The Runaway Countess (23 page)

With a loud voice that barely touched the silence of the unfolding drama, Trent demanded, “Are there any more cases to be seen before the Court today?”

When no one stepped forward, he formally closed the proceedings.

“A pity,” Mrs. Coulton leaned toward Mazie and Cat, shaking her head. “What will become of the Warner family now? She’ll never be able to pay them ten shillings.”

Mazie pressed her lips together, her anger making her skin itch from the inside out. The man had no compassion for a hungry family. He would not consider the impossible situation of the mother, and now had sent five innocent children to gaol.

What a wonderful application of the law.

The old indignation returned, the need to rally against the unfairness of life. As always, it brought the flush of energy and righteousness. She would do something more, she would—

“How do you fare, Miss Mazie?”

Mazie painfully drew the tethered ends of her emotions together then turned and greeted Mrs. Smith. “I am well, thank you. And Mr. Smith?” Here was someone she had helped. Here was the reason for her creative administration of justice.

“Oh, a terrible invalid like most men. Grumpy as can be, but getting stronger every day.”

The two women shared a smile.

“And the children?”

“A great help.” Mrs. Smith regarded her with kind eyes. “Is there anything you need? We have wondered about, well…” She let her words trail off.

Mazie considered her reply. She forced the words through her lips, damn Trent and his threats. “I am quite fine, thank you. It has been a pleasure to reacquaint myself with my old friend, Lady Catherine.” She nodded toward Cat who was talking with Lord Dixon and another man she did not recognize. From the corner of her eye, she watched Trent join his sister and the little group. Celebrating the power of the rich and privileged, no doubt.

He glanced up and motioned for her to join him. She thought to ignore him, but a warning on his face told her it would not be wise.

She turned back to her companion with a forced smile. “Give my regards to Mr. Smith.”

“Thank you, er, my lady.” Mrs. Smith dropped into a small curtsey.

Mazie managed a nod. Of course Trent had addressed her by her formal title in front of the entire room. He had warned her he would introduce her as Lady Margaret, but she hadn’t thought he would do it so rudely.

Imaginative curses rolling though her mind, she walked to his side.

“Quite the entertainment today,” Lord Dixon murmured as she joined the group. He did not acknowledge her as his attention was on straightening his frock and arranging the chain for his rarely used monocle.

Trent looked tense, stiff. “We humans have an unnatural enjoyment of other’s suffering.”

Lord Dixon did look up at that, his expression distant yet attentive at once. He considered Trent for a silent moment then greeted Mazie. “And who are you to interrupt the courtroom?”

“Allow me to present Lady Margaret Chetwyn, daughter of the late Earl of Redesdale.” Trent’s face was pinched as if the words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Lord Dixon made the briefest of bows and Mazie forced herself to curtsey. She knew who this man was, why he was a victim of the Midnight Rider, and why he was not worth the display of her respect.

“You are lucky Lord Radford did not hold you in contempt of court.” Lord Dixon frowned then dismissed her, saving her the need to pretend politeness. “Alert me at once when the Midnight Rider is captured.” He turned to take his leave.

“My lord.” Trent stopped him.

The older man turned back and something on his lapel glinted in the sun. It was a pin, a coat of arms boasting a raven holding a gold coin in its talons on one side and a jewel shining like the sun on the other.

The seal for their secret group.

Mazie felt her eyes widen and quickly looked away. Roane had told her about the coat of arms, but she had never seen it before.

Trent also seemed to recognize the pin. He studied it, a small line of concentration between his eyes, before glancing up at Lord Dixon. “I would beg an interview that we may finish our discussion.”

The older man huffed with agitation. “I will send a note when it is convenient for me.”

“I need to personally speak to those who were robbed, see if I can discover a pattern or a motive,” he pressed.

“Money, of course. Money is his motive. What else would it be?” Lord Dixon glowered, as if insulted by the question.

“Yes, but—”

“I’ve nothing more to say on the matter. I’ve been insulted by the criminal enough. I needn’t give him any more of my time. I look forward to your swift and severe justice in this matter.”

Trent scowled as he watched Dixon take his leave, seemingly oblivious to the dark looks sent his way by the villagers. He had not done well by them today. Nor by Lord Dixon either, it seemed. Mazie felt a moment’s compassion dampen her anger. There truly was no way for Trent to win. If he ruled harshly the villagers would hold him in contempt. If he ruled leniently, his peers would. Justice and fairness, these matters were difficult for anyone, and for a man charged with the interests of two diverse worlds, they were all but impossible.

As if sensing her softening emotions, he faced her and blasted her with the full force of his frustration. He grabbed her elbow. “Not another word to anyone.”

Chapter Twelve

“Might there not be a charity in sin/To save this brother’s life?” Shakespeare

Mazie bit her tongue, refusing to argue in public as he marched her out of the court building, across the damp gardens and into the main foyer of the house. Once they reached the elaborate marble staircase, however, she pulled free of his grasp and whirled toward him.

“Is it a habit of yours to drag people about so?” Her own anger and sense of justification had rebounded full force.

He narrowed his eyes. Despite herself, she took a step sideways, intimidated by the depth of his fury.

“Whatever were you thinking, interrupting my courtroom in such a manner?”

She raised her brows and crossed her arms.

He hardened his mouth in response and motioned for her to continue up the stairs.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

“To that lovely room you are privileged to inhabit.” The words were stiff.

She glared at him but marched up the stairs, not enough of a fool, or perhaps not in enough of a temper, to challenge his thinly veiled threat. He was right, it was a lovely room as far as prisons went. She did not want to give it up.

He fell into step behind her. “You may think your games quite amusing, but a court of law is no place to play. Do you realize what you cost me with your antics? Generations of Radfords have been entrusted with the safety and liberty of this county, yet you think to take over?”

“You told me you wanted my help with the villagers,” she defended herself. “You want them to respect you? Well, to begin with, don’t be such an imbecile. Your decision today only further antagonized them.”

She marched down the sun-drenched hall toward her chamber, Trent on her heels. He breathed evenly, too evenly, as if keeping his anger in check.

She flung open the door to her room and stepped in. The sweet smell of fresh-cut gardenia flowers wrapped around her, the bright, creamy scent at sharp odds with the dark emotion of the moment. Her eyes slid to Bébé resting on her pile of pillows.

Trent followed her into her room and slammed the door. “Yes, my esteemed Lady Margaret, I can see how your assistance was in my favor. Now the villagers think I am a heartless beast.” He tossed his robe and wig on a chair—the chair, Mazie realized with wild hilarity, where he had given her such pleasure.

He did not seem to notice the irony as he jerked around to face her, running his hands through his dark hair. “Justice is not to be bandied about and traded like a sow on market day. It is complicated, intricate and delicate. It requires years of study and deliberation. Do you realize the number of laws and precedence I have been obliged to commit to memory? I have been preparing for this role my entire life, tutored by my father, he by his father, and my grandfather by my great-grandfather. Six generations of Radfords have held the honorable title of lord lieutenant.”

“I see, so as the Pope might speak for God, you, in your exalted position as the Earl of Radford, might speak for justice?”

He held himself still. Too still. His grey eyes sparked with warning.

Mazie refused to be intimidated, refused to back down, despite her better sense. What did Trent mean he had been tutored by his father? Did he share the man’s penchant for one-sided justice? “And what a wonderful law it is, sending a mother and her hungry children to a disease-ridden, cold and dark prison cell.”

He paced away from her then back again before he replied. “She stole the handkerchiefs. She is at fault. Not I.”

“Oh, no, certainly not you. Certainly not the lord of the manor, surrounded by his lovely and perfect things.” She waved her hand through the room. “Do you know what Mrs. Warner does to support her brood? Did you think to ask? Her options will be limited, of course, being she is a woman.”

“It was you who limited her options, Mazie. I am not some fiend who wants to send a hungry mother and her five children to gaol. But you—” he must have realized he was shouting for he stopped and lowered his voice, “—you had to step in and make a mess of it. I was prepared to delay my judgment in hopes that I could find a precedent that did not involve gaol. I don’t know if one exists, but I was willing to look. After you tried to sway me, however, I couldn’t show leniency. The law must demonstrate order and impartiality, otherwise there can be no trust in it.”

Surely he was not telling the truth. “And if you did not find one of your treasured precedents? If it wasn’t already written down in some book, would you have been willing to interpret a new law?”

He scoffed and again ran his hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. “
‘Stare decisis et non quieta movere
. Uphold what has been determined and do not alter that which has been established’. I am
obliged
to obey precedents instituted by higher courts. I am
bound
to them.”

“Even if they are unfair?”

“Yes, even then.”

“Rules before fairness.”

“What is fair, Mazie? I do not think it is fair that your interruption today condemned the Warner family, but I had no other choice.” Again, he paced away then paced back, his broad shoulders stiff. “It is not easy to sit on the dais and hold people’s fate in my hands. It is not something I take lightly. I must carry the burden of my decisions, and today will weigh heavy on me for a long time.”

Mazie opened her mouth to defend herself but no words came out.

His grey eyes narrowed. “Did you ever consider that these people you are so desperate to
help
may be better off without your assistance?”

She reared back, breathless, as if struck. “How dare you.”

Anger made his face flush, his jaw even more angular. “What of farmer Smith? He was well taken care of by the other villagers. There was no need for you to steal for him. Really, Mazie, you know little of justice. It’s not for you to take matters of right and wrong into your own hands.”

Her mouth agape, she was too stunned to formulate a reply. Everything burned. Her face, her skin, the hard fists of her hands. She hated this dark pit of uncertainty inside her. She hated the thought that she had made it worse for Mrs. Warner.

And Roane. She never should have tried to interfere in her brother’s concerns. She would be the link that got him caught, hanged.

She pressed her lips closed and rubbed her hands over her dress, smoothing it as if she could smooth the sharp-edged turbulence within.

If she did not have her trust in herself, she had nothing.

Trent, ever confident, had collected himself. He looked unaffected save the tousle of his hair and hard angle of his mouth. He thought himself cunning, superior. She ached to make him feel shame as she did. To bludgeon her doubt against the hard wall of his control. “You come in here with all your lordly ridicule and scorn, slamming the door behind you. What, do you intend to force yourself on me again, to prove you are in charge?”

His gaze licked over her. He waited a full pulse of a moment before responding. “There was no force, Mazie. I remember you begging for my touch.”

She scoffed then wet her lips, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Despite how I try to forget, the one word you whispered has been burned into my memory.” The air snapped between them. He touched his hand to her cheek. “Please, you whispered.” His voice was throaty, raw. “Please.”

And he had played her a fool that night. Coolly walked away after coaxing her surrender. Anger spurring her on, she turned her head and nipped his thumb. Then, at his deep-throated rumble, leaned up and nipped his lower lip.

His hiss of breath assured he was not unaffected. She grabbed the back of his head and pulled his mouth to hers.

She wanted to take back some of her control, to disarm him as he had her, shock him and confuse him, wanted to torture him with the passion that tortured her. She wanted to obliterate the words he had said, the scorn behind them and the hollowness they exposed in her chest.