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.”
Lady Catherine placed one luxurious lump of sugar in the Wedgwood china cup then handed it to her. “Did Radford explain to you that I would be staying here as your chaperone?”
“Yes, he did.” The tea smelled crisp, like citrus. She guessed it was Ceylon. A fine cup indeed. “I do hope we have n
ot torn you away from your other responsibilities. Do you have children?” If there was anything a mother loved to talk about it was her children.
“No, no children.” She dabbed at a spot of tea on her saucer. “Forster left for India a fortnight after our wedding, I haven’t seen him since. And, I assure you, a male is necessary for the act of creating children.”
“Oh.” Mazie blinked, unsure what to say.
“Did I shock you?” Catherine peered at her.
“No, I am afraid not.”
“Good, then.” Her hostess brightened. “I am tired of all the proprieties of polite conversation.”
“Mmm.” What was Mazie to say? That she hadn’t had a proper conversation in a year? That right now she was hiding from the man who would hang her brother?
Catherine glanced over the rim of her tea cup. “I much prefer talking openly.”
I am sure you do. She wondered how much of their conversation Catherine would relay back to her brother. Most likely all of it. She would not pretend to think the woman across from her was a friend. They had not been close in their younger years and had less cause for intimacy now.
Of course Lady Catherine’s loyalties lay with Trent. Mazie understood the impulse to love and protect one’s brother. Roane was her half-brother, four years her senior and conceived before her parents wed, but they had grown up on the same estate and had always been close.
While Mazie had lived in the luxury of Rodsley Manor, and Roane in the shabby comfort of his Aunt Pearl’s cottage, there was a bond between them that only siblings shared.
Roane was not interested in girl’s things, was not invited to her meals or even to take lessons from her governess. But he had taught Mazie to ride, to climb trees and told her tales of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Mazie had loved to visit him at Mrs. Pearl’s cottage at the edge of her father’s estate, pilfering tea cake and playing in the woods.
She swallowed back a knot in her throat, plopped a spoonful of clotted cream on her plate and selected a scone.
“You are quite changed, Lady Margaret.”
“Oh, please.” Mazie waved her hand around in some sort of reply, then realized the awkwardness of the action and let it drop. “Don’t stand on formality with me. You may call me Mazie. I have not been a lady in many years now.”
“Very well, Mazie. Please call me Catherine. Or Cat, if you wish.”
Mazie bit into her scone. Lemon, piquant and delicious. The taste made her mouth want to sing. What was Roane eating? Was he somewhere safe? She forked some strawberries onto her plate and waited for the next question sure to come.
“My brother has told me why you are here.” Cat busied herself with stirring her already stirred tea. Obviously she was avoiding Mazie’s gaze. “I must say, it came as quite a shock.”
“Did it?”
Finally, Cat’s gaze lifted to Mazie. “I think Radford has suffered a shock as well.” She chuckled in amusement but did not explain further.
“Where do you think he is right now?” Mazie dipped an early summer strawberry in clotted cream and popped it into her mouth, preventing any further questions on the topic. The less she thought about him the better. Trent would make himself known soon enough.
“In his office, no doubt. Such a stickler, that one. I had hoped he would mellow with age.” Cat sighed and lifted one shoulder, as if deeming her brother a lost cause. “I desperately wish I had seen him farming yesterday, if only to believe it.”
“Is it so uncommon that he should be in the fields?”
“I haven’t seen him labor since we were children and he snuck off to work in the stables. He had an ungodly love for horses as a child.”
“What happened?”
“Preparation for the title, I suppose. The twelfth earl and all that.” Cat considered her. “What about the Midnight Rider? Is he very serious or is he more droll? Would he make me relinquish my jewels in fear or in laughter?”
Ah, yes. Clever, Lady Catherine. “He is like most men, I suppose. Stern or amusing depending upon the occasion.”
“How romantic it must have been to have a highwayman for a beau.” Cat watched her closely. “Is he handsome?”
Mazie considered how much to divulge. “Yes.” It was true. Roane was too handsome for his own good and charming to boot, but incredibly stubborn and all too foolish.
Cat sighed and sank back into her chair. “I wish I had a highwayman. I am so bored.”
The clock struck the quarter hour, reminding Mazie that her time was running short. Trent would be looking for her now.
Cat sat forward. “Will the Midnight Rider come for you? Will he try to save you?”
Mazie coughed on her tea. Save her? Roane was the one who needed saving. She truly suspected Trent would be more lenient with her, especially now he knew of her heritage. But Roane, what grace was there for a bastard highwayman? “No. I don’t think… I hope not.”
“You must love him greatly to put yourself at such risk.”
“Yes.”
“How worried you must be for his life.”
Why was Cat pressing this? Did she want to see her guest come undone there on the settee? Mazie stared at her hands. Her parents’ deaths were still a raw ache four years later. How could she endure it again? With Roane, so young and proud?
No, she could not see Roane dead. Could not see him locked on the other side of that dark door. What use would there be for her on this side when all those she loved had gone over the threshold?
She stood. “This is a very large library. Is it well organized?”
Cat made a face. “It belongs to my brother. Of course it is well organized. Is there something you would like to read? A novel perhaps?”
Anything to take her mind off the fact that they were plastering Roane’s picture across the countryside. “I was thinking more of a travel book.”
“Ah, of course. What better distraction when one is a special guest? The travel section is there—” she pointed down a long wall of books, “—at the far corner.”
Mazie wandered in that direction. Maybe she could slip out of the library before Trent came for her.
“Have you traveled much?” Cat’s voice journeyed across the room but remained cultivated at the same time.
“Not far. Never outside of England, though I’d like to.” Cat would notice at once if she disappeared. She dare not risk it. She grabbed a few books from the shelf, choosing them by title alone.
“Forster has been all over the world and I have been stuck in the midlands. Somehow, it doesn’t seem fair.”
“Mmm.” Mazie quickly selected a few more books. She did not suppose Cat was interested in quiet time in the library and was most likely formulating more questions. She sought to distract her. “Has Forster never talked of coming home?”
Cat did not reply and Mazie walked back to the sitting area, concerned she had upset the woman.
Her hostess looked out the window, her perfect pale skin glowing in the afternoon sun. “I do not think he will ever return. He would have to forgive me first.”
“That seems rather extreme,” Mazie said quietly. “Is he so wise that he should sit judgment upon others?” Unwillingly, Trent’s earlier challenge echoed through her mind. He had asked her the same thing.
“I had an affair,” Cat said after a long silence. “I thought it would bring me my freedom, but I find myself only more bound.”
Mazie tried to tamp down her surprise. The woman across from her had seemed thrilled to marry Forster.
Cat turned away from the window. Mazie noticed a tension around her hostess and braced herself for the next difficult question.
“What about you? Why this life?” She did not disappoint, but launched right into her next line of interrogation. “The crime, I mean. Why did you never travel yourself, or go to London, or marry someone from the country?”
Mazie blushed and took her time sitting. It was not a topic she liked to speak of, but she found that she was thankfully unaffe
cted by it today. The usual sharp pang of resentment was not there. She adjusted her skirts and quickly fashioned a truthful answer that did not relate to Roane in the least. “I was living off the charity of relatives and was never in a position to visit London, or even to marry a gentleman from the country. I was little more than a servant really.”
“So, you…what? Found a position in another household?”
“Yes, as a governess.”
Cat sighed. “It is ironic, is it not, how life turned out? We, who were taught to be terribly naïve and innocent, were ill prepared for the reality of our lives.”
Mazie was quiet for a moment. She had always assumed Lady Catherine would be gloriously happy, but the woman who sat across from her now held shadows in her eyes. “It does seem neither of our lives has progressed as expected.”
Cat squeezed her sad eyes closed. “I would rather go back to that innocence, I think, even if it was a lie.”
Mazie considered her reply, surprised at the intimate turn of the conversation. “No one likes it when the veil is torn away.”
“What is there to like? The sense of falling and panic? The loneliness?”
“The scales have to balance at some point.” Mazie knew this like the single point of gravity deep in her belly.
“So we were destined to fall?”
“How could we not? Reality is too powerful to keep out on a cold winter night. Any crack or deepening shadow must carry the one truth.” That life is hard as nails. Mazie picked up her plate and held her tongue. The rawness was too embarrassing, too personal and vulnerable. She had said too much already. She had forgotten to be careful in her conversation somewhere along the way. Was that the purpose of Cat’s intimate confession? To draw one out of Mazie herself? She frowned, the camaraderie she had felt moments ago turned cold and stiff. “I would choose the fall over the innocence, I think. In the end, it has given me a freedom I never dreamed of before.”
“I long for such freedom, but I do not think I am willing to pay the cost.”
The Runaway Countess Page 10