The Runaway Countess (3 page)

Besides, it wasn’t the worst thing to be underestimated by one’s adversary.

One’s adversary, not one’s tenants. He must stop this highwayman before he seduced the villagers into all manner of uncivilized actions. The last thing Trent needed was another uprising on his hands.

“The gentry don’t trust you either,” Harrington said with a bit too much gusto. “They don’t think you’re handling this problem with enough force. What of Miss Mazie? She’s guilty, caught red-handed with the highwayman’s stolen goods. We’ll make an example of her, treat her harsh as an example to others. No militia, like you said.”

Trent did not care if Mazie was guilty as Circe—she certainly was as enchanting and dangerous—there was no justification for false justice or brute violence. “At this time, Mazie is our only link to the Midnight Rider. I do not want to send her away before I get what I want. She stays with me until she has a fair trial.”

“The highwayman’s victims are powerful men and expect swift justice. I say we move quick—”

“She alone knows the truth, Harrington. I will get it from her.” Trent turned Themis onto a path that would return them to Giltbrook Hall. And her.

It was a terrible thing to face one’s fate without so much as a needle and thread for distraction.

Mazie lay back on her bed and traced the cracks in the plasterwork above her for the hundredth time. Her room had been oppressively still for days, and she was going mad with nothing to entertain or divert her. She had long passed the impatience and annoyance of the morning. Boredom and frustration visited after lunch. It was the yawning, undisturbed stretch of the afternoon that quieted her fight and brought this bleak, wordless fear.

Of course, Lord Radford knew what he was doing. He was of a devious mind. They all were.

Roane had warned her when she agreed to help his cause as the Midnight Rider that she was placing herself in danger. But, as usual, she hadn’t heeded the warning. She’d wanted to help feed hungry mouths, support those who were forgotten, free those persecuted for political purposes. It had all sounded quite exciting and important at the time. Now, she was mostly just scared.

It was that fear which made her roll over and bury her face in the soft pillows. Darkness sang a seductive lullaby, and the familiar cold hand of loneliness squeezed her heart.

With a huff of breath, she pressed away from the luring heaviness and forced herself to sit up. If she had learned anything in her three and twenty years, it was that wallowing got her nowhere. The slope of her emotions was steep and slimy and a quick ride to nothing but despair. She had taken that ride once, when her parents died. It brought only a lifeless emptiness and barren landscape.

She came to her feet and shook lifeblood back into her limbs. She must find her anger and keep her strength. Just survive this until she discovered a way out. She’d thought she had Radford the other night, but somehow her trembling body had given away her intention.

And now he had one more reason to doubt her, to suspect every misleading piece of information she provided him.

As if conjured from her thoughts, a key sounded in the lock and Lord Radford himself filled the doorway. He stepped into her room and closed the door behind him but did not lock it. So sure of himself, this man.

“Cook tells me you have not been eating.” Radford was flawlessly attired, irritatingly so. His wavy hair was perfectly swept back from his face, and there was not a nick on his square jaw, nor a wrinkle in his cravat. He was dressed in formal, dark colors as if he were off to the fine drawing rooms of London. “Do not think you can starve yourself to freedom.”

“I have no appetite.”

He leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. “Perhaps your conscience is plaguing you. Your appetite may return if you tell the truth.” He swept his gaze over her in a slow, smoldering blaze before he flicked it away.

Unbidden memories of his hands on her, his lips, flashed through her mind and heat rose to her face. “My appetite would return if you let me go.”

“Ah, but I cannot.” He straightened and rapped his fingers on the door. It opened immediately and a footman entered carrying a tray laden with food.

Radford said nothing as the servant set the tray on the desk and left.

Mazie glanced at the repast and wished she were hungry. Cold meats, cheese, bread, fruit and nuts—the food looked delicious but did not tempt her in the least. Not with her stomach in knots.

“Eat.”

The man had no manners. “I am not a dog to be commanded so.”

“Oh, but that you were.” He walked the few paces to where she stood, grasped her elbow and led her to the desk. “Sit.”

Mazie huffed in displeasure but did as he demanded. He rested his hip on a corner of the desk and poured her a glass of wine. She noticed he had ink stains on his long fingers. He must have been busy writing letters these past days while he left her to stew in the sweltering attic.

When she did not make an attempt to feed herself, he sighed, picked up a slice of cheese and held it to her lips.

“I said I wasn’t—”

“I have all night.” He smiled, a flash of teeth that was not friendly.

Mazie glared up at him and took the bite from his hand. The cheese was delicious, but it was difficult to swallow through the apprehension in her throat. Last she had seen the man she had kissed him then tried to hit him. She could not anticipate how he would retaliate.

She took a sip of wine. It was superb. “Why do you care that I eat?”

“Because I won’t have it said that I denied you food. And I won’t let you grow weak and useless. You have information to tell me. I want to know what it is.”

She speared a ripe summer strawberry and brought it to her mouth. Radford dipped his gaze to her lips before he stood and paced to the other side of the little room. She heard the sound of wood scrapping behind her as he tried to open the window, then the reverberation of his fists pounding the frame. She took a bite of the fruit, refusing to give in to her curiosity and watch. Finally, a slight breeze and the smell of newly cut hay blew in, clearing away the oppressive stillness. What a relief the fresh air was. She closed her eyes and let it wrap around her, reveled in the places the breeze touched her bare skin. The back of her neck, her throat, her forearms.

“You won’t leap to your death?” More intimate than the touch of the wind, his voice sent shivers across her skin.

Her eyes blinked open. “I will try to restrain myself.” She took another bite of cheese and turned toward him even as she admonished herself not to.

He leaned back against the windowsill, his arms crossed against his chest. She hated how handsome he was, how it affected her body so. His dark hair and angular features pulled at her, bound her in a peculiar way. She was not so naïve she did not recognize her own attraction. Any right-minded woman would find the man handsome, uncomfortably so. But he was her enemy, and Roane’s enemy, and the enemy of all she believed in.

It was best she not forget that.

“I find you quite interesting, Miss Mazie. Miss Mazie… I feel ridiculous calling you that. Shall I call you Mazie Jones as the villagers do?”

She shrugged. It was no great information he had discovered.

“Mazie Jones, I am told, came to town at the end of Michaelmas and secured employment as a companion to Mrs. Pearl.”

“How intelligent you are. You must know then that the villagers address me as Miss Mazie.” She gave him her back again, but it was impossible to ignore him. He was as dangerous as a wild animal in her small chamber.

“I cannot
Miss Mazie
you all day. It just…doesn’t fit you. How about Miss Bell?”

Mazie flushed hot. How did he know? Miss Bell was the alias she had used in her first position as a governess after fleeing her aunt’s.

“You may call me Miss Bell, if you wish.” Her voice barely wavered, even she was impressed with herself. He’d never know how her heart was pounding.

Radford clicked his tongue. A telling gesture—he was not as relaxed as he would appear. “Somehow I doubt Miss Bell is your real name. In fact, it seems there is little to be known about Miss Bell before she entered the Carringtons’ employ. But my man will soon remedy that. He’s quite good.”

She picked at her food then caught herself and put her fork down.

Lord, oh Lord, he simply
could not
find out about her past.

She pushed her plate away. Her appetite was certainly gone now. Radford must have been taking his time these last two days, gathering information about her. She shifted in her chair. “What else did your man tell you?”

“You were a governess for the Carringtons before you fled in the night with two stolen candlesticks. Miss Bell isn’t your real name, is it?”

Did he know what a quagmire he was walking into? Obviously not.

She addressed the wall as she spoke. “I prefer to simply be called Mazie. And I shall call you…?”

“My lord.”

Mazie threw him a look over her shoulder. “Very well, my
esteemed
lord.”

He ignored her sarcastic tone and nodded firmly. The motion sent a frisson of agitation through her.

“Actually, I think I shall call you Trent.” She came to her feet. “It is your Christian name, is it not?”

He raised his brows. “How do you know my name?”

Mazie taunted him with her silence. At least, she hoped she did. In truth, she knew his name because of a recent caricature in the
London Times
“A Sinking Ship on the River Trent” which ridiculed his inability to catch the Midnight Rider. It was entirely inappropriate for her to call him Trent, of course, but she enjoyed the implication of disrespect.

“Mazie, Mazie.” Untangling his long frame, Trent pressed away from the window. “I find you a puzzle. Unfortunately, I never did enjoy puzzles much as a child. There was always the mess of missing pieces and the temptation to force parts where they did not fit. I much prefer the whole picture, unclouded and unveiled.”

“How interesting. I, myself, love puzzles. Always have. Why—”

“What were you doing at Atherton’s carriage?”

What? Mazie froze. He knew that too.

Trent’s jaw hardened, became more sharp and square. “Seems Lord Atherton had a carriage accident last week and valuable items were stolen from the vehicle. Items you later pawned in Bramcote.”

She curled her toes against the bare floor. The blasted pawnbroker had snitched. The snitch. She should never have trusted him. Her maman always said a crooked man could never be straight.

“Upon questioning the villagers, it was reported that you were seen on the main road about the same time as Atherton’s accident. Did you come upon his carriage and steal those things yourself?”

Mazie felt like she was falling, like the floor beneath her had given way. She had heard once of sand that would eat a person, just swallow one whole. This must be what it felt like.

“I have been puzzled by the thefts, as there seem to be two different types. One on the local roads, where our masked menace preys upon the good people of Nottinghamshire like some perverse Robin Hood. The ‘robbing from the rich’ element is easy to see, though I haven’t found evidence that he gives to the poor.”

The other thefts are small, petty little things really, and odd bits of anonymous generosity. Surely the bandit of the night roads would not bother himself with the problems of old ladies. You are more than a quick toss or an accomplice to sell the goods, are you not? You are a thief yourself.”

Mazie tried to keep any expression from her face. It was scary how quickly everything was unraveling. The only thing he had yet to figure out was how she distributed the loot among the villagers.

She needed to distract him. “So I am to play both Maid Marian and Robin Hood this evening? How tiring the costume changes will be.”

“I cannot rightly accuse you of being the thief I seek. All witnesses describe their attacker as a man.” He let his gaze rub over her. “No one could mistake you for a man, madam.”

“So I am not to play Robin Hood?” She placed her hand to her chest and let her shoulders slump. “What a relief. I cannot abide wearing breeches.”

His mouth opened, closed. His eyes narrowed under his dark brows. “Do not make me angry, Mazie Jones Bell. You shall come to regret it.”

“It seems you are already angry. Your hands are in fists.”

He looked down at his hands as if they were not part of his body. Flexed and unflexed them. “The pocket watch you pawned belonged to Atherton’s great-grandfather and was given to him when he returned from the Napoleonic Wars. The kid-leather gloves were a gift from his wife, a sentimental gift now that she’s passed away from fever. A shame, all of it.”

Mazie ignored the flare of guilt in her belly. If there was shame to assign, it belonged to Atherton. He’d been driving recklessly. His fancy carriage had forced Farmer Smith’s cart off the road, breaking the man’s leg. How was he to harvest his fields? Such an event could send the entire Smith family to the poorhouse.

Trent tipped his chin up so he looked down his perfectly straight nose at her. She imagined he used this tactic in Parliament—it was difficult not to be provoked by it. “Atherton is a fine man and is distressed about the entire accident. Seems the carriage and driver were not his, but leant to him by a former officer in his regiment. Fine way to thank a man for saving your life—sending him off with a driver fond of whisky and untried team of greys.”