The Runaway Countess

by Leigh LaValle

  And it should be that way. As one man, he was entirely biased. He now realized how many of his beliefs stemmed from what he wanted to see rather than the facts. He had been blind to the truth about his father, the truth about his county. The truth about Mazie.

  More than anything, Trent wanted to do the right thing. But for perhaps the first time in his life, he did not know what the right thing was.

  He needed to act. London awaited his next move. The prime minister expected to hear firsthand when the Midnight Rider was caught.

  Trent raked his hand through his hair. He must choose between the aristocracy, his father among them, and the highwayman who exposed their corruption. It was like some Greek tragedy, where the son must destroy his own father.

  And with his father, Trent would destroy the honor of his family. His own future. The future of his children.

  The children he could, even now, have with Mazie. Had she thought of that? What she would do if he had got her with child? He would want to know. Of course he would want to know.

  He shook his head. One thing at a time. For now he must focus on the Midnight Rider, on his impossible decision.

  He could only think of one solution, which was to take himself out of it. Make the decision no longer about what he stood to lose. Justice needed to be unbiased, based on the truth. Served by an impartial hand.

  He needed to send the case to London.

  But try as he might, that answer did not sit well with him. Mazie was right. Her brother would be hanged as the law demanded, and the truth about his father’s group would never be revealed. Justice would not be served.

  He paused before the portrait of his sire. Painted some twenty five years prior, the picture portrayed his father wearing a short powdered wig and lace at his cuffs. Trent recognized his physical resemblance to the man. They had the same dark hair, the same grey eyes.

  Beyond that, he did not truly know anything of his father. For years Trent had emulated the man, fought for his approval. Lived to please him. Tried to follow his father’s ever-asserted code of family honor.

  And his father had been corrupt. Abusive of his power.

  Trent felt ill to think of it. The menthe familieswho had suffered. Were it not for Mazie and her brother’s courage, he might never have known.

  Air. He needed air. Trent turned and walked to the other end of the gallery, opened the tall windows and stepped out onto a small balcony. Billowing clouds filled the sky, but the day still appeared bright.

  He gulped down large breaths, tried to settle the turmoil building within him. He felt trapped, drowning. There was no way out. No way to fix this. One way or another, he was going to lose something of infinite value.

  Lifting, lifting, everything was lifting up within him, demanding release. He could not take it. He opened his mouth and let out a wide, wild yell. A howl of pain and anger. He startled a flock of birds from the nearby trees. Startled a carriage horse waiting with its wagon outside the kitchen doors.

  “What have you done, Father?” He slammed his hand against the iron railing, ignoring the pain that shot up his arm.

  He felt like the black raven. Like he wanted to shred the truth with his sharp talons, shred it into tatters.

  But he could not. He did not have the power to change the past, only to shape the future.

  He needed to think.

  He scrubbed his hand over his face then looked across the horizon. Clear skies. It would be a good day for travel, for sending a man to London.

  He could do just that—adhere to precedent and procedure as he always had. Abide by the letter of the law, as Mazie said. He could protect his family name and hide the evidence of his father’s corruption. All of England awaited the capture of the famed Midnight Rider. If Trent brought him to trial, he would have a heyday of press and the glory that came with it. The Radford name would be celebrated far and wide, as it had been for centuries. It would be so very easy.

  He would be elected on to the Committee on Foreign Trade. His career in Parliament would be assured.

  But Trent would have to ignore his truth and his sense of justice. He would be on the same path as his fathervaluing fame, power and riches above integrity.

  He took a deep breath, blew it out.

  He could side with the Midnight Rider. He could admit the truth and expose the crimes of the aristocracy, the harm they had wrought on the villagers. He could admit the failings of justice, admit that Mr. Grantham had been forced to become an outlaw to protect the innocent. But if Trent let the criminal go free he would also be siding with anarchy, with those who said the individual should not surrender to society. And he would lose the power and respect he’d gained in Parliament these last eight years. He would be judged as an ineffectual failure.

  Honor his truth.

  Or honor his family name?

  There was no way to do both.

  If he wanted another solution, he needed to open himself to it. Step outside his comfort.

  He looked down, over the wrought iron railinga three-story drop straight to the earthand felt a moment’s apprehension that he would fall. He pressed a hand to the sturdy rock of the house and caught his bearings.

  The delivery wagon pulled away from the kitchens. The day continued as normal, as if the very foundation of his understanding had not been cracked and splintered.

  He looked out over the fields. Two young boys played a game of catch with some dark object he could not identify from this height. So young and carefree on this summer morning.

  What would their lives be like when they gained their majority? Would they be his tenants? Ruled by his whims?

  Trent stared at them. The boys ran through a fallow field, leaping and rolling. So much innocence and hope. Such possibility for a better future. He could make this decision for them. Not for himself, his family name. Not for Mazie or even the institution that bound him. But for these children, these innocent souls tied to him by the hand of fate.

  “I trust your heart. Not the man you think you need to be, but the man you are.” Mazie knew him. She knew it would come to this.

  God, he loved her.

  She saw things in him he couldn’t see himself.

  A laugh tore from his heart, rusty and tentative. What a debacle this whole highwayman affair had turned out to be. Nothing was as it seemed, no one was who they professed to be. Even him.

  A strange lightness filled his chest. Perhaps it was freedom.

  His choice needn’t be one path or another. He could forge his own future. One stemmed not from reaction, not from fear or being bound by rules, but from the freedom in his heart.

  He could make his own ruling that, while not entirely lawful, was just. He could ensure that the law was not a dead weight but a living, changeable thing.

  He must begin with the basic principle of justice. As Hobbes said, “If a man be trusted to judge between man and man, that he deal equally between them.” He must treat Roane Grantham and the lords as equals. They deserved equal access to justice. And equal punishment.

  And Mazie, ah Mazie. Her betrayal still stung. He would just take it one step at a time.

  Finally, he knew what he must do. He stepped back into the gallery and did not once look up at the portraits watching him.

  It was chaos. Trent looked out over his study with a frown. He had a rather unusual assortment of guests today. Mazie, the infernal minx, was seated in the front, looking miserable but angry and loud as she bickered with Lord Nash. Oh, but his foolish heart was happy to see her. How quiet his life would be without her in it.

  She looked up at him and he resisted the urge to smile at her. She wore the white muslin day dress printed with cherries and he thought she’d never looked more charming. He would see the lines of worry on her face vanish. She had put her trust in him, and he would keep it. No matter what else happened, he would see to that.

  To Mazie’s left, Mrs. Pearl played the part of the confused older lady and knit in silence, unmindful of the ins
ults and threats being slung across the room. And Mr. Grantham, self-confessed highwayman, sat next to her, arrogantly arguing with Lord Dixon. Grantham’s face, Trent noticed, was bruised and swollen. He felt a moment’s satisfaction, though he knew he did not look much better himself.

  Horris was there, and Harrington, of course. And Cat, though he had tried to keep her away, it was pointless. She was not going to miss out on this excitement.

  And a small army of burly footmen watched over them.

  Everyone was talking at once, shouting to be heard. Shouting from anger and justification and pent-up emotion.

  This moment had been brewing for a long while.

  Trent supposed he should feel relief or pride at having solved this mystery. As it was he just felt annoyed. He did not want to be here. He wanted to be far away, in fact. With Mazie naked and begging for his forgiveness. Alas, it was up to him to untangle this mess. And the only time Mazie had ever begged had been for her brother.

  Finally, when he could no longer listen to the chaos, he stood. He actually had to whistle to gain everyone’s attention.

  “It seems we have a problem.” It was a vast understatement, of course. And suddenly everyone was shouting at him, wanting to be the first to be heard.

  Trent slammed a book down on the desk. “Enough!” he commanded. “Order in the court.”

  “This isn’t your courtroom,” Dixon snickered.

  “Fine. Order in my study.” Trent glared and the room settled. “I see everyone is already acquainted?” It was a humor no one appreciated. “Let us begin by welcoming a man who has taken up a vast amount of time and attention. Mr. Roane Grantham.”

  “Felon,” Dixon called out.

  “Yes.” Trent nodded. “Highway robbery is a treasonous offense. Punishable with death by hanging.”

  “We’ll see you swing,” Horris threatened.

  “I do not fear death,” Roane boasted.

  “Brave words.” Trent sat and considered the other man. What different lives they had led. Roane was free, wild in fact, and had most likely faced death numerous times. Trent had always had his title to consider. His only contemplation of death was that he needed to leave behind an heir.

  Some part of him envied the man across from him. He could not countenance it, envying a criminal, but there it was. He himself had never known the freedom of the highway at night, sleeping under the stars, living from one day to the next. Not to mention that, as Mazie’s brother, Roane had a connection to the minx that could never be broken. Trent had experienced firsthand her unwavering loyalty to her brother. She would do anything for him.

  Jealousy stabbed with sharp fingers. He shook his head. One thing at a time.

  “It seems we are in quite a pickle, with everyone mad at everyone else,” he said to the room. “I’d like to see if we can untangle this situation. Mr. Grantham has provided me with a written confession of his crimes. A surprisingly poignant confession, I might add, with a large dossier of evidence condemning his victims.”

  Lord Dixon stood, a look of disgust on his face. “I refuse to listen to more of this rubbish.”

  Trent leveled a severe gaze on the older man. “I highly recommend that you sit.”

  Lord Dixon did not sit down. “We insist you reinstate Harrington and bring justice to the Midnight Rider. We have agreed to shoot the highwayman and say he was escaping.”

  “Excellent idea,” Trent drawled, tamping down his annoyance. “Who is going to do the shooting?”

  Lord Dixon shrugged. “I’ll do it.”

  “I am sure you would. A convenient plan, condemning him without a trial.”

  Mazie and Roane shared a glance. Her worry was etched on her face and Roane reached out, patted her leg in reassurance.

  Love. There was so much love in that small gesture. Brotherly love. Trent knew all about that, about worrying for a sibling.

  How scared Mazie must be, to listen to this talk of shooting and hanging and death. To lose her parents then face the loss of her brother.

  How had he not seen it before?

  Whatever lies Mazie had told had been in defense of her brother’s life.

  He shifted his gaze to Cat, who watched him with her guileless blue eyes. He would do the same for his sibling, or worse, were she in danger.

  The question was, what would Mazie do once her brother no longer faced the hangman’s noose? His heart feared she would flee.

  He cleared his thoughts with an inhale, then addressed the room at large. “There is, of course, the small matter of the dossier, and the more than substantial evidence pointing to illegal, even treasonous crimes, committed by you all.”

  “You cannot do anything to us,” Lord Nash protested. “Your father”

  “My father is dead.” Trent’s voice was cold. The wound of the man’s betrayal was still tender. One that he did not know how to heal. “Lucky for me, I am in charge here. It seems I have a number of choices. I could send all of you and the incriminating evidence to London, where you would each be tried by a jury of your peers.”

  “Do it. They would let us go.”

  “Perhaps they would. But I am sure The Times would take a great interest in the trial, and the surfeit of information I would provide. Let’s see…” He consulted a list before him. “Lord Dixon, it seems you have been accused of four counts of intimidation with political intent?”

  “Where’s the proof?”

  Trent held up a pile of papers. “Mr. Grantham did not limit his revenge to the nighttime games of a highwayman. He was thorough in his research, in his interviews with the victims. He has, in fact, done my work for me. The matter of verifying the information was quite easy.”

  The men glowered but settled into silence. Mrs. Pearl continued to knit. Mazie sat forward, her brows drawn with tension. He could not be sure, but Trent thought she held Roane’s hand in hers.

  “And Lord Nash.” He shifted his gaze to the Baron. “How sad about the disappearance of your estate manager after he brought forth his concerns. Something about funds you received from Parliament. Funds that were to go to the factories on your estate, rather than in your own pocket.”

  “This is ridiculous,” the other man blustered. “We are not the criminals here.”

  “Oh, but you are.” Trent looked each man in the eye. “You all are.”

  “It has taken us decades to get where we are,” Harrington argued. “We are stronger, superior. Who do you think you are to step in and put a stop to it now?”

  “I am the Lord Lieutenant of Radford. I am the King’s representative.”

  “You are your father’s son,” the man roared. “You should honor his legacy.”

  “A legacy of ill doing? Of lies and trespasses against the very people he was charged to protect?”

  “You father”

  Trent held up his hand, again silencing the comment. He had heard enough. “We have a number of options before us. The most obvious option would be to send all of you and the evidence to London.”

  “And the other option?” Roane asked casually, as if his very life did not hang in the balance.

  “We find an acceptable compromise between us here today.”

  Mazie’s brown eyes rounded in surprise and he easily read the thoughts playing across her face. Relief. Confusion. Anticipation. She knew him, whether he had wanted her to or not. She knew how extraordinary this decision was for him.

  It bound him to her, that she witnessed his transformation. No, not only witnessed it, helped to foster it. Whatever happened, he would always be grateful to her.

  “What say you?” he casually asked the room, as if there was any question.

  “This is outrageous,” Lord Dixon grumbled with token resistance, but did not do anything more.

  “What are you suggesting? We give each other’s sentence? I say Midnight Rider gets shot and buried.”

  Mazie blanched and Roane simply raised an eyebrow. Trent admired his composure.

  “I was thinking
more along the lines of an eye for an eye. What was it a few weeks ago at midsummer assizes? Turnips for artichokes?” Trent drawled.

  The men looked confused, but a smile dawned on Mazie’s mouth. Trent drank it in, the shine in her eyes, the softening of her posture. Her pride in him was clear as a bell on a summer’s day. It made him feel warm with modesty and desire all at once.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Horris asked. “What kind of a trial is this?”

  “Upon deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that there is no clear right and wrong in this case. Both parties are guilty. Could one be called guiltier than the other? Perhaps. But that depends on the perspective of the judge. Were the judge to have no perspective, you would all be seen as fools. I cannot say one side is guilty and must be punished, while the other is innocent and must be let go. Therefore, I propose that both sides share the burden of judgment.”

  There was much muttering and grumbling in the room, but none spoke up.

  “My lords, what is your proposal for Mr. Grantham’s punishment?”

  “Shot!”

  “Ah, a bloodthirsty bunch. And Mr. Grantham, what do you propose?”

  “I propose these men resign from their positions in the House of Lords and absolve their power in Radford. I would like to see them sell what is not entailed and share the monies with the good people of the shire.”

  “Another thorough punishment. Shall we compromise? I propose Mr. Grantham’s penalty be reduced to deportation.”

  Mazie pressed her lips together. He could see her need to intervene, the physical challenge it was for her to remain quiet. Trust me, Mazie. Just a little longer.

  “You’re a fool. Do you know what you are giving up? Why, if you brought the Midnight Rider to London yourself you would be a hero. Your name would be splashed across the cover of every newspaper.”

  “Men would want you on their boards. The Financial Committee”

  “My decision is made,” Trent interrupted. “As for you, my lords, you will pay restitution to your victims. The Midnight Rider has already distributed some, ah, recompense to the villagers. I have hired a clerk and a Bow Street Runner to take over the case and see it completed in an orderly and lawful manner.