The Runaway Countess

by Leigh LaValle

  He closed the drawer, oddly disquieted. Of course there were no clues hidden among his father’s things. It was ridiculous to assume otherwise. Simply because the victim’s were his father’s friends didn’t signify a connection.

  But he turned and opened the other drawer anyway. It contained sticks of wax, sheaves of paper.

  Nothing.

  A warm breeze blew in the open widow and the candles on the desk flickered and sputtered. He glanced at the paper lying on the tabletop, its words shimmering and distorted by the dancing candlelight. It was a list, written in his own hand, of men who had been robbed by the Midnight Rider.

  Aristocrats, each one. Upstanding in the community and heads of large families. These men had mourned the death of Trent’s father and offered to take Trent under their wing as he accepted his seat in the House of Lords.

  But, despite their help in the past, he was certain there was something they weren’t telling him. There was a reason the Midnight Rider had chosen this group. The robberies had been planned out, staged so that the men were found alone in their carriages at night. Never once had a family member been present.

  If it was money the highwayman was after he would have stopped them after a public assembly or dinner party and targeted the ladies and their jewels. But it was the men he wanted, the men he preyed upon.

  Trent tapped his fingers on his knee. Memories called at the back of his consciousness. Memories of these same men gathered together in this same room. What had they been doing? He had always assumed they were of an age, comrades, Tories and land owners in the same valley. Plagued with the same crops and the same weather. But now he had to wonder. Was something else going on that he did not know about? Had his father been involved?

  Mazie’s earlier words echoed through his mind.

  “Do you even know what goes on in Radford while you are away in London?”

  The truth was, he did not know. He hadn’t kept as close a watch on his family seat as he should have. The people of Radford were strangers to him. As was, it seemed, his own father. Trent looked like his sire, shared his same name, but other than such trivial matters, he did not truly know the man. Couldn’t say what occupied him the years before his death.

  Would his father have been robbed by the Midnight Rider, were he still alive?

  He took another swallow of whisky. His eyes stayed locked on the paper and its list of names. Perhaps he was just being paranoid, seeing deceit where it did not exist. Perhaps he was looking too hard for answers when the motive was simple greed.

  It wasn’t a son’s place to question his father. What was he doing, going through his father’s desk anyway? Had he truly expected to find something useful? Guilt pulled downward with cold hands.

  Mazie. It was her fault. He’d saved her from gaol and this was how she repaid him, by planting these seeds of doubt in his mind. Before her arrival, never had he thought to question the man who sired him.

  Certainly his father had been a hard man, and Harrington was a lummox if there ever was one. But kindness and governance were beasts of a different nature. He would prove this to Mazie. Certainly it was not for himself.

  Irritated, he pulled out his quill and wrote his secretary a note, asking him to gather court recordings and any other information about the man his father appointed magistrate. He would go through every damn letter and every damn file on Harrington if he had to. He would prove to Mazie that she was wrong, that she was the criminal here.

  It was best she remember her place in this blasted situation.

  It was intolerable, the power she had over him. She held his future in her hands. And she was locked in her bedroom right now, where she’d been all evening. Hiding from him.

  Playing the coward to his dragon.

  In fact, she was probably upstairs concocting a fraudulent scheme at this very moment.

  He glanced at the correspondence on his desk. Beneath the prime minister’s missive lay a stack of letters from his colleagues in London demanding his attention. There was an important discussion in the Lords about trade duties and the Corn Laws. His opinion was needed to bolster the Tory party and yet he had no time to consider it.

  He drained his glass of whisky and stood. Mazie had chosen this path for herself. She had decided to risk her life, her freedom.

  Why?

  She would tell him. He was not playing games here. This was not some twisted version of a house party. This was his life. This was his family honor, his future, his ambition, his pride.

  The bloody prime minister was watching his every move.

  He marched down the hallway with long, determined strides. He would prove to Mazie that she could not unnerve him, could not deceive him and would not waste his time. He would prove that he would see through her lies. That she was the one who stood to lose.

  To begin with, he would remind her that it was futile to stay in her room and hide.

  Mazie stared at the ugly brown travel book she had borrowed from the library that afternoon, her pulse pounding. Was this the worst idea? Should she give it up?

  She bit her lip, considering. Oh, what a fool idea, but it was a good way to lead Trent astray. And, after successfully blustering through their afternoon at Mrs. Pearl’s, she dared to hope they might all get out of this alive.

  She would send Trent to the far corners of the country on a wild goose chase. Roane would never go to Tyneside on the north coast of England. It was a town for sailors and fishermen. Roane was a horse lover, a midlander. Even in hiding, he would choose some other destination.

  Or so she hoped. Truly, she had no idea where he was.

  She flipped through the book, committing details about Tyneside to memory, the thrill of daring ringing through her.

  A knock on the door sent her heart plummeting, and the thrill turned to a sickening fear of being caught. She closed the book and shoved it inside her dressing table drawer just as her chamber door opened.

  She looked up and froze in her chair. Her heart drummed a distracting rhythm of nervousness and, it couldn’t be, but it did seem…

  She was excited to see him.

  Trent stood there, just inside the shadowed doorway, his gaze fixed on her. He was wearing evening clothes, fancy without being overly elaborate. Black and white, clean lines, devastating in his handsomeness.

  She inhaled, flustered, unsettled. Would she ever get used to how attractive he was?

  Holding a bottle of claret and two glasses in his hands, he stepped into the room then closed the door behind him with his foot. Candlelight fell across his face, revealing the anger there, the dark mood. “My lady.” He dipped his head, the motion sharp.

  “My lord.” She tried to sound mocking but her voice came out throaty.

  Maybe he had seen her slip the book in the drawer. Maybe that was the cause for his anger. How desperately she missed the luxury of privacy, and locks on the doors, and the lack of ill-tempered, handsome men prowling about.

  He walked deeper into her room and she stood, wanting to meet him measure for measure. He halted at her movement, only his gaze shifted as it slid over her from head to toe. She had prepared for bed and her hair hung loose down her back. Her feet were bare. Trent’s gaze burned through the delicate silk dressing gown Cat had given her and Mazie felt hot, tight, naked. Only two thin layers of silk separated her skin from the night, from his eyes.

  From his hands.

  This was a terrible idea, being alone with him. At night. In her room. Had she learned nothing? “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “That is what you are wearing to bed?”

  Mazie hugged her arms around herself. The motion seemed to break Trent from his daze and he continued into the room. His path took him inches from her, but she resisted the urge to step back. His now-familiar scent of sandalwood and lemon lingered, spicy and masculine, as he walked to the small sitting area and set down the claret and glasses.

  Him. Her captor. Her keeper. He could do anything he wanted with her. />
  At this moment, she wanted him to do any manner of things. Take off his coat for one. And his waistcoat. Then his cravat. Resolve her curiosity about what lay beneath those layers of fabric.

  Then he could do things to her. Like kiss her again, with his tongue. It had been terribly naughty and delicious, that kiss.

  In fact, he could do whatever it was his eyes were saying they wanted to do.

  No, no, her mind screamed. Fool of a girl!

  It was terribly disheartening, the things her mind said.

  But he did not make any untoward advances, and she did not have to choose between enjoying them and pushing him off. He simply stared, his expression fierce, as he poured the wine then arranged the glasses.

  What had gotten him so angry? Would he say nothing?

  She shifted on her feet. It was the second time in as many days he had come to her room irritated and prowling, frustration rolling off him in waves.

  “You did not come down to dinner,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I wanted to look in on you. I’m sure you are devising some scheme or another and I’d be a fool to leave you unattended for long.”

  She blinked faster than normal. Did he know her so well, then? “I had dinner sent to my room.”

  She had thought to avoid him and his questions this evening. Optimistic of her, she realized now.

  “There is no use hiding from me, Lady Margaret.”

  “Mazie.”

  He picked up a wineglass and leaned his hip against a chair. He looked masculine, brooding against the pale feminine décor of her room. Silent, he watched her, his eyes drinking her in again.

  “Come here, Lady Margaret.”

  Fool of a girl, she did as instructed, her bare feet silent against the thick rug. He offered her the glass of claret and their hands brushed as she accepted it. Waves of excitement spread from her fingertips, tiny ripples disturbing the surface of her being. She stepped away and put the chairs between them.

  He busied himself with tasting his wine before he addressed her again. “I received a note from the office of the prime minister. He insists that I personally keep him abreast of my investigation into the Midnight Rider.”

  The prime minister? Oh, they were in trouble deep. “I see.”

  “I agreed to your fool arrangement, Mazie, but it has put me in a bind. I can no longer offer you as a key suspect in my investigation. I cannot alert Lord Liverpool of your capture, or your relationship to the Midnight Rider, now can I?”

  “I suppose not.” Where was he going with this?

  “Which leaves me empty handed.”

  When he did not say more, she realized he awaited her response, and she nodded.

  “I could tell him of Vale’s pictures, of course. But then you claimed they were false, and I would hate to play the fool. I need more information.” He paused and his body deflated with a sigh. He almost appeared vulnerable and, for one preposterous moment, she had the urge to tell him everything.

  But that feeling was gone as quickly as it had come. He straightened, “I need something concrete I can tell Liverpool.”

  Sweat dampened the back of her neck and she lifted her hair away, allowing the evening breeze to cool her flesh. He followed her every move with those glittering eyes. His gaze lingered on her hair, her neck. It slipped down to her breasts.

  Her heart pulsed and squished in her chest and she quickly dropped her arms, tightened the belt of her dressing gown then rubbed her sweating palms on the cool silk.

  He ran a hand through his hair and left it standing on end. “Why has the Midnight Rider chosen to prey on my father’s friends?”

  She sank down in one of the chairs. Always the questions. They made her head ache “What do you think?”

  He glared at her for a moment, obviously unhappy with her answer, which was no answer. “I think arrogance combined with ignorance is a dangerous brew.”

  She nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  “These men are proud statesmen, proud to serve their king.” His voice was harder now with none of the soft vulnerability he had shown earlier.

  She said nothing, waited for him to continue.

  A muscle leapt in his jaw. He was well and truly furious. “I have to wonder if my father would be on that list, were he still alive.”

  This last thought brought a dangerous tension into the room. Trent would protect what was his. It was obvious.

  It did not escape her notice that while she stood to lose a sibling, Trent stood to lose a parent. He was so proud of his father, so certain in his defense. Almost endearing in his loyalty. How would he react to the news that the man he loved and trusted had hurt others? Had sought to protect the privilege of the wealthy at the cost of the poor and hungry? Whatever Trent was, with his abundant flaws and irritations, Mazie did not believe he was a man to abuse his power. He was not one to evict a family simply because they did not vote for his burgesses of choice. While his father had turned Radford into a pocket borough, Mazie suspected Trent would allow his villagers to choose their own members in the House of Commons.

  She recalled her own disillusionment toward her father. The moment she realized he was a fallible, naïve man and not the rock she had always thought. She had been terribly angry at first, learning of his great mistake and the loss of their fortune, the loss of the world as she knew it. But she had been able to talk with her father, argue with him, learn to forgive him.

  Would Trent have the same opportunity? Could one argue with a ghost?

  Mazie felt torn and annoyed at this difficult emotion. She did not want to worry about Trent. She simply wanted to mislead him, wanted this whole debacle to be over.

  Still, he watched her. Did not look away. “I think the Midnight Rider is only in Radford because of the history here, the decades of animosity between the gentry and the commoners. He is exploiting the past for his own greed.”

  She swallowed some sweet wine, hoping it would help her to relax.

  “You know his reasons, yet you say nothing.” His tone betrayed more emotion now. Frustration he was not able to hide.

  Trent was just a man with demons of his own. She hated to cause him more trouble, but one thing was clear—she wanted to keep the prime minister from entering the investigation himself. “He didn’t talk of politics.” Not entirely true, but not entirely false.

  Silence filled the room like water until she thought she would drown in it.

  Finally, he spoke. “I find it difficult to believe that you understand nothing of his motive. You said yourself you found him to be heroic.” His eyes flashed, wild, like an animal caught and unable to get free. “How am I to trust you, Mazie, and this little agreement of ours?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure.” Lord Byron

  The blasted little agreement would be the death of her.

  Mazie took another sip of her wine, stalling as she gathered her thoughts. “The Midnight Rider talked little of politics, truly. He preferred to talk of his plans for the future.”

  “What plans?”

  “He wanted to buy a little cottage in Tyneside.” Her heart did a little flutter as she told the falsehood.

  “Tyneside?” Trent drew back in surprise. “Is the bastard interested in ship-building?”

  “Oh, well…he did talk of the North Sea.”

  “Do you think he fled to Tyneside?”

  “It could be a possibility.” She fiddled with her wineglass. “It would make sense.”

  He looked fierce. Like a hawk, he watched her every move. Mazie put down her wineglass and forced herself to cease fidgeting.

  “Does he have friends in Tyneside? An alibi he might use?”

  She lifted her eyebrows, hoping to look innocent. “I don’t know of any alibis. He did have a number of books on sea travel though. He liked to talk of far off destinations. We dreamed of going to St. Petersburg together.”

  “St. Petersburg? Why ever would you
go there?”

  “Doesn’t it sound romantic and beautiful?”

  “Cold, maybe. And far away.”

  She nodded. Yes, very far away. It would be a huge undertaking to follow him there.

  “He does have a friend in St. Petersburg,” she said, on an inspiration.

  “What is this friend’s name?”

  “Dmitry Ivanov, if I recall.”

  “How does he know this Dmitry Ivanov?” He said the words almost like a sneer. She wished she had thought of a more original name. She might as well have told him the friend’s name was Joe Jones.

  “Um, he didn’t say. Perhaps the war?”

  “Perhaps.” He looked skeptical. “Then I will have to catch him before he leaves Tyneside, if he is truly there.”

  He did not trust her. Wise man. “Are you going to ride there yourself?”

  “You wish you could be so lucky. No, I’ll send some of my men.”His attention did not waver from her for a moment and she forced herself to appear undaunted.

  She hated this endless ruse, day in and day out, trying to walk the lines of truth and lies. Both what she was telling Trent and what she was telling herself.

  It was suffocating her. All of it.

  It wasn’t that she detested telling lies. She was willing to use them to her advantage when needed—too many people refused to see good sense. But this was too many lies, piled on top of each other, with no way out. When would it ever end?

  “Is that all?” She resisted the urge to glance at the door.

  “No.”

  Just one word. He did not elaborate, just stared for a moment, his eyes lingering on her hair, her mouth. Desire flamed to life in her belly again.

  Damn him.

  “There are some changes I would like to make to our ‘agreement’,” he murmured.

  “You cannot—”

  “I can do anything I damn well please, Lady Margaret.”

  Mazie pressed her lips together, her chest expanding with hot emotion. Why ever had she thought he was vulnerable? The man was as solid and immovable as stone.