The Runaway Countess (43 page)

And a small army of burly footmen watched over them.

Everyone was talking at once, shouting to be heard. Shouting from anger and justification and pent-up emotion.

This moment had been brewing for a long while.

Trent supposed he should feel relief or pride at having solved this mystery. As it was he just felt annoyed. He did not want to be here. He wanted to be far away, in fact. With Mazie naked and begging for his forgiveness. Alas, it was up to him to untangle this mess. And the only time Mazie had ever begged had been for her brother.

Finally, when he could no longer listen to the chaos, he stood. He actually had to whistle to gain everyone’s attention.

“It seems we have a problem.” It was a vast understatement, of course. And suddenly everyone was shouting at
him
, wanting to be the first to be heard.

Trent slammed a book down on the desk. “Enough!” he commanded. “Order in the court.”

“This isn’t your courtroom,” Dixon snickered.

“Fine. Order in my study.” Trent glared and the room settled. “I see everyone is already acquainted?” It was a humor no one appreciated. “Let us begin by welcoming a man who has taken up a vast amount of time and attention. Mr. Roane Grantham.”

“Felon,” Dixon called out.

“Yes.” Trent nodded. “Highway robbery is a treasonous offense. Punishable with death by hanging.”

“We’ll see you swing,” Horris threatened.

“I do not fear death,” Roane boasted.

“Brave words.” Trent sat and considered the other man. What different lives they had led. Roane was free, wild in fact, and had most likely faced death numerous times. Trent had always had his title to consider. His only contemplation of death was that he needed to leave behind an heir.

Some part of him envied the man across from him. He could not countenance it, envying a criminal, but there it was. He himself had never known the freedom of the highway at night, sleeping under the stars, living from one day to the next. Not to mention that, as Mazie’s brother, Roane had a connection to the minx that could never be broken. Trent had experienced firsthand her unwavering loyalty to her brother. She would do anything for him.

Jealousy stabbed with sharp fingers. He shook his head. One thing at a time.

“It seems we are in quite a pickle, with everyone mad at everyone else,” he said to the room. “I’d like to see if we can untangle this situation. Mr. Grantham has provided me with a written confession of his crimes. A surprisingly poignant confession, I might add, with a large dossier of evidence condemning his victims.”

Lord Dixon stood, a look of disgust on his face. “I refuse to listen to more of this rubbish.”

Trent leveled a severe gaze on the older man. “I highly recommend that you sit.”

Lord Dixon did not sit down. “We insist you reinstate Harrington and bring justice to the Midnight Rider. We have agreed to shoot the highwayman and say he was escaping.”

“Excellent idea,” Trent drawled, tamping down his annoyance. “Who is going to do the shooting?”

Lord Dixon shrugged. “I’ll do it.”

“I am sure you would. A convenient plan, condemning him without a trial.”

Mazie and Roane shared a glance. Her worry was etched on her face and Roane reached out, patted her leg in reassurance.

Love. There was so much love in that small gesture. Brotherly love. Trent knew all about that, about worrying for a sibling.

How scared Mazie must be, to listen to this talk of shooting and hanging and death. To lose her parents then face the loss of her brother.

How had he not seen it before?

Whatever lies Mazie had told had been in defense of her brother’s life.

He shifted his gaze to Cat, who watched him with her guileless blue eyes. He would do the same for his sibling, or worse, were she in danger.

The question was, what would Mazie do once her brother no longer faced the hangman’s noose? His heart feared she would flee.

He cleared his thoughts with an inhale, then addressed the room at large. “There is, of course, the small matter of the dossier, and the more than substantial evidence pointing to illegal, even treasonous crimes, committed by you all.”

“You cannot do anything to us,” Lord Nash protested. “Your father”

“My father is dead.” Trent’s voice was cold. The wound of the man’s betrayal was still tender. One that he did not know how to heal. “Lucky for me, I am in charge here. It seems I have a number of choices. I could send all of you and the incriminating evidence to London, where you would each be tried by a jury of your peers.”

“Do it. They would let us go.”

“Perhaps they would. But I am sure
The Times
would take a great interest in the trial, and the surfeit of information I would provide. Let’s see…” He consulted a list before him. “Lord Dixon, it seems you have been accused of four counts of intimidation with political intent?”

“Where’s the proof?”

Trent held up a pile of papers. “Mr. Grantham did not limit his revenge to the nighttime games of a highwayman. He was thorough in his research, in his interviews with the victims. He has, in fact, done my work for me. The matter of verifying the information was quite easy.”

The men glowered but settled into silence. Mrs. Pearl continued to knit. Mazie sat forward, her brows drawn with tension. He could not be sure, but Trent thought she held Roane’s hand in hers.

“And Lord Nash.” He shifted his gaze to the Baron. “How sad about the disappearance of your estate manager after he brought forth his concerns. Something about funds you received from Parliament. Funds that were to go to the factories on your estate, rather than in your own pocket.”

“This is ridiculous,” the other man blustered. “We are not the criminals here.”

“Oh, but you are.” Trent looked each man in the eye. “You all are.”

“It has taken us decades to get where we are,” Harrington argued. “We are stronger, superior. Who do you think you are to step in and put a stop to it now?”

“I am the Lord Lieutenant of Radford. I am the King’s representative.”

“You are your father’s son,” the man roared. “You should honor his legacy.”

“A legacy of ill doing? Of lies and trespasses against the very people he was charged to protect?”

“You father”

Trent held up his hand, again silencing the comment. He had heard enough. “We have a number of options before us. The most obvious option would be to send all of you and the evidence to London.”

“And the other option?” Roane asked casually, as if his very life did not hang in the balance.

“We find an acceptable compromise between us here today.”

Mazie’s brown eyes rounded in surprise and he easily read the thoughts playing across her face. Relief. Confusion. Anticipation. She knew him, whether he had wanted her to or not. She knew how extraordinary this decision was for him.

It bound him to her, that she witnessed his transformation. No, not only witnessed it, helped to foster it. Whatever happened, he would always be grateful to her.

“What say you?” he casually asked the room, as if there was any question.

“This is outrageous,” Lord Dixon grumbled with token resistance, but did not do anything more.

“What are you suggesting? We give each other’s sentence? I say Midnight Rider gets shot and buried.”

Mazie blanched and Roane simply raised an eyebrow. Trent admired his composure.

“I was thinking more along the lines of an eye for an eye. What was it a few weeks ago at midsummer assizes? Turnips for artichokes?” Trent drawled.

The men looked confused, but a smile dawned on Mazie’s mouth. Trent drank it in, the shine in her eyes, the softening of her posture. Her pride in him was clear as a bell on a summer’s day. It made him feel warm with modesty and desire all at once.

“What the hell is going on here?” Horris asked. “What kind of a trial is this?”

“Upon deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that there is no clear right and wrong in this case. Both parties are guilty. Could one be called guiltier than the other? Perhaps. But that depends on the perspective of the judge. Were the judge to have no perspective, you would all be seen as fools. I cannot say one side is guilty and must be punished, while the other is innocent and must be let go. Therefore, I propose that both sides share the burden of judgment.”

There was much muttering and grumbling in the room, but none spoke up.

“My lords, what is your proposal for Mr. Grantham’s punishment?”

“Shot!”

“Ah, a bloodthirsty bunch. And Mr. Grantham, what do you propose?”

“I propose these men resign from their positions in the House of Lords and absolve their power in Radford. I would like to see them sell what is not entailed and share the monies with the good people of the shire.”

“Another thorough punishment. Shall we compromise? I propose Mr. Grantham’s penalty be reduced to deportation.”

Mazie pressed her lips together. He could see her need to intervene, the physical challenge it was for her to remain quiet.
Trust me, Mazie. Just a little longer.

“You’re a fool. Do you know what you are giving up? Why, if you brought the Midnight Rider to London yourself you would be a hero. Your name would be splashed across the cover of every newspaper.”

“Men would want you on their boards. The Financial Committee”

“My decision is made,” Trent interrupted. “As for you, my lords, you will pay restitution to your victims. The Midnight Rider has already distributed some, ah, recompense to the villagers. I have hired a clerk and a Bow Street Runner to take over the case and see it completed in an orderly and lawful manner.

In addition, all parties in this room will be charged with silence in the facts and persons involved with this case. I will report to London that we suspect the highwayman was found, but there was not sufficient evidence to hang him. I will say I deported him for a minor crime. Everyone’s silence will protect everyone else. No one in this room wants their participation to be public knowledge.”

“I’m not paying anyone!” Lord Nash stood.

“You’ll not pay the children of Lord Redesdale, whom you swindled in a land grab case? Interesting that your victims are within the aristocracy as well. Makes me curious as to what I will discover when my men look through your private affairs.”

“You cannot”

“It is entirely within my power to interpret and implement the law. Should you find that I have too much bias in this case, or that by its nature of importance it should be tried in London, I will stand down.”

“I say we take it to London.” Lord Horris stood as well.

“Very well. I will be glad to explain to Parliament, Horris, how you broke the leases on sixteen tenants because they did not vote for your nephew in the House of Commons. How you forced them from their homes, from their fields, weeks before harvest with not a care for their investment in those crops. How you, their landlord and supposed protector, left them with nothing because they dared to exercise their right to choose.”

Horris and Nash sat down with a huff.

Mazie bit back a laugh, but her face was drawn. He hoped she understood this was the best he could do. For everyone.

Trent held up a pen. “Shall we draw up the agreement?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Two lovely berries moulded on one stem./So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.” Shakespeare

Mazie sat at the bottom of the grand staircase, the marble cold beneath her thin skirts. She did not care that the butler, two footmen and a maid had just witnessed the unleashing of her tears. Did not care that she must look a fright, her eyes red rimmed and puffy, and tear tracks streaking down her cheeks.

Roane was gone. Deported to Australia for three years. Saying goodbye to him had been a terrible loss. Each of their lives had been marked by too much separation, too much loneliness. But he was alive, and he would come back to her. She rubbed her hand over her face. She would see him again. She
would
.

She placed her elbows on her knees and waited. Waited for the man she loved. The man she trusted completely, and who had proven himself worthy of that trust.

The front door stood open to the morning, open to her freedom. A warm breeze, sharp with the scent of fresh-cut grass, stirred the foyer. She could leave at any time, follow the breeze out into the summer morning and life beyond. Mrs. Pearl had already gone home, and Mazie supposed she would soon follow. But she needed to talk with Trent. To thank him, to say goodbye.

More tears burned behind her eyes and she blinked them back. Leaned her forehead against the cold marble balustrade, let the stone seep away the burn of her sorrow.

The deep timbre of Trent’s voice blew in on the breeze and sent gooseflesh across her skin. He was climbing the front steps, murmuring something about his horse and London.

He was leaving.

She stood and he stepped through the door, blocked out the sunlight with his broad shoulders. He was alone. Whoever he’d been speaking to must have returned to the stables.