The Runaway Countess

by Leigh LaValle

An eye for an eye. Even the Bible said that.

  She tried to hold herself with pride, tried to lift her chin in defiance. But when he stepped toward her, a small motion that snapped across dried leaves, she flinched away.

  “We will return to the estate,” he bit out. His hat, she noticed, was gone, and a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead.

  Before he reached for her again, Mazie spun on her heel and marched ahead of him toward the clearing. Nothing, she felt nothing. The power that had burst through her, the hope of freedom, was gone.

  It was a painfully quiet walk back through the dense trees. It felt like forever until light filtered down to the forest floor, then shadows gave way to the bright open meadow.

  The four men were still there, talking in low tones. They fell silent at once.

  “Mount up,” Trent commanded. They jumped to obey.

  Mazie dragged her feet to her mare and could not refuse Trent’s touch as he assisted her atop her horse. In an instant, he was on his mount and grabbing the reins from her hands. He led her horse the entire way back to his estate.

  All too soon, Giltbrook Hall loomed before them in its yellow sandstone glory. They rode around to the tidy stables and the man at the center of her thoughts did not look at her as he dismounted and talked with the stable master.

  Mazie let a groom help her down then stepped toward the main estate. A swirl of light blue fabric flashed in the corner of her attention, but she did not think to turn. Perhaps she could have avoided her own downfall had she thought to look.

  “I say!” A soft, feminine voice filled the small yard. “Lady Margaret?”

  Mazie stopped cold, a wild orchestra of dread tuning its strings in her belly.

  “Lady Margaret, is that you?”

  Could she run? Deny it? The French ruse wouldn’t work. Damn.

  Mazie turned toward the surprised voice and nearly groaned. There was no way out now.

  “Lady Catherine. How nice to see you again.”

  Chapter Four

  “This only is denied to God: the power to undo the past.” Agathon

  Lady Margaret! Lady Margaret! Trent whipped around and stared across the sunlit stableyard. Certainly he had misheard. Certainly his sister had confused Mazie for someone else.

  He thought Cat was smiling beneath the wide brim of her bonnet as she approached Mazie. And Mazie, well, she had turned toward Cat but still pointed her feet away.

  Impossible. He forced an exhale. It was impossible that his sister knew his captive, much less that Mazie was a lady. He waited for the awkward moment when Cat realized her mistake.

  But his captive shifted her feet and curtsied, her movements slow and deliberate. “Lady Catherine, a pleasure to see you again.”

  Mazie’s voice floated across the stableyard and slammed into his gut. His head snapped back from the impact.

  She had swindled his sister.

  Instinct propelled him forward. His boots crunched over the graveled drive as he headed toward the women. Mazie was a thief and a liar. She had no right to look at his sister much less address her intimately.

  What had she done, pretended to be an aristocrat as part of some scheme?

  Hell. She would never speak to Cat again. In fact, she would never speak to anyone again without his explicit permission.

  A lady. What idiocy.

  Cat looked over as he approached, indeed smiling, but her expression fell. “Trent, what happened? Your face is bleeding.” She stepped forward, took his chin in her hand and turned his head. “If I did not know you better I’d think you’d been in a brawl.”

  Ah, so his face looked as bad as it felt. He glared at Mazie. Her countenance pale, she averted her eyes from his.

  “It’s a small scratch,” he assured, but his growled tone belied his words. He swallowed his anger, such a distasteful emotion, and leaned down to kiss Cat’s cheek. “I was riding too fast through the forest.”

  Cat pressed her lips closed like she did not believe him, but for once she let the matter drop. “I did not know you had a houseguest, but then, you failed to inform me you were coming to Radford at all. Not that I am complaining. You should visit more often.”

  “I’m sorry I did not write to you sooner.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the scratches on his face. The cloth came back bloodied. The hellion, she would regret this. “I’m here on an unfortunate bit of business.”

  Cat’s mouth formed an expressive O, and she shifted her curious blue eyes back to Mazie.

  He also glanced at his houseguest. She held her chin raised at an overly tilted angle and her eyes flitted around, giving the distinct impression that she wanted to fly away. Something worried her. The truth, perhaps.

  “I see you two are acquainted,” he pressed.

  Mazie’s eyes strayed to the scratches on his face before she looked away, toward Cat, and forced a tight smile. “We met a long time ago, in what feels like a different lifetime.”

  “Yes, it has been ages. I almost did not recognize you, Lady Margaret.” Cat laughed, but it sounded stiff, unnatural.

  “How interesting.” Trent pretended polite interest when in truth he wanted to wring Mazie’s neck. The relentless midsummer sun, beating down with pulses of heat, did little to help his anger.

  A tendril of dark hair blew across Mazie’s cheek as she darted a glance over her shoulder toward the estate. It was a look he knew well—the blank expression of the mouth, the heightened focus in the eyes. He saw it often in the House when his peers realized the futility of their arguments.

  She wanted to flee.

  “How did you make one another’s acquaintance?” He wouldn’t let her away so easy.

  Cat gave him a half smile. “Why, I think it was at St. James Palace, when we made our bow to the Queen. Lady Margaret and I were blushing debutants together.”

  He felt his eyebrows fly upward. A blushing debutant. In front of the Queen. No, he couldn’t picture it.

  “Lady Margaret had the most beautiful gown.” Cat’s attention vacillated between him and Mazie. “White and silver, it absolutely sparkled.”

  “Did it?” he could think of nothing else to say. Good Lord, Mazie had tricked the Queen. She would hang with her lover the highwayman.

  Unless? No, it couldn’t be possible. She couldn’t be a daughter of the aristocracy.

  Cat looked the picture of the gentle country lady in her blue walking gown, her blonde hair done up in curls beneath her bonnet. She wore gloves—clean gloves—and held a small parasol over one shoulder.

  Mazie, on the other hand, was attired in some old riding habit, though it did hug her curves in the perfect places. She wore a hat for once, but her hair was already falling loose. Her skin was darkened from the sun, she wore no gloves and just the way she held her wide, sensual mouth spoke a challenge.

  She did not look like any lady he had ever met.

  Her posture though, her speech and the regal way she held her head, those did speak of training in the social graces. He should have noticed it before. There was more to her beauty than just her dark eyes or the shape of her face.

  But a lady?

  He glared at her without mercy, but she refused to meet his gaze, simply kept an inane smile plastered to her face. “I cannot believe you remember my dress, Lady Catherine.”

  “But it was so unusual. So elegant.”

  “My—” Mazie cleared her throat. “My mother designed it.”

  “Oh, your mother.” Cat sighed. “She had the most enviable wardrobe.”

  Ridiculous. Only women would talk of dresses at a time like this.

  Dresses…mothers…the Queen… Trent froze. A trickle of cold sweat slid down his back.

  A lady. He had a goddamned lady locked up in his house.

  Mazie cast him a sly glance from the corner of her eye, perhaps gauging his reaction. Perhaps enjoying his befuddlement. Whatever she saw caused her to bite her lip and drop her brown eyes to the earth.

 
Guilty. She looked guilty.

  Hours of interrogation, a searing kiss and a bloody altercation in the woods—never once had Mazie looked as abashed as she did now.

  He clamped his jaw closed. The stableyard was not the appropriate place to yell at Mazie, Lady Margaret, whoever the hell she was.

  Later. He would deal with her later. In private.

  She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. Looked at Trent then glanced away. Cleared her throat again. “And you, Lady Catherine, hooked the bachelor of the Season.”

  “Yes, quite the match.”

  If Mazie noticed the irony in Cat’s tone, she did not acknowledge it. “And how is His Lordship? Is he here with you today?”

  “No, he’s not. You’ve not been in London for many years.” Cat turned the topic back to Mazie. “Do you have family in Radford? I recall you left Town to reside with a relation.”

  “I lived with my aunt and uncle for a time, yes.” She offered only the briefest answer to his sister’s question.

  The familiar gleam of stubborn curiosity brightened his sister’s eyes. She looked up at him, expecting further answers. Specifically, how was it that Mazie was in his stableyard with a rough-looking man—who would be Harrington’s brute—hanging about? Catherine would figure out the truth eventually. He had no need to keep secrets from his sister. But he would let her do the interrogating for a while. Maybe she would have better luck than he.

  She eyed Mazie from head to toe. “Have you married?”

  “No.”

  “Are you…are you a guest at Giltbrook Hall?” A small line of concern formed between her brows.

  “A guest? Well…in a way, I suppose.” Mazie shifted on her feet and again glanced over her shoulder toward the estate. She kept her body angled away this time, as if she would leave at any moment.

  “And you are here with…” Cat prodded.

  Trent held back a snort. They were hardly worried about chaperones and propriety. She was his prisoner, for heaven’s sake.

  “I have taken care of myself for years.” Mazie’s words were sharp though her tone was soft. “I haven’t the need nor the luxury of a companion.”

  Cat smiled overbrightly. “Well, in that case, I am glad to be here and renew our acquaintance.”

  Trent would like to renew his acquaintance with Lady Margaret as well. He would start by shaking the truth out of her.

  “If you will excuse me, I was on my way to rest.” Mazie’s voice was thin as if the effort to converse had taxed the last of her strength. “I find I did not sleep well last night.”

  “I will look forward to visiting with you at a later time, then.” His sister was incorrigible in her quest for information.

  Mazie smiled weakly at her before she turned toward the house. She did not so much as glance in his direction. Ignored him really. He burned at the slight.

  “Lady Margaret.” The words were like chipped ice in his mouth.

  She had the good sense to freeze in place. Squared her shoulders before she faced him. Her chin lifted in pride and determination and there was nothing left of her earlier distress. Again, he swallowed the urge to yell at her, to relieve the burning of his anger by showering it over her like meteors. But he did flaunt his power, made her wait in the pulsing heat until he nodded—a firm motion of authority granting her permission to walk away. Her guard trailed behind.

  Trent watched the gentle sway of her hips and silently muttered every curse word that came to mind, many he had not used since his youth.

  What in the world was he going to do with her? A lady.

  She had fooled him, but never again. He would know every single thing about this woman. Everything. She would have nothing left to hide.

  An image of her—naked, begging, legs spread open—flashed to mind. With a sharp inhale, he forced the thought away, forced his eyes from her swaying backside. He was a reasonable man, objective and moderate, and executing a well-conceived plan. He would do well to remember that.

  “Trent.” Catherine’s hand clapped down in his arm. “What in the world is going on here?”

  Ah, yes, his sister. How could he forget? He placed his hand on hers and addressed a stable boy.

  “Lad, run and tell the cook I will take my nuncheon as a picnic. She may deliver the basket to me in the gardens.”

  “Yes, milord.” The boy hurried off.

  He turned back to Cat with what he hoped was a charming smile. It made the scratch on his face burn. “Would you care to wait with me in the gardens?”

  “Yes, of course.” She was in no hurry to leave Giltbrook Hall when there were such dramatics to uncover.

  They walked out of the bright stableyard and into the shade of the oak-lined path. He felt a surprising gladness at having his sister by his side. He had missed her more than he realized. “Tell me what you know about Lady Margaret.”

  Cat looked at him askance as she handed him her parasol and retied the ribbons to her bonnet. “But I already told you. We had our coming out together—”

  “Yes, yes.” He thrust the parasol back in her hands. “Who is her family? Her father?”

  “But—”

  “She is known to me only as Miss Mazie.” Hell, he hated to admit his own ignorance, even to his sister.

  The graveled path, lined with box plants, opened into the formal gardens at the south side of the estate. Despite the gardener’s attempts to keep the beds tame, they were wild, disorderly. The flowers were in full bloom—a riot of color and smell—and matched his mood. To their left, the manicured lawns rolled down the hill to the lake.

  “Miss Mazie?” Cat clucked her tongue. “How curious. How exactly do you know her?”

  Trent did not reply, merely glared at his sister as he led her past an exuberant row of blood-red roses.

  “Very well. No need to be a beast about it. If you chose to have an affair—”

  “Cat.”

  She sighed, wrapped her hand around this inside of his elbow and pulled him close. “Her full name is Margaret Chetwyn, daughter of the Earl of Redesdale. Her mother and father passed away five years ago, just after our coming out.”

  He nodded. Chetwyn. The current earl was on the Home Affairs Sub-Committee with him. “How is it that I cannot recall her as an acquaintance of yours?”

  “Since when are you interested in a fresh young miss from the country? You have always been too busy with your speeches and bills to pay much attention to the social scene.” She squeezed his arm under her hand. “Besides, Lady Margaret and I were the briefest of acquaintances. We ran in different circles.”

  Mazie was not one of the more celebrated debutants, then. Cat only associated with the darlings of the ton.

  “But she was not without her own friends.” Cat stopped to admire a fragrant vine of Star Jasmine. “Mother would love the gardens right now.”

  “Yes, she would.” He did not say anything more, just led her down the graveled path as if nothing was amiss. Waited for her to fill the silence with her own thoughts and observations.

  “I heard from the cook, who heard from the baker, that you returned to Radford three evenings hence. I should scold you for not contacting me, but I also heard that a suspect was brought into your home just before you arrived and he has yet to be seen leaving.”

  With a slight nod, he encouraged her to continue.

  “Then my coachman, though he is loath to gossip, was persuaded to tell me that the villagers are distressed. Everyone feels you have apprehended the wrong man.”

  His shoulders tightened. He hated being the subject of negative gossip. No, hate wasn’t a powerful enough word. In fact, he couldn’t think of a word dark enough to describe how he felt. Despise, abhor, scorn, none did his disgust justice.

  Cat continued, unaware of his internal gloom. “What I cannot understand is Lady Margaret’s presence here, unchaperoned. Unless you consider that man following her a chaperone.”

  She looked at him, a sly side glance, and held her tongue. She wo
uldn’t say more until he talked.

  Interfering lot, younger sisters.

  She could be trusted with the truth, of course. Though Catherine loved to know the facts, demanded to know them, she wasn’t one to spread gossip.

  “Lady Margaret has confessed to some of the Midnight Rider’s crimes—”

  “No…” Cat stopped in her tracks.

  “And she is a known accomplice to the highwayman.”

  “My word.” She turned toward him with wide eyes. It was obviously a shock that any of her personal acquaintances would do something so bold, so daring.

  “I am holding her here under house arrest.”

  “No,” she breathed. “I cannot believe it.”

  “I am telling you this in the strictest of confidence, Cat.”

  “Of course.”

  A young maid approached with his nuncheon. Silently, they circled back toward the stables and stopped under an archway draped in ivy. He took his sister’s hand in his.

  “I am sorry to be short, but I really must be off.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “We will talk more later. Come to dinner. And send over a dress or two for Lady Margaret. Whatever you are done with.”

  “Of course, but where are you going, Trent? Not some dangerous part of the investigation, I hope.”

  “No, nothing to do with the highwayman. I must go help farmer Smith.”

  “Farmer Smith?” Her confusion was evident in her voice.

  “His leg was broken in a carriage accident and the villagers are gathering to assist him with his fields. ’Till tonight.” He nodded and walked out of the cool shade, picnic basket in hand.

  “Trent William Alistair Ballinger Carthwick,” Catherine called out behind him. “Are you going to farm?”

  Mazie paced the small confines of her maid’s quarters. Whirls of panic gnawed at the corners of her attention, and she tried valiantly to keep the demons at bay.

  “Ciao. Grazie,” she said aloud, practicing her Italian accent. One day, she promised herself, she would be a free woman again. She would secure passage on an elegant ship and visit Italy. “Un bicchiere di vino. Grazie.”

  A heavy hand rapped on her door. “Who you speakin’ to, Miss Mazie?”