The Runaway Countess (12 page)

“I am not the suspect here, Harrington. You needn’t follow me about the county.” He drew in a breath and forced his muscles to relax. He refused to be controlled by such a childish emotion as reflexive anger. “If this is how you conduct your investigations, I can see how the Midnight Rider has been allowed to run amok these last months.”

Harrington worked his facial muscles into a bland expression, seemingly contrite. “Of course, my lord.”

Trent studied his employee, noting the tension under the man’s posture. He looked about as comfortable as the stuffed boar over the fireplace. If Trent’s instincts were correct, as they often were, Harrington did not feel remorseful. Nor was he excited by the return of his lord lieutenant.

Harrington had been favored by the previous earl for over a decade. Trent thought his father a great leader, a man with power and the honor to use it wisely. If his father found Harrington competent, Trent had assumed the man could be trusted without close monitoring. But that was before he had seen Mazie’s bruise and heard the concern in Cat’s voice.

It was clear his deputy lieutenant had been allowed free rein for too long.

Something he was going to change. “The investigators I hired will report back to me, naturally.” Yes, that was a twitch of anger in the other man’s jaw. “And I expect detailed updates from you as well. Everyone will answer to me now. About everything.”

Harrington managed a semblance of a nod. “It still stands that I am the one the lords are coming to. I’m the one who has to give them answers. Lord Dixon stopped by my cottage yesterday, full of nastiness.”

“Good,” Trent snapped. “If you are Dixon’s bosom friend you can explain why he is avoiding me. You can tell me what he is hiding about that night he was robbed.”

The man’s bushy brows drew together. “How could he be hiding something? He’s the victim.”

Trent snorted and looked away. As if matters could be so simple.

But he did not say more on the subject. It was just an instinct he had, a feeling that everything wasn’t on the table. None of the victims wanted to talk about the Midnight Rider. Oh, they were happy enough to malign the man, but never were details of the robberies clear or consistent. When Trent had paid a call on Lord Nash, the older gentleman had been forthcoming in his anger, but jumbled in his description, as if he was trying to put information in the telling or leave information out. The other victims either avoided Trent’s inquiries altogether, like Lord Dixon, or were similarly vague.

It was frustrating as hell. He would have thought that these men, who well understood the need for order within the system and the demands of family honor, would have been more generous with information about the robberies.

“All due respect, sir, we must act. Your father, God rest his soul, would have agreed that a militia action could work.”

Trent touched his father’s quill, still on the desk.

Harrington was correct. His father had loved having his own small army and would have no qualms calling it together. The man had skillfully handled the Pentrich Uprising just four years earlier, had stabilized the district in the face of a possible revolt. Trent was proud of his father, a hero to be admired and emulated by King and country.

So why would he choose any different than his predecessor?

Because he had been in Parliament these last few years. He had seen the turmoil building throughout England. “If a military action is needed, we will use professional men.”

“But”

“I’ll not gather a militia, Harrington. Not yet.”

“Did you find something interesting at the gypsy camp, then?”

Trent shook his head. More dead ends. They had not found anything interesting at the camp. Nor at the caves Mazie had taken them to earlier that morning.

Harrington looked down and picked a piece of lint off his jacket. “Miss Mazie take you to the camp? I hear she arrived in town on a gypsy wagon. Seems she would know the place.”

A gypsy wagon? Mazie had not told him any of this.

Trent felt like one of the glassy-eyed hunting trophies staring from the walls—the great-horned buck looked decidedly surprised as if he too, had heard unwanted news.

He rested his elbows on his desk and forced himself to relax. The woman was an endless string of surprises and challenges. She spun him around in so many circles that half the time he didn’t know north from south around her. Their kiss last night was a perfect example of his idiocy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had lost control over himself like that.

Harrington looked up and their eyes locked. “She’s a wily one, Miss Mazie, playing all sorts of roles. Living wild with the gypsies, then living all right and proper with that old lady.”

She lived with the gypsies? Traveled in their caravan? He forced his breath to be even, not wanting Harrington to see his ignorance. It rankled him that this man knew more about Mazie than he did.

Not that he knew much about her, truth be told. He knew she felt good, too good. That she had allowed some highwayman’s dirty hands on her, though he could not understand why. And that she did not like corsets, though they certainly liked her.

And he knew he had become a fool around her last night, letting his cock get in the way of his reason. He couldn’t stand to think of that man—his enemy—touching her, pleasuring her. She was a lady, for God’s sake. He would remember such important matters, even if she wouldn’t.

Not that he had treated her like a lady last night.

But he would. From now on, he would.

And he would keep both eyes open in this little
agreement
of theirs. He had no doubt she would try to fool him every chance she got. It was a risk he was willing to take only because he had no other options. He wasn’t going to torture the information from her. Neither was he going to send her away to gaol, her secrets locked up with her. And, as much as he’d like to seduce it out of her, it wouldn’t be right.

No, she would stay here, where she could grow comfortable and careless. He would get the information he sought through simple patience and diligence.

Mazie chose that moment to step into the room, her brow lifted at a mocking angle. Trent had sent for her when Harrington had arrived, thinking it would do her good to remember the stakes of their agreement. Judging by the look on her face, she did not enjoy being summoned.

He bit back his smile and raised a brow himself as he stood.

She dropped into a mock curtsey, holding the skirts of her morning gown. It looked like a dress Cat would have commissioned—simple white muslin printed with cherries and decorated with red ribbon. Mazie wore no cap, but her hair was pulled back in a neat chignon. She looked young and fresh and every inch a lady.

In contrast to her brightness, the study suddenly appeared even darker, drearier. His father had certainly kept the room in shadow, something Trent planned to change.

She straightened and only then noticed Harrington sitting across the room. Her spine stiffened and her face went ashen. Her gaze snapped back to his with both a plea and an accusation.

His gut seized with an illogical sense of possession and an absurd need to comfort her. Ridiculous, considering he had called her here exactly to feel threatened. Irritated with himself, he stalked across the room toward her. He should not be intrigued by Mazie or worried over her obvious fear. Justice needed to be impersonal, cold and impartial.

He took her elbow and nudged her into the room. She followed with marked reluctance.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Harrington eyed her from where he remained sitting.

The hair on the back of Trent’s neck stood on end. “Miss Mazie, you remember Harrington.” He did not attempt to make his tone friendly. This was not a friendly visit.

The other man did not hide his perusal of her body. “Rather fetching in that gown. Even criminals clean up nice.”

Mazie recoiled but recovered at once, lifted her chin and refused to appear affected by the man. Trent was proud of her. Where had she come by such strength? She was a survivor, this one. Clever and tenacious. An inspiring opponent.

Harrington smiled, enjoying the show. “How is the interrogation going? Shall I have my turn with our captive?”

“That will not be necessary.” He wanted the man gone. “I will expect your report tomorrow.”

“I’ll be on my way, then. Looks like you have everything in hand here.” Harrington laughed and stood, then hesitated. “Good idea, going to that farmer’s to-do the other day. Make them think you are on their side. They’ll be too ignorant to realize you are playing them and might tell you the truth about their friend the Midnight Rider.”

Trent did not think he was
playing
anyone. Though, in truth, that was why he’d gone, to gain their trust. “I will be holding midsummer assizes in a few days,” he said instead. “Any villager with a complaint is invited to come forward.”

“But you haven’t done that in over a year.” Harrington’s voice showed his surprise again. He did not like the changes being made, that was clear.

“I have let London distract me for too long.”

“Not to mention it’s easier being here, with your name bandied about by the fancy folk in the city. The Midnight Rider’s really set Radford on its ear, ain’t he.”

Trent remained silent. God, the man was a pest.

“Lord Dixon told me the London gossip,” Harrington explained, his face jovial with having the last word. “Good day.”

Annoyance making his skin feel tight, Trent watched the man leave then turned toward Mazie.

“Awful man,” she shuddered.

“Yes,” he agreed, though thoughts of his deputy lieutenant were erased from his mind as he studied the problem standing before him. Mazie was too beautiful to be a proper captive. She should be a fishwife, sharp and haggard and ornery. Well, she was a bit ornery, but much more softly rounded than sharp, and not haggard at all. She fairly glowed with her own inner luminescence. He wanted to kiss her again.

Damn.

He was a lout of a man to be turned by a pretty face.

For there could be no other reason he felt concerned for Mazie’s feelings. He trampled men in Parliament every day without worrying they would feel, well, anything.

He studied her for a moment, as if the answers were written on her skin. It was the dress, he decided. It made her look like a lady, young and fresh, and brought out his chivalrous instincts. That was all, he simply preferred her in this kind of gown to the rags she arrived in.

Not that it was his place to prefer her in anything at all.

He looked away and walked to his desk, shuffled some perfectly organized papers and reminded himself she was his prisoner. His prisoner, for God’s sake. A liar and a thief. Not a woman to notice or appreciate in any way or manner.

“Are they really talking about you in London?”

He sighed and did not answer. Hoped she would take the hint that he did not wish to discuss the topic.

“What are they saying?”

He put down the papers and turned toward her. It was embarrassing and horrific and possibly the end of his political career, not to mention the damage it could wreak on the family name for generations. “All sorts of things, I would imagine. I try not to read the gossip rags.”

But it wasn’t just the sensationalized press that was printing things about him.
The
Times
had taken up the story as well. They all wanted to write about him and his failures.

All the more reason to put this Midnight Rider debacle to rest. Immediately. “How did you know about the gypsy encampment you took me to yesterday?”

Mazie shrugged and wandered away to the high windows overlooking the garden. A sunbeam poured around her body, creating a silhouette of brilliant light, all curves and feminine form. Had she stood there on purpose?

“Everyone in Radford knows about it.”

She was evading his question. The minx, even after their
agreement
, she would equivocate and avoid the truth. “You lived with the gypsies.”

She faced him. “Is that a question or a statement?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Leave it to you to dictate my life story.”

“I told you I would find out everything I want to know.” How dare she act defensive?

“You must have a very good source. It is hard to learn anything true about the gypsies, or anyone who travels with them.”

“Is that why you were traveling with them? Secrecy?”

“Yes. Cold and hunger were a factor as well.” She crossed her arms.

He leaned against his desk and considered her. What he wanted to know was why she was traveling with the gypsies, how she could feel that it was safe for a woman of her obvious beauty, and what she was going to do once she left here. The woman seemed destined for trouble.

The Midnight Rider. Trent had a purpose here. He needed to stay on topic.

“Why were you traveling with the gypsies?” Really, it couldn’t hurt to know more about her. “I expect the truth, Mazie, as per our agreement.”

“Well…” She let the word hang in the air as she sat on the settee by the windows. “It was just after I left my position as a governess for the Carringtons.”