in Radford while you’re away?”

“Of course I know what is going on in Radford.” His pride made him defend himself even though he did not particularly like Harrington. Neither did he keep close tabs on the goings-on of the village.

Her beautiful brown eyes turned unusually somber. His answer agitated her for some reason, but he couldn’t decipher if she was pensive, disappointed or maybe a bit afraid.

It was clear that she knew something he did not, something that pertained to him and his responsibilities, his place as the Earl of Radford.

He looked away, dropped his chin as if deep in thought. His gaze settled on the rug—blasted asymmetrical, irritating pattern—he hated the damn thing, couldn’t wait to see it burned.

As for the other, the sense that something was amiss in Radford, that he had neglected his duties and lost command over his earldom, well, he hated that too. He couldn’t wait for the burn of it to end.

Mazie was surprised Trent had stopped arguing so abruptly. He just stood there, looking pensive and tired. She was tired too, exhausted really, and the day had only just begun. Not that she had slept last night, not after that kiss.

It was all Trent’s fault, of course. He wore her out with his endless inquiries and hawklike stare. And his handsomeness. Lord, the effort it took to ignore her attraction to him would be her undoing. Especially this morning, still dressed in riding clothes molded to every broad stroke and thick muscle on his body. He was delicious enough to kiss again. And again.

Kisses like last night. Kisses that made her melt.

It was better she not think upon it. Neither would she pay heed to the proliferation of medieval weaponry on the walls, nor the dead animals staring at her with their glassy eyes. This was the first she had seen of his study, the seat of his power, and it gave her pause. Such display of blood thirst did not bode well for her situation.

Trent still stood in front of his hulking desk, scowling at the rug. Not wanting to draw that brooding stare at her own person, she wandered back to the settee by the window. She would look out over the garden. Yes, much better.

Here, amongst the strong fragrance of roses, with the bone removed from her corset, she could consider the facts at hand. One, Trent truly was protecting her from Harrington. Two, this meant that he must have some idea of the man’s misdeeds. Three, Trent had admitted as much, claiming that he knew what was going on in Radford. And four, he wanted to go see Mrs. Pearl.

Five, their kiss last night was burned into her memory and six, she wanted to try it again. She could only deduce that seven, she was a fool among fools to be attracted to her enemy.

Eight, he was not only her enemy, but the enemy of those she loved.

Matters were growing increasingly dire and this was all before afternoon tea.

She pressed her hand to her belly. This flighty, breathless fear was an acquaintance she would like to snub one day. For now, she must focus her efforts. To begin, they must not, under any circumstance, visit Mrs. Pearl.

Before she had time to think of a viable plan, the butler entered. He showed no surprise at her presence in the study, as if it were common for the lord to have lady/prisoner/houseguests about.

“Mr. Vale, sir. Sent by Mr. Hapbern.”

“Send him in.”

A moment later, Sterns returned with Mr. Vale.

“My lord.” Mr. Vale bowed, then turned to Mazie. “Lady Margaret.” So he knew her name and felt comfortable using it. The protocol for introductions did not extend to prisoners, it appeared. For herself, she had no idea who he was.

Trent was all business. “You have the drawing?”

The man glanced at Mazie, obviously wary to disclose anything in front of her.

Trent looked at her as well. “I would like my guest to view the drawing as well.”

Was he an investigator, then? Her hopes rose. This Mr. Vale hardly looked threatening, with his boyish soft features and tousled blond hair. He was younger than Mazie, perhaps twenty. No match for Roane.

Mr. Vale removed a folded paper from his pocket. He smoothed it out then handed it to Trent. Trent scanned it then walked to the settee and handed it to Mazie.

She glanced at it.

The blood drained from her face.

She stared at an actual likeness of Roane. Nothing at all like the description she had given. Someone had clearly seen him without his mask and had remembered the details. There was one picture of his face and another of him seated atop his large stallion.

Her stomach tumbled and tumbled. She forced an even breath and looked up at Trent, into his fierce stare. She prayed he had not noticed her initial reaction. “Who is this?”

“The Midnight Rider, of course. Is the portrait a true likeness?” Trent was all blasé curiosity, as if very lives weren’t hanging in the balance.

She drew in another steady breath, pretending her nerves did not feel naked and raw. “It looks a bit like him, though not enough to recognize him.” She bit her lip and innocently tilted her head to the side. “His hair is shorter, and his nose less prominent.” She tilted her head again, grasping for false clues. “His jaw is smaller and his cheekbones…well…I cannot say what, but they are not quite right.”

“His victims confirmed the sketch,” Mr. Vale said to Trent. “They approved the likeness.”

Trent’s expression remained bland as he looked from the investigator back to Mazie. “And the horse? Quite the beast.”

“I don’t know much about horses.” She handed the paper back to Trent before her sweating hands left a mark.

“Who provided the sketch?” He studied the picture again.

“Some people from the village. As we discussed, one of the runners has been spending his evenings in the local tavern. The stories the villagers told of the Midnight Rider were farfetched to begin with.” Mr. Vale’s lips tilted into a boyish smile. “They said he was seven feet tall and rode a beast who breathed fire. Silly things straight out of the legends. That he had a long sword and was known by the ladies as—” The investigator glanced over at Mazie and colored.

He cleared his throat and continued in a more dignified tone. “One man told of seeing the Midnight Rider take off his disguise. Said he was walking home from the tavern and saw the great black beast folks spoke of and knew it was him.”

“I see.” Trent looked up from the paper and stared at her, waiting to see what she would do next. The man took pleasure in watching her squirm. He was like some Roman emperor and she the gladiator fighting for her life.

She steeled her expression, pretended to be amused. “Gossips do love to exaggerate.”

“Yes, but in this case they provided a positive identification.” Mr. Vale puffed up his chest. “We will send copies of this sketch to law officers throughout England. It is only a matter of time before the Midnight Rider is hanged.”

Chapter Seven

“Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.” Henry Fielding

Mazie would never admit she was hiding, but in truth she was. Trent expected her to ride out to Mrs. Pearl’s in a half hour and she thought to disappoint him. Still dressed in her day gown, she strolled through the shaded stacks of the library, her hands skimming over leather spines, cloth spines, elaborate gilt spines. On the other end of the cavernous space Lady Catherine poured tea.

Would Trent be furious when she did not show?

Yes.

Could she convince him she did not remember the appointment?

Mmm. No matter, she had no choice. Going to Mrs. Pearl’s meant certain disaster. She would rather face the consequences here than drag her elderly friend into it as well.

“How do you take your tea?”

Mazie wandered back to the sunny part of the library. Her hostess sat in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of the terrace and emerald-green lawns. One could just see the glittering lake through the leafy trees. It was lovely how the architect had designed Giltbrook Hall to be so filled with light.

“Sugar?”

Mazie dropped into a seat across from her hostess. “One, please.”