The Runaway Countess (25 page)

Oh God, what if they had found Roane?

Determined to change her perspective, she glanced out over the sloping lawns and focused on the peace of the meadow beyond, rather than the tension twisting and churning in her gut. A thousand questions and worries blurred through her mind, but she forced herself to stay calm.

A moment later, Sterns returned with Mr. Vale.

“My lord.” The man bowed, his clothes were dusty from the road. “My ladies.” He assessed both Mazie and Cat, his gaze warm and complimentary. Cat shifted in her seat and sent him a small smile.

Trent showed no reaction, his face reassembled in indifference. “Do you have news for me?”

“I do, sir.”

Mazie focused on her plate. She couldn’t possibly eat now, but at least the food gave her something to do other than sit and try not to sweat.

“We sent thirty-three copies of the Midnight Rider’s picture to law officers throughout England.” Mr. Vale handed Trent another copy of the drawing. “Two nights ago, we received word of the highwayman’s location.”

Mazie swallowed her bread in an uncomfortable lump. She forced herself to sit still, very still.

“Interesting.” Trent flicked his gaze from the investigator to her and back again. “And where is this location?”

“In Berkshire, near Ascot.”

She flashed hot, then cold. Was Roane mad? What was he doing at the Royal Ascot horserace?

Appraising horseflesh, no doubt. Her brother was crazy about the beasts. Crazy enough to mingle with the
haut ton
at this of all times.

She would wring his neck if they did not find him first.

She concentrated on lifting her teacup as if nothing were amiss. Her hand shook slightly, forming little ripples in her tea. She glanced over the rim to see Trent frowning at her, of course. Why ever had she wanted the man’s attention earlier? Now she just wished he would leave her alone to her thoughts. He saw too clearly the truth she tried to hide.

The bite of bread sat like a rock in her stomach. It was all too much. Too many ways to be furious, too many ways to be afraid.

“Near Ascot? For the horse races?” Trent’s tone was bland. One would never know the steely interior behind his calm façade. She had to wonder at his lack of reaction to the news. He was tightly controlled this morning, purposeful in his every word and action.

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Vale nodded, excited. “One of the royal guards at the horserace identified the highwayman. We sent five runners.”

Trent watched her, made her burn, but she forced herself to take a bite of her eggs as if her stomach weren’t roiling and protesting.

“Unfortunately,” Mr. Vale continued, “the man has fled.”

“The Midnight Rider got away?” Trent laughed, a short, cutting sound that contained no amusement. “The royal guards and Bow Street Runners were trailing him and the man got away?”

Mr. Vale rubbed the back of his neck. “Er, yes.”

“Any clues to his whereabouts?”

The investigator looked pale. “No.”

“Of course not,” Trent bit out.

Away. He’d gotten away. She bit the inside of her cheek. She would not smile. She would not show her relief.

Trent leaned back in his chair, digesting the news. Then he sat forward, wrote something on a piece of paper and passed it to Mr. Vale. “See this is done.”

“Yes, sir.” His blond hair flopped into his eyes with the force of his nod.

“And tell your supervisor to call on me as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Vale nodded sharply again and then stood to leave. “We will continue to update you as information becomes available, of course.”

“Of course.”

“It was a pleasure.” Mr. Vale smiled at Cat, a bit more wobbly than when he had arrived. “Ladies.” He bowed and then left.

Trent stood from the table and picked up the stack of papers he had been reading. “I’ll be in my study.” As he turned to leave, he swept his gaze over Mazie. He turned away, but not before something flashed between them. Something she could not name, but that brought flooded memories of their kiss. Of the burn and the tenderness both.

“Good day, brother,” Cat called out to his retreating back. “Do not forget the midsummer’s festival this eve.”

Mazie looked down at her barely touched breakfast and found that her appetite had returned.

Roane was still free.

Glorious, glorious good news.

Her mind though, went with the brooding man to his study.

An hour later, birdsong filtered through the window in Trent’s study, an incongruous lilt of beauty amidst the harsh blades of sunshine.

The evidence was indisputable. Harrington was corrupt.

The mess of documents spread before Trent damned his magistrate to Hell a hundred times over. Bribes, unlawful punishment, gaol. Accusations of rape, harassment. The list went on.

He closed his eyelids, lost in the darkness and light that danced there.

The papers dated back nine years.

Eighteen-eleven. Two years after his father had appointed the man magistrate. Either his father had known, or was a fool.

He forced his eyes open, pushed his chair back from his desk and stood. He would not think such things of his sire.

Looking wildly around his study, he considered the furniture, the paintings. Cat had begun the redecoration in earnest, had removed the hunting trophies and dark curtains, but many of his father’s things still remained. The ivory chess set his mother had gifted to him, the grandfather clock he had purchased upon creation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland—“It is past time,” his father had said—and the indigo blue rug, with its asymmetrical design that he had commissioned.

His father had been a man of flesh and blood and hope. Trent would not judge his sire until he had detailed proof. He would not.

He walked to the open window and loosened the knot of his cravat. His mind pressed against the limitations he would impose on it.

Late May, eighteen-seventeen. His father had called him to Giltbrook Hall after months of limited correspondence, presumably to go over estate matters, though little of that had occurred.

June ninth, eighteen-seventeen. The Pentrich Uprising.

Trent could not dismiss the suspicion that his father had wanted him here to witness the revolt. God only knew the reason why.

He pounded his fist into his open palm. He mustn’t think this way. It was impossible his father had known. Had allowed.

The only thing that was certain was that Trent had allowed Harrington’s corruption to continue.

Rape. Abuse. Imprisonment.

Harrington was a beast and the Midnight Rider had escaped the men chasing him. He had escaped the royal guards
and
the Bow Street Runners. Trent was sliding downward toward his own ruin. Family honor, the safety of the villagers, Parliament. It was all falling apart.

He wanted to shake the window frame, shatter the glass into tiny shards and stomp them into dust. He felt like something was breaking apart inside him, something he had kept tight and secret for years. He did not want to feel it. Hated feeling it.

He would go. Away from this study and away from these papers. Away from his father’s portrait staring at him from across the room.

His movements disorganized, he turned and strode to the door, then halted with a muffled curse. He couldn’t leave the documents out for anyone to see.

He paced to his desk and shuffled the papers into a messy pile which he shoved into the billfold.

“Hell, hell, hell,” he chanted under his breath, as if the expletive could incinerate the worry from his mind. But no, it was Hell he was living. Hell he was burning in with every breath.

He must get out of this room. Fresh air. The sound of his pounding footsteps echoed through the hallway to the main foyer and then he was outside. Blissfully outside.

“Radford!”

He pretended not to hear his sister calling him. He turned and walked in the other direction.

“Trent!” Cat called again. Her voice was close. She would be hurt by his disregard.

Hell, hell, hell.

He whipped around on his heel, and she stepped back abruptly.

“What has happened?” she asked, breathless.

Trent said nothing, just glanced over her shoulder. Ten yards away, an open carriage stood in the drive. Mazie and a kitchen maid decorated the vehicle with garlands and flowers.

Mazie. She had known about Harrington all along, had warned him.

She turned her head, perhaps glanced at him. He couldn’t tell, the bonnet shaded her face. She held still then went back to the flowers.

“You are continuing mother’s tradition,” he stated, the words hollow.

“Yes, of course. Great-grandmother was the one who started it…” Cat let her voice trail off. When he looked back, there was worry in her blue eyes. “You are coming tonight, aren’t you?”

“I am coming.” He would go to the Midsummer’s Eve festival and try his damnedest to be nice to the villagers. They must think him the worst sort of beast for setting Harrington upon them.

“And Mazie may come as well?”

He scoffed. Of all utter nonsense.

Cat came forward and touched his arm. He flinched. “Please, brother.” She frowned. “It is in everyone’s best interest that she attends. If nothing else, the villagers must see she is happy.”

Happy? His eyes glanced over to the women at the carriage. His sister was addled if she thought Mazie happy. But he no longer cared to stay and argue. “Fine.” He turned to walk away but her hand stopped him.

“What has happened?” she asked again, softly this time.

She would not let him go until he gave her something. “I am upset over Mr. Vale’s news.” He would tell her nothing about Harrington.

He did not look at her as he said it, did not want to see what was in her eyes.

He stepped back. “I will see you tonight.” He walked away, not knowing where to go, only that he wanted to be anywhere but at Giltbrook Hall.

It was a good day. A lovely, blissful, blessed day.

Roane was free.

Mazie twirled in the sun-drenched foyer, not caring that a footman stood nearby. The weight settled on her the last few days had lifted. She breathed again, enjoyed the birdsong and sunlight and simple joy of being alive.

The events of the last weeks had slowly unraveled her at the seams, and she awaited the last intemperate tug that would pull everything apart. But now, now she was going to a festival. She was going to dance and laugh and celebrate her good news.

“I am glad to see you left your scowl behind tonight, dear brother.” Cat’s voice carried down the hallway. “Nobody frowns on Midsummer’s Eve.”

“Is that due to some magical powers of happiness?” Trent’s deep voice reverberated against the white marble. “I suppose you believe the fairies will be dancing about tonight as well.”

Cat was rolling her eyes as they rounded the corner into the bright foyer. “And what do you know of magic? When was the last time you attended the festival?”

“Parliament is usually in session. I’ve had to be in London.” Trent turned to Mazie and at once she noticed the strain around his eyes, the lines around his mouth that had not been there yesterday. He slid his sharp gaze over her from head to toe, leaving heat in his wake. When he trailed his eyes back up to hers she saw an echo of somethingsadness? Resignation?before he glanced away and bowed.

“Lady Margaret.”

“Lord Radford.” He looked delicious, tall and strong and everything male.

He wore clothes that would blend in with the villagers rather than set him apart. Most noticeably, he wore a simple white neck cloth tied in a knot, similar to what the villagers wore. No starched linen, no waterfall of perfect folds tonight. His jacket and breeches were well tailored but made of soft fabrics and warm colors that hugged him perfectly. His boots, however, were high and shiny and spoke of his wealth.

Despite his clothing, he was brooding about something. It was there in his eyes, in the dark slash of his brow. His mood was, in part, her fault. Nowhere did she wish him pain. She must be honest with herselfthe ache in her chest was for him, for his obvious distress. How irrational she was. They could not both win at this game, and she refused to lose.

Still, she wished her good news was not his bad news. She would see him have fun tonight. It was the least she could do considering the trouble she was causing him.

“Are you in costume then, my lord? Where is your urbane black and navy this evening?” She reached out and plucked at his coat sleeve. He froze under her touch, locked his gaze with hers.

It was all there in his grey gaze. Their passion, the kiss, the panting for breath. The lies. The pressure from the prime minister.

“I am surprised you even know how the villagers dress.” Cat looked him over head to toe. “I should think it has been ten years at the least since you attended the Midsummer’s Festival.”

He did not answer, just looked away and stepped aside, clearly indicating he was ready to leave.