She steeled herself for the blow.
But he did not abuse her. He let her go with a little push that sent her stumbling into the center of the room. She pulled her bodice together and whipped around to face him.
Lord Radford pinned her with his stormy grey eyes, his face held tight by fury. The man had a look, intimidating to be sure, as if he was seeing through her, through to the days she wound her hair in braids and held her mother’s hand. She forced herself not to react. He wasn’t all-seeing, or he would know who she was.
Her breath came in large gulps of air, and she rubbed her sore arm. Pushed away her worry with a determination honed from experience. He did not remember their introduction many years ago. There was that to be thankful for.
“This is a dangerous game you play, Miss Mazie. It would be best not to underestimate me.” His hands were heavy at his sides. She would not look at them.
“Yes. I will remember that next time.”
A flash of rage. She was pushing too far.
“Tell me where the highwayman is,” he demanded. “When were you to meet him again?”
Her chin raised, she walked to the window and gave him her back. She would give him nothing more. Not ever.
A gust of wind pelted rain against the window, obscuring the view over the drive.
“Very well, Miss Mazie. We do this the hard way.”
Chapter Two
“Where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?” Jane Austen
The morning was still chilly, not yet portending the warmth of the day to come. Droplets of dew hung on everything green and thirsty, and the sun hid behind a bank of clouds. Trent drew Themis to a halt, pausing to breathe in the refreshing coolness and gaze out over the rolling fields. Hedgerows divided the lush vegetation into squares like a quilt, sheep and cows grazed on the green grass in the distance, while closer to him were the various crops tended by his tenants. All the land he could see, and much beyond—twenty-two thousand acres to be exact—had belonged to the Radford estate for almost five hundred years and was now his responsibility to manage. A task he usually took care of from his townhouse in London.
He removed his hat and scrubbed his hand through his hair. It was good he had come to Radford, too many months had passed since his last visit, but the timing could not be more inconvenient, nor the circumstances more infuriating.
Damn his prisoner. He smacked some dust from his hat. That little episode two nights ago had thoroughly obliterated his sense of reason. He was a rational man, not prone to ragged emotion, yet it had taken him a full day to rein in his temper.
Oh, Miss Mazie was a maddening one all right. Maddening and dangerous as hell.
Though, to be truthful, he was angriest with himself. Wide lips and luscious breasts and he became a salacious fool. He was only glad his father was not alive to see him make such an arse of himself.
Trent shifted his weight and Themis responded at once, trotted down the trail toward the valley below.
One would think he would be beyond such behavior. He, the twelfth Earl of Radford, entrusted with the honor of a prestigious title and duty-bound since birth to live for a greater purpose. He knew his responsibilities, knew he must capture this highwayman who dared challenge the Radford name.
Indeed, Trent was personally insulted by the man’s antics. This Midnight Rider debacle threatened all he had worked for these last eight years. It had forced him to leave London and her wagging tongues, forced him to miss the last weeks of Parliament, and perhaps forfeit his nomination for a coveted seat on the Committee on Foreign Trade.
It made him appear feeble and ineffectual, the weak link in the unbroken chain of Radfords that dated back to Henry VII.
And yet he had let Miss Mazie kiss him.
And enjoyed it thoroughly.
Somewhere, in some language, there as a word of sharp syllables and dark meaning that perfectly described an idiot like him.
“Radford.” His name carried across the wind. “Lord Radford.”
Trent laughed at fate and glanced over his shoulder. Seated atop a beautiful Arabian chestnut, which must have cost a fortune, his magistrate rode down the incline toward him. Good. Trent pulled his mount to a stop. Here was the man he wanted to see.
“I’m glad I found you,” Harrington called. “I’ve just now returned.”
Themis shifted nervously at the Arabian’s approach, and Trent leaned forward to stroke his neck. “Did you get Lord Horris’s statement?”
“Signed under oath.” Harrington tipped his hat back from his face. He was a thin man, boney and long with pale skin and sandy hair. Only his eyes, a bright blue that would look pretty on a daughter if he’d had one, gave him weight. It was a deception, this sense of frailness. Trent had seen the man be hard as stone. “How’s our little houseguest? She talk yet?”
An image of Mazie’s bruised cheek flashed to mind. Harrington could easily have given her that special mark of imprisonment.
Trent’s blood flared. Mazie was not a small woman, but she only reached up to his chin. She would be outmatched by Harrington’s brute strength. “Did you hit her?” He turned his anger outward. “She is sporting quite a bruise, Harrington. I had better not see that again. On any prisoner. Ever.”
The man said nothing.
“I do not care if she is a crafty wench set upon defying you. I do not condone striking a defenseless prisoner. There is no honor in abusing those under one’s authority.”
Still no reply.
“Do you understand?”
Harrington dipped his head and his wide-brimmed hat hid his expression. “Yes, my lord.”
Trent forced his shoulders down. “What did you find out from Horris?”
“It was a waste of my time,” his magistrate grumbled. “Horris revealed nothing new. All the reports about the Midnight Rider have been the same.”
“No new clues? Nothing?” Hell. Justice hung in the balance—lives hung in the balance—until the highwayman was captured.
“Nothing. I think we need to change tactics. The gentry are getting impatient. And the villagers are eager to act as well. With the robberies and the roads not being safe, folks are getting together, the way they do. There’s been talk of forming a local militia.”
Absolutely not. “I am in charge of the local militia, Harrington, I will decide what is necessary.” Themis danced sideways, and Trent gave the horse free rein to canter down the path. The Arabian fell in step as well. “Haven’t you learned anything from the Pentrich Uprising? No militia.”
“But we—”
“Besides,” Trent cut off his protest, “I am told the villagers have no quarrel with the Midnight Rider, they venerate the fool and his crimes against the landed and the rich.”
“Well, yes, but times being tough, folks are struggling to keep the wolf from the door. There’s a high price on the highwayman’s head. It’s money the villagers need, whether they believe in the cause or not.”
His skin tightened with irritation. “If the villagers are so in need of funds, I have offered a generous reward for information leading to the highwayman’s capture.”
Harrington swept his bright gaze over Trent’s jacket, expertly cut by the most discerning of London tailors. “The locals don’t trust you. They think you’ve grown soft in Town.”
As if that weren’t already obvious. But their evaluation did not bother him. He knew there was nothing soft about him. Boxing and riding kept him in top form, while Parliament sharpened his mind.
Besides, it wasn’t the worst thing to be underestimated by one’s adversary.
One’s adversary, not one’s tenants. He must stop this highwayman before he seduced the villagers into all manner of uncivilized actions. The last thing Trent needed was another uprising on his hands.
“The gentry don’t trust you either,” Harrington said with a bit too much gusto. “They don’t think you’re handling this prob
lem with enough force. What of Miss Mazie? She’s guilty, caught red-handed with the highwayman’s stolen goods. We’ll make an example of her, treat her harsh as an example to others. No militia, like you said.”
Trent did not care if Mazie was guilty as Circe—she certainly was as enchanting and dangerous—there was no justification for false justice or brute violence. “At this time, Mazie is our only link to the Midnight Rider. I do not want to send her away before I get what I want. She stays with me until she has a fair trial.”
“The highwayman’s victims are powerful men and expect swift justice. I say we move quick—”
“She alone knows the truth, Harrington. I will get it from her.” Trent turned Themis onto a path that would return them to Giltbrook Hall. And her.
It was a terrible thing to face one’s fate without so much as a needle and thread for distraction.
Mazie lay back on her bed and traced the cracks in the plasterwork above her for the hundredth time. Her room had been oppressively still for days, and she was going mad with nothing to entertain or divert her. She had long passed the impatience and annoyance of the morning. Boredom and frustration visited after lunch. It was the yawning, undisturbed stretch of the afternoon that quieted her fight and brought this bleak, wordless fear.
Of course, Lord Radford knew what he was doing. He was of a devious mind. They all were.
Roane had warned her when she agreed to help his cause as the Midnight Rider that she was placing herself in danger. But, as usual, she hadn’t heeded the warning. She’d wanted to help feed hungry mouths, support those who were forgotten, free those persecuted for political purposes. It had all sounded quite exciting and important at the time. Now, she was mostly just scared.
It was that fear which made her roll over and bury her face in the soft pillows. Darkness sang a seductive lullaby, and the familiar cold hand of loneliness squeezed her heart.
With a huff of breath, she pressed away from the luring heaviness and forced herself to sit up. If she had learned anything in her three and twenty years, it was that wallowing got her nowhere. The slope of her emotions was steep and slimy and a quick ride to nothing but despair. She had taken that ride once, when her parents died. It brought only a lifeless emptiness and barren landscape.
She came to her feet and shook lifeblood back into her limbs. She must find her anger and keep her strength. Just survive this until she discovered a way out. She’d thought she had Radford the other night, but somehow her trembling body had given away her intention.
And now he had one more reason to doubt her, to suspect every misleading piece of information she provided him.
As if conjured from her thoughts, a key sounded in the lock and Lord Radford himself filled the doorway. He stepped into her room and closed the door behind him but did not lock it. So sure of himself, this man.
“Cook tells me you have not been eating.” Radford was flawlessly attired, irritatingly so. His wavy hair was perfectly swept back from his face, and there was not a nick on his square jaw, nor a wrinkle in his cravat. He was dressed in formal, dark colors as if he were off to the fine drawing rooms of London. “Do not think you can starve yourself to freedom.”
“I have no appetite.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. “Perhaps your conscience is plaguing you. Your appetite may return if you tell the truth.” He swept his gaze over her in a slow, smoldering blaze before he flicked it away.
Unbidden memories of his hands on her, his lips, flashed through her mind and heat rose to her face. “My appetite would return if you let me go.”
“Ah, but I cannot.” He straightened and rapped his fingers on the door. It opened immediately and a footman entered carrying a tray laden with food.
Radford said nothing as the servant set the tray on the desk and left.
Mazie glanced at the repast and wished she were hungry. Cold meats, cheese, bread, fruit and nuts—the food looked delicious but did not tempt her in the least. Not with her stomach in knots.
“Eat.”
The man had no manners. “I am not a dog to be commanded so.”
“Oh, but that you were.” He walked the few paces to where she stood, grasped her elbow and led her to the desk. “Sit.”
Mazie huffed in displeasure but did as he demanded. He rested his hip on a corner of the desk and poured her a glass of wine. She noticed he had ink stains on his long fingers. He must have been busy writing letters these past days while he left her to stew in the sweltering attic.
When she did not make an attempt to feed herself, he sighed, picked up a slice of cheese and held it to her lips.
“I said I wasn’t—”
“I have all night.” He smiled, a flash of teeth that was not friendly.
Mazie glared up at him and took the bite from his hand. The cheese was delicious, but it was difficult to swallow through the apprehension in her throat. Last she had seen the man she had kissed him then tried to hit him. She could not anticipate how he would retaliate.
She took a sip of wine. It was superb. “Why do you care that I eat?”
“Because I won’t have it said that I denied you food. And I won’t let you grow weak and useless. You have information to tell me. I want to know what it is.”
She speared a ripe summer strawberry and brought it to her mouth. Radford dipped his gaze to her lips before he stood and paced to the other side of the little room. She heard the sound of wood scrapping behind her as he tried to open the window, then the reverberation of his fists pounding the frame. She took a bite of the fruit, refusing to give in to her curiosity and watch. Finally, a slight breeze and the smell of newly cut hay blew in, clearing away the oppressive stillness. What a relief the fresh air was. She closed her eyes and let it wrap around her, reveled in the places the breeze touched her bare skin. The back of her neck, her throat, her forearms.
“You won’t leap to your death?” More intimate than the touch of the wind, his voice sent shivers across her skin.
Her eyes blinked open. “I will try to restrain myself.” She took another bite of cheese and turned toward him even as she admonished herself not to.
He leaned back against the windowsill, his arms crossed against his chest. She hated how handsome he was, how it affected her body so. His dark hair and angular features pulled at her, bound her in a peculiar way. She was not so naïve she did not recognize her own attraction. Any right-minded woman would find the man handsome, uncomfortably so. But he was her enemy, and Roane’s enemy, and the enemy of all she believed in.
It was best she not forget that.
“I find you quite interesting, Miss Mazie. Miss Mazie… I feel ridiculous calling you that. Shall I call you Mazie Jones as the villagers do?”
She shrugged. It was no great information he had discovered.
“Mazie Jones, I am told, came to town at the end of Michaelmas and secured employment as a companion to Mrs. Pearl.”
“How intelligent you are. You must know then that the villagers address me as Miss Mazie.” She gave him her back again, but it was impossible to ignore him. He was as dangerous as a wild animal in her small chamber.
“I cannot Miss Mazie you all day. It just…doesn’t fit you. How about Miss Bell?”
Mazie flushed hot. How did he know? Miss Bell was the alias she had used in her first position as a governess after fleeing her aunt’s.
“You may call me Miss Bell, if you wish.” Her voice barely wavered, even she was impressed with herself. He’d never know how her heart was pounding.
Radford clicked his tongue. A telling gesture—he was not as relaxed as he would appear. “Somehow I doubt Miss Bell is your real name. In fact, it seems there is little to be known about Miss Bell before she entered the Carringtons’ employ. But my man will soon remedy that. He’s quite good.”
She picked at her food then caught herself and put her fork down.
Lord, oh Lord, he simply could not find out about her past.
/> She pushed her plate away. Her appetite was certainly gone now. Radford must have been taking his time these last two days, gathering information about her. She shifted in her chair. “What else did your man tell you?”
“You were a governess for the Carringtons before you fled in the night with two stolen candlesticks. Miss Bell isn’t your real name, is it?”
Did he know what a quagmire he was walking into? Obviously not.
She addressed the wall as she spoke. “I prefer to simply be called Mazie. And I shall call you…?”
“My lord.”
Mazie threw him a look over her shoulder. “Very well, my esteemed lord.”
He ignored her sarcastic tone and nodded firmly. The motion sent a frisson of agitation through her.
“Actually, I think I shall call you Trent.” She came to her feet. “It is your Christian name, is it not?”
He raised his brows. “How do you know my name?”
Mazie taunted him with her silence. At least, she hoped she did. In truth, she knew his name because of a recent caricature in the London Times “A Sinking Ship on the River Trent” which ridiculed his inability to catch the Midnight Rider. It was entirely inappropriate for her to call him Trent, of course, but she enjoyed the implication of disrespect.
“Mazie, Mazie.” Untangling his long frame, Trent pressed away from the window. “I find you a puzzle. Unfortunately, I never did enjoy puzzles much as a child. There was always the mess of missing pieces and the temptation to force parts where they did not fit. I much prefer the whole picture, unclouded and unveiled.”
“How interesting. I, myself, love puzzles. Always have. Why—”
“What were you doing at Atherton’s carriage?”
What? Mazie froze. He knew that too.
Trent’s jaw hardened, became more sharp and square. “Seems Lord Atherton had a carriage accident last week and valuable items were stolen from the vehicle. Items you later pawned in Bramcote.”
The Runaway Countess Page 2