“I am not some terrible monster, Mazie.” His gaze dipped to her lips then searched her face. “You can trust me with the truth. Let me help you. You cannot go on like this much longer.”
Did he see something in her? Some inclination that her emotions were softening toward him? Was her stupidity so obvious? “I am telling you the truth. I don’t know where he is.” She flung her words at him, wishing they were enough. Wishing he would let her go.
“Let me help you.” He reached toward her.
“No!” She backed away. “Don’t touch me.” She couldn’t think when he touched her. “Please, just leave.”
Cold emotion slashed his face. “We will talk about this again and again until it is over. You do understand.”
She lifted her chin, forced herself to hold his stare.
He waited until it was clear she would not respond. Then he turned and grabbed his wig and robe from the chair, glanced at her only when he reached the doorway. He opened his mouth, then shook his head and walked out the door.
Trent did not show for dinner that night. Mazie retired to bed early, exhausted by the barrage of her thoughts. She slept little and awoke when the early morning light fell into her room. From her window she watched the orange fan of sunrise flame across the sky, followed by ripples of red clouds.
As she often did, she wondered where Roane was. When she was younger she would leave little notes for him in the woods of Rodsley Manor. Her entire world had centered around that thousand acres. The groundskeeper had discovered one of her letters and brought it to her father, who had demanded she stop trying to find Roane. She was better off without him, her father had said. Couldn’t she be an obedient daughter this once?
She had never understood her father when it came to Roane.
Such long-ago memories. She tried to turn her thoughts to the lilting refrain of birdsong, but she could not ignore the scrape of Trent’s words in her heart.
Did you ever consider that these people you are so desperate to help may be better off without your assistance?
She had made things worse for Roane those many years ago when she had tried to interfere with her father. Roane had never asked her to promote his wish to join the cavalry, but she’d done it anyway. And all she’d accomplished was setting her papa’s mind against his own son and losing her brother in the process. Of course, time and fate had brought Roane and her back together, but Roane had never seen his father again. He had never made amends before the man’s death.
Alice bustled in and Mazie stood away from the window, grateful for the distraction from her memories.
“What gown shall you wear today, my lady?”
Alice opened the wardrobe and Mazie fingered Lady Catherine’s gowns. And they were Cat’s gowns, for though the silk and muslin dresses had been gifted to her, Mazie did not pretend she would have need of them once she was gone.
She did not know what her day would bring. What struggle or new worry. But she did know one thingshe wanted to take Trent’s breath away. Take his control away. Anything to make him feel a shadow of what she did.
She chose a tight-fitting day gown that showed off her curves while covering her skin. Made of soft, almost silken apricot-colored muslin, the dress reminded her of a Mozart Andante where the sensuality was hidden behind obedience to classical form. Its power was in its pretense to innocence.
Her hair pulled back in looping braids, she made her way down the wide marble staircase, pride straightening her spine.
She would be civil to Trent, but she would not remember his embrace, the tender way he held her. He had proven himself to be a demanding lord who lived by the rules, no matter the situation at hand. No matter who got hurt in the process.
He had sent a hungry mother and her children to gaol.
When she reached the front hall a footman directed her through the drawing room, out the oversized doors to the south terrace. She stepped down onto the flagstone and was confronted by the loveliness of the morning, abundant with the lush perfection of summer. The azure-blue sky stretched in all directions, crisp and brilliant, marked by a few billowing, bleach-white clouds. Birdsong trilled from the thickly leafed branches and an array of roses nodded and bowed their weighty heads.
Trent and Cat sat at a table laid in elegant shades of white. White linen, white roses mixed with calla lilies, white porcelain and chairs covered in white damask. Cat was reading The Post, and Trent, ever industrious, was reading through a toppling pile of papers at his elbow. He was still dressed in his riding clothes, or perhaps he was planning to ride out after breakfast. Mazie stifled a moment’s surprise that two such proper people should breakfast outside.
“Good morning.” She managed a poor excuse for a curtsey.
“There you are, my dear. And doesn’t that dress look delicious on you.” Cat smiled.
Trent stood and greeted her with an unintelligible mutter, his eyes barely flicking off his papers. Good, he would play it distant and cold. There was no reason for them to greet each other with anything more than polite formality.
So why then was she agitated by his aloofness? Like she wanted to yell at him until he looked up?
And why in the world did she notice the shine in his dark hair and the soft curl of his upper lip? She sat down with a huff.
Cat must have noticed something, for she said, “Please, don’t mind my brother. Apparently his secretary delivered some important files this morning, and I was instructed not to be a nuisance. Parliament just cannot continue without him.” Cat pursed her lips at him, but he did not glance up to notice. “Ever the grand host.”
What was Cat saying? Trent heard his name mentioned but could not recall the context. His body rang with alarm.
Temptation herself sat at his table.
He kept his eyes glued to the paper in front of him, not even moving when sweat beaded on his forehead. Mazie was like nectar and he the bee, unable to resist her sweet enticement.
The gown she wore was sin and redemption in one swath of cloth. The color brought out the luxuriant shine of her hair and the lush fullness of her lips, gave her skin the soft pink tint of apple blossoms. One glance and his cock stirred, the erection he had fought all night returned, the long hours of self-criticism forgotten in an instant.
He simply would not look at her.
His papers. He would focus there. But the words might as well have been written in an unknown language for all the sense they made.
Mazie was his prisoner, a lady, and the most inappropriate subject of his lust, he told himself again.
But perhaps right and wrong weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, he rationalized. Perhaps it would be best to take her and be done with it, slake the thirst in his blood.
Perhaps the dark road was the best choice.
He exhaled, tired of the war that had waged since he’d escaped Mazie’s room by the skin of his teeth yesterday. Somehow, he had come to his senses in the midst of all that wildness, had recognized her desperation for what it was. Sorrow and fear and the need for escape.
And attraction. There was that too, in spades.
The files. He tried to shake off his preoccupation and concentrate on the paper before him, indeed, written in the King’s own English. The inflammatory, insolent nature of the missive should calm his ardor, if he could manage to read it fully. Written by a former tenant, the missive made all kinds of accusations against Harrington.
It was quite disheartening, to be truthful.
“A caller for you, my lord.”
He looked up, and damn if his eyes did not seek out Mazie in the process. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Vale, sir.”
“I will meet him in my study.” He started to rise then sat back down. “On second thought, bring him to me.”
Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Trent finally settled his gaze on Mazie.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hope is generally a wrong guide, though it is good company along the way.” George
Savile
The butler hurried away and Trent finally turned to her. It was a brief glance, but powerful, full of heat and challenge, and made Mazie’s toes curl in her slippers. There was a wealth of emotion underneath all his cool indifference.
He wanted to test her, did he? Watch her reaction to whatever Mr. Vale had to say? Well, Trent would be greatly disappointed if he thought she would compromise Roane’s safety in any way.
Even if they had found Roane she would
Oh God, what if they had found Roane?
Determined to change her perspective, she glanced out over the sloping lawns and focused on the peace of the meadow beyond, rather than the tension twisting and churning in her gut. A thousand questions and worries blurred through her mind, but she forced herself to stay calm.
A moment later, Sterns returned with Mr. Vale.
“My lord.” The man bowed, his clothes were dusty from the road. “My ladies.” He assessed both Mazie and Cat, his gaze warm and complimentary. Cat shifted in her seat and sent him a small smile.
Trent showed no reaction, his face reassembled in indifference. “Do you have news for me?”
“I do, sir.”
Mazie focused on her plate. She couldn’t possibly eat now, but at least the food gave her something to do other than sit and try not to sweat.
“We sent thirty-three copies of the Midnight Rider’s picture to law officers throughout England.” Mr. Vale handed Trent another copy of the drawing. “Two nights ago, we received word of the highwayman’s location.”
Mazie swallowed her bread in an uncomfortable lump. She forced herself to sit still, very still.
“Interesting.” Trent flicked his gaze from the investigator to her and back again. “And where is this location?”
“In Berkshire, near Ascot.”
She flashed hot, then cold. Was Roane mad? What was he doing at the Royal Ascot horserace?
Appraising horseflesh, no doubt. Her brother was crazy about the beasts. Crazy enough to mingle with the haut ton at this of all times.
She would wring his neck if they did not find him first.
She concentrated on lifting her teacup as if nothing were amiss. Her hand shook slightly, forming little ripples in her tea. She glanced over the rim to see Trent frowning at her, of course. Why ever had she wanted the man’s attention earlier? Now she just wished he would leave her alone to her thoughts. He saw too clearly the truth she tried to hide.
The bite of bread sat like a rock in her stomach. It was all too much. Too many ways to be furious, too many ways to be afraid.
“Near Ascot? For the horse races?” Trent’s tone was bland. One would never know the steely interior behind his calm façade. She had to wonder at his lack of reaction to the news. He was tightly controlled this morning, purposeful in his every word and action.
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Vale nodded, excited. “One of the royal guards at the horserace identified the highwayman. We sent five runners.”
Trent watched her, made her burn, but she forced herself to take a bite of her eggs as if her stomach weren’t roiling and protesting.
“Unfortunately,” Mr. Vale continued, “the man has fled.”
“The Midnight Rider got away?” Trent laughed, a short, cutting sound that contained no amusement. “The royal guards and Bow Street Runners were trailing him and the man got away?”
Mr. Vale rubbed the back of his neck. “Er, yes.”
“Any clues to his whereabouts?”
The investigator looked pale. “No.”
“Of course not,” Trent bit out.
Away. He’d gotten away. She bit the inside of her cheek. She would not smile. She would not show her relief.
Trent leaned back in his chair, digesting the news. Then he sat forward, wrote something on a piece of paper and passed it to Mr. Vale. “See this is done.”
“Yes, sir.” His blond hair flopped into his eyes with the force of his nod.
“And tell your supervisor to call on me as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Vale nodded sharply again and then stood to leave. “We will continue to update you as information becomes available, of course.”
“Of course.”
“It was a pleasure.” Mr. Vale smiled at Cat, a bit more wobbly than when he had arrived. “Ladies.” He bowed and then left.
Trent stood from the table and picked up the stack of papers he had been reading. “I’ll be in my study.” As he turned to leave, he swept his gaze over Mazie. He turned away, but not before something flashed between them. Something she could not name, but that brought flooded memories of their kiss. Of the burn and the tenderness both.
“Good day, brother,” Cat called out to his retreating back. “Do not forget the midsummer’s festival this eve.”
Mazie looked down at her barely touched breakfast and found that her appetite had returned.
Roane was still free.
Glorious, glorious good news.
Her mind though, went with the brooding man to his study.
An hour later, birdsong filtered through the window in Trent’s study, an incongruous lilt of beauty amidst the harsh blades of sunshine.
The evidence was indisputable. Harrington was corrupt.
The mess of documents spread before Trent damned his magistrate to Hell a hundred times over. Bribes, unlawful punishment, gaol. Accusations of rape, harassment. The list went on.
He closed his eyelids, lost in the darkness and light that danced there.
The papers dated back nine years.
Eighteen-eleven. Two years after his father had appointed the man magistrate. Either his father had known, or was a fool.
He forced his eyes open, pushed his chair back from his desk and stood. He would not think such things of his sire.
Looking wildly around his study, he considered the furniture, the paintings. Cat had begun the redecoration in earnest, had removed the hunting trophies and dark curtains, but many of his father’s things still remained. The ivory chess set his mother had gifted to him, the grandfather clock he had purchased upon creation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland—“It is past time,” his father had said—and the indigo blue rug, with its asymmetrical design that he had commissioned.
His father had been a man of flesh and blood and hope. Trent would not judge his sire until he had detailed proof. He would not.
He walked to the open window and loosened the knot of his cravat. His mind pressed against the limitations he would impose on it.
Late May, eighteen-seventeen. His father had called him to Giltbrook Hall after months of limited correspondence, presumably to go over estate matters, though little of that had occurred.
June ninth, eighteen-seventeen. The Pentrich Uprising.
Trent could not dismiss the suspicion that his father had wanted him here to witness the revolt. God only knew the reason why.
He pounded his fist into his open palm. He mustn’t think this way. It was impossible his father had known. Had allowed.
The only thing that was certain was that Trent had allowed Harrington’s corruption to continue.
Rape. Abuse. Imprisonment.
Harrington was a beast and the Midnight Rider had escaped the men chasing him. He had escaped the royal guards and the Bow Street Runners. Trent was sliding downward toward his own ruin. Family honor, the safety of the villagers, Parliament. It was all falling apart.
He wanted to shake the window frame, shatter the glass into tiny shards and stomp them into dust. He felt like something was breaking apart inside him, something he had kept tight and secret for years. He did not want to feel it. Hated feeling it.
He would go. Away from this study and away from these papers. Away from his father’s portrait staring at him from across the room.
His movements disorganized, he turned and strode to the door, then halted with a muffled curse. He couldn’t leave the documents out for anyone to see.
He paced to his desk and shuffled the pap
ers into a messy pile which he shoved into the billfold.
“Hell, hell, hell,” he chanted under his breath, as if the expletive could incinerate the worry from his mind. But no, it was Hell he was living. Hell he was burning in with every breath.
He must get out of this room. Fresh air. The sound of his pounding footsteps echoed through the hallway to the main foyer and then he was outside. Blissfully outside.
“Radford!”
He pretended not to hear his sister calling him. He turned and walked in the other direction.
“Trent!” Cat called again. Her voice was close. She would be hurt by his disregard.
Hell, hell, hell.
He whipped around on his heel, and she stepped back abruptly.
“What has happened?” she asked, breathless.
Trent said nothing, just glanced over her shoulder. Ten yards away, an open carriage stood in the drive. Mazie and a kitchen maid decorated the vehicle with garlands and flowers.
Mazie. She had known about Harrington all along, had warned him.
She turned her head, perhaps glanced at him. He couldn’t tell, the bonnet shaded her face. She held still then went back to the flowers.
“You are continuing mother’s tradition,” he stated, the words hollow.
“Yes, of course. Great-grandmother was the one who started it…” Cat let her voice trail off. When he looked back, there was worry in her blue eyes. “You are coming tonight, aren’t you?”
“I am coming.” He would go to the Midsummer’s Eve festival and try his damnedest to be nice to the villagers. They must think him the worst sort of beast for setting Harrington upon them.
“And Mazie may come as well?”
He scoffed. Of all utter nonsense.
Cat came forward and touched his arm. He flinched. “Please, brother.” She frowned. “It is in everyone’s best interest that she attends. If nothing else, the villagers must see she is happy.”
Happy? His eyes glanced over to the women at the carriage. His sister was addled if she thought Mazie happy. But he no longer cared to stay and argue. “Fine.” He turned to walk away but her hand stopped him.
The Runaway Countess Page 18
