Mazie darted a glance at Trent. He watched her as he sipped from his glass, his neutral expression restored. An odd nervousness settled in her belly at the sight of him dressed in his formal black-and-white attire. His dark hair gleamed in the soft light from the windows, brushed back it brought out the hard angles of his cheekbones and lips. The scratch on his cheek had paled considerably and was hardly noticeable. She hated that he looked so good all the time, that his appearance had such an effect on her.
She refused to let her emotions show on her face and reflected back his mask of polite disinterest. But then he slid his gaze from hers, let it stray over her in a lazy perusal. He lingered on her décolletage before returning to her burning face.
Catherine laughed. “Oh, what fun this shall be.”
Mazie tried to smile but her muscles pinched rather than lifted. Alice had badgered her into wearing a corset—of course Trent had sent her an argumentative maid—that dramatically lifted and shaped her breasts so that the white tops pressed above the neckline of her gown. The effect left her feeling startlingly provocative, nervous in a new way, and tingling in the oddest places. And it seemed Trent had noticed.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” He walked across the room, putting an end to the pleasantries, and offered both ladies an arm. Mazie placed her gloved hand on his jacket and a thrill ran through her at the touch.
It was naught but exhilaration. The thrill of surprising him, that was all.
Trent led them into the dining room and a footman pulled back Mazie’s chair at the absurdly long and elaborate table. Decorated in shades of blue and silver, the room was lovely enough to worry her. The dress was one thing—who wouldn’t love it. But to be seduced by an entire estate? She did not want to enjoy the beauty of her surroundings. She did not want to sigh over the silver embroidery on the drapes or the rococo floral and leaf ornamentation around the ceiling. She certainly did not want to feel a pang of homesickness for the dining room at Rodsley Manor, where her mother had served the most delicious French food.
In a strange way, this was the worst sort of punishment Trent could inflict upon her. This was Lady Margaret’s world. Mazie could not afford to grow accustomed to the comfort and luxury of the lifestyle. After her parents’ deaths it had taken her years to accept a future of lumpy mattresses and ill-fitting dresses. She hardly wanted to face that sense of loss again.
A footman placed a bone china tureen in front of her. The fragrance of dilled cucumber wafted up and her mouth watered. Really, was it too much to ask that Trent’s cook be bland and boring?
She sipped her soup. Delicious. The flavor was delicate and fresh and brought to mind summer gardens and morning dew. She glared at the bowl.
“Is the soup not to your liking, Lady Margaret?”
She glanced up at the absurdly handsome man sitting at the head of the table and sighed. She could not dislike her soup, no matter how she tried. “It is delectable.”
He tilted his head to the side. “You say that as is if it were a tragedy.”
“I am not so irresolute as to be felled by a bowl of soup.”
A slight smiled played about his lips. “I thought this was dinner. I was not aware we waged a battle.”
Everything was a battle between them, he must know that. She sipped her soup, aware that he watched. The long, absorbed looks he sent her way brought to mind the hunger of the underfed. She hoped the presentation of the second course would diminish the intensity of his gaze.
No such luck.
A mousse of whitefish was placed before them and neither Catherine nor her brother seemed inclined to carry on conversation. He continued to stare between bites, his focus lingering on her longer than was comfortable. She wished his attention was directed toward the ample amount of her bosom on display, if only to give her a sense of righteous anger. He did notice her more fleshy parts, if his gaze was an indication, but then he seemed to notice everything. As if he were preparing a lengthy speech and needed details—Lady Margaret Chetwyn, an epistemology of a fallen woman returned to the bonds of her heritage.
The fish was removed and a dish of creamed vegetables in pastry was set down. Mazie toyed with her fork, finally uncomfortable with the tension in the room.
Recalling her duty to keep the conversation going, Catherine smiled at her brother. “Did you enjoy your afternoon at farmer Smith’s? I still cannot believe you went farming. You’ve never even tended to your own horse.”
“Due to Father’s wishes, not mine.”
“You went to farmer Smith’s?” Mazie did not bother to hide her surprise.
“I did.”
She bit back her frown. When he had arrived in her room, disheveled and talking of a day in the cornfields, she had assumed he meant supervising his own crops. She never would have guessed he went to help the injured farmer. It only added to her worry—too many villagers knew of Roane, though only a trusted few knew the truth of the Midnight Rider.
“Are you so surprised I should assist a tenant in need?”
Yes. “How is farmer Smith’s health? Is he recovering from the accident?”
“It appears he will recover with no ill effects.”
“Wonderful news.” And it was, even if Trent was the one delivering it.
“How did you find the villagers?” Catherine sipped her wine.
“Testy.”
Both she and Catherine stopped eating and looked over at him.
“Their animosity was much greater than I had assumed. They do not trust me, nor do they like me.”
Oh, to witness his set down. She had no doubt the villagers were rough on him. There was much cause for them to be wary of the reigning powers in Radford, but rather than subjugate themselves they were an uppity, opinionated bunch. She rather liked them.
Trent drew his eyebrows together. Another look that must intimidate men in Parliament. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve not been interested in the rural politics of Radford, my career has always been in London. But neither am I blind to the long-standing tension here. I recently provided new roofs and a better irrigation system to my tenants, but it doesn’t seem to have made a whit of difference.”
“I’m sure—”
“They still believe the ridiculous rumor about the Pentrich Uprising, Cat. Why would father send a spy to arouse the laborers into a revolt? Simply to see them hanged? To prevent a possible revolt in the future? It’s preposterous. The thoughts of an uneducated and mistrustful group of men.”
“It will take time,” Catherine said quietly. “Your absence has been felt.”
“Time is the one thing I don’t have.” He put down his fork. “The Committee on Foreign Trade is moving forward while I spent the afternoon dusting cornrows by a pile of manure.”
Catherine inhaled, shocked at her brother’s language. Mazie laughed and was rewarded with his glare.
“It is imperative that I have a seat on this committee. Foreign commerce is changing. New ports open every day in countries we haven’t even heard of.” His muscles were taut, but his eyes lit with excitement. “Great wealth is pouring in from the East India Trading Company, and the market in America shows unlimited potential. It is a time of unprecedented growth and opportunity. Britain will be part of it. I will be part of it.”
No one said anything, and the power of his emotion filled the room. A footman refilled Trent’s glass and Mazie shifted her attention back to her plate. He looked so passionate there for a moment, his eyes bright, his words inspired. She rather hoped he did secure a position on that committee.
“I am going nowhere until this debacle is resolved,” he muttered. “My loyal tenants have made it clear they will be no help to such as myself. But you, my dear Lady Margaret, are quite popular among them. I spent a better part of my time learning about your many accomplishments.”
Mazie looked up and met his burning gaze.
“Oh, how nice.” Catherine sounded relaxed at the change of topic.
Mazie’s cheeks
warmed. “I hardly think they spoke at length—”
“You were called, let’s see, a saint, an angel and a true friend. There were more, what were they…”
She waved her hand in the air. Good God, what had they said about her? Certainly the villagers appreciated her help. She had no family and plenty of time to assist those in need. But she was far from a saint.
“And I learned some very interesting stories about the Midnight Rider.” He barely flicked his gaze toward the footmen standing by the door. “Leave us.” They emptied the room at once.
“Please, do share, Lady Margaret.” His voice was smooth as dark velvet. “I find myself curious about Mrs. Emerson and the switched chickens.”
She eyed him warily, weighing her options.
“Perhaps you would like to talk about your relationship with the true Midnight Rider?”
He was smooth and polite, but threatening her anyway.
Surely one story about chickens wouldn’t condemn her for life. “The Miller’s dog tore into Mrs. Emerson’s chicken house and scared away half her brood, even after she demanded they keep the creature off her property. She’s an old lady who doesn’t have the heart to shoot a dog, but she also doesn’t have the coin to buy more chickens for herself. How would she make it through the winter?”
“Lord Arlington and the serving girl?”
Did he know everything?
“You needn’t look so worried, Lady Margaret. It is not your confession I seek. I ask merely to understand.”
She held her tongue.
He stared at her, took a sip of wine but never took his eyes off her. “Was Lord Arlington involved with the Midnight Rider?”
She looked at Catherine, who was no help. Trent’s sister seemed oblivious to the tension in the room. Or perhaps she enjoyed it.
“Come now, Lady Margaret. There is no cause to be embarrassed.”
She wasn’t embarrassed and he knew it. Just as he knew he held all the power here.
“Perhaps the Midnight Rider—”
“Lord Arlington attempted to force his attentions on the chambermaid. He caught her in a room alone and scared the wits out of her. Was she to pretend it didn’t happen?”
“Lady Usling’s prize roses?” Tap, tap, tap went his hand on his thigh.
“Her gardener’s pension was a pittance after his apoplexy, not enough to pay for the help he needed. He was the one who tended to the roses. He deserved the reward.”
She had helped those who were forgotten. She had taken justice in her own hands, yes, but for a good cause. The rights of the underprivileged, the soft at heart, the young and the old, were too often overlooked. Who else would take care of them, if not her? The system was not just, or fair. Easy for Radford to lecture her when he was given riches and opportunities beyond compare.
He rubbed his face in his hands, then looked at her. His jaw was set in a grim line. “I see.” His voice was low, defeated. It almost seemed like he was disappointed in her.
“All with a good cause,” she defended herself.
“I would like a written statement from you.”
She pursed her lips. Perhaps she had said more than she should.
Radford’s expression remained incredulous and arrogant. As if he couldn’t conceive of such inequalities or such a need for vengeance. Either he truly didn’t know what was going on, or he was blindly self-centered.
“The villagers asked about you, of course,” he murmured. “It is known that you are here.”
“What did you reply?”
“That you were staying as a guest of my sister.”
“Did you tell them of my title?”
“Not yet, though I don’t think it will be a secret much longer.”
She would not think of it. She reached for her wineglass and noticed that he still studied her. Again, the scrutinizing. She met his steady gaze, held it and forced herself to sit tall though her spine wanted to curl inward with the weight of worry.
Not that her corset would allow such deflated posture. The thing was a nuisance, binding her ribs and making her feel, well, voluptuous. And vulnerable. And altogether too breathless.
Mazie looked down at her meal. Her appetite had abandoned her, but she took a bite anyway to refrain from further conversation. She did not want the villagers to find out about her past. It would change everything. Why he insisted on telling them—
Of course. The thought struck her between chewing and swallowing her potatoes. The strife between the villagers and the gentry was legendary in Radford. She had the friendship of the villagers, and if they believed she herself was gentry and supported the earl, they might begin to trust him. He would use her for political reasons.
Somehow, she had to bargain her way out of captivity. And she had to present her plan in such a way that Radford would not say no. That, in itself, would be a challenge.
Trent reclined on the settee, Cat tucked in his arm. They had always had a close bond, driven together by the aloofness of their father and the early death of their mother.
Mazie sat across the room, teasing out a Mozart Minuet in D Major. She played uncommonly well. In fact, she played the entire act of a lady of the ton with surprising deftness. He never would have put together the woman before him with the woman who had arrived, bound and bleeding, on his doorstep.
He was stunned by her transformation. Of course, he knew she was attractive, but tonight she literally took his breath away. The upsweep of her hair drew attention to her high cheekbones and the graceful arch of her neck. Her rich brown eyes slightly tilted up at the outer corner, making her look perpetually mischievous. And her mouth, damn.
Her beauty set him on edge, brought a fierce tension to his muscles. He reminded himself that she was scheming, untamed and dangerous. That she was probably the mistress of his enemy. She certainly held the power of information over him. Yet every time he looked at her he recalled the fevered kiss they had shared. He was doing it now as he watched her play the piano, tracing the lovely arch of her collarbones down to the white skin of her décolletage. Such lovely, plump—
“Is that truly necessary?” Cat murmured.
“Is what necessary?” He glanced at his sister, his embarrassment a sharp burn.
“The footman standing guard outside as if Lady Margaret would dash out onto the veranda and become lost in the night.”
He shrugged and his arm bumped against Cat’s shoulder. “Lady Margaret has information I must know. All she needs to do is answer my questions truthfully and she is free to go.”
“Are you going to keep her here? Knowing she is one of us?”
“One of us?” he scoffed. “She is a confessed thief, Catherine. You heard it for yourself.”
“Yes, chickens and roses. I cannot think”
“She could be hanged for treason.”
“Oh.”
The lilting melody of Mozart fell between them.
“You’re not going to hang her, of course. Whatever has happened, Lady Margaret is still a gentle creature.”
Gentle creature? Mazie? He recalled her fighting him in the woods, scratching him. The way she had tried to seduce him before slamming her hand into his jaw. “The Midnight Rider is a traitor to the crown and must be sent to London. Harrington would have me send Lady Margaret as well.”
Cat inhaled sharply. “Harrington knows? He is terrible, Trent. I fear for the peace of the shire. The villagers are uneasy, and Harrington isn’t helping matters.”
His breath whooshed out of him as if his sister had elbowed him in the ribs. It was his duty to keep peace in Radford, and he was failing. If he did not handle this situation perfectly he would be the earl famous for desecrating the ancient and honored family name. “I know. That is why I am here.”
“The Corn Riots, Peterloo, the grain shortage. Unrest is spreading all over England.”
“Yes.” He studied his sister. She had never been one to express an opinion about politics before. She had changed much over the last
few years. He was proud that she had grown out of her self-centered ways, yet he did not like her to worry.
“You’ll think of something. I’m sure you will.” She patted his hand.
He kissed her hair. She was right. He would emerge the victor. There was too much at stake to fail. “Thank you, brat.”
The music ended and both he and Cat sat up and clapped. Mazie stood and bobbed a playful curtsey. Despite himself, his eyes consumed her like a starving man. He noticed the way her fingertips held the satin of her skirts, the way her skin flushed above her bodice. How her red lips curved at the edges. She sat to play another piece and he forced his gaze across the room, pretending interest in the marquetry mirror designed by Boulle himself.
“Delightful, Lady Margaret,” Cat called across the room. Then, in a lower voice only he could hear, “Such a lovely woman, don’t you agree?”
“Mmmmf,” he managed in reply.
“And she is to stay here?”
He cleared his throat and looked back to where Mazie sat on the piano bench. His gaze landed on the rounded tops of her breasts. No, not there. He glanced up at her face. Her eyes were half-closed as she concentrated on the music, and she appeared to be in the throes of passion. Good God, don’t think about that. He cleared his throat again and shifted his gaze down to her arms. Yes, he would look at her arms.
Cat laughed and shot him a sly, teasing glance. “I cannot wait to see how you resolve this one, brother.”
He ignored her challenge. Just stared at Mazie’s delicate arms.
How in the world had Mazie become involved with a criminal? And just how much of her skin had the man seen? Did he know what she tasted like? Was she as delicious as she looked?
Good God, he lusted after his enemy’s woman.
He shifted in his seat and turned toward his sister. “Perhaps you should come act as a chaperone.”
The Runaway Countess Page 7