The Runaway Countess (32 page)

And the worst of it…her victims were seated around her like fish dangling on a string.

Mazie glanced down the table where Trent held court. He looked ever the proper lord this evening, worlds away from the man she had danced with just three nights before. His black-and-white attire was flawless, his posture stiff and manner impeccable. He must have felt her shooting daggers at him, for he turned with a secret, intimate smile. In a motion small enough that none would notice, he lifted his wineglass and toasted her.

Checkmate.

She frowned at him, but heat bloomed and her muscles squeezed. He had been inside her. Filled her. Her censure was countermanded by a blush that crept over her cheeks. His grey eyes glittered with what seemed like anger, but there was more. Something smoldered in his gaze, some promise. They had barely shared a friendly word since his ill-conceived proposal, but she could not say he ignored her.

Indeed, Cat had assured her that Trent would have eyes only for his
special guest
as they chose this dress for the evening. Cut low in the bodice, the unusual golden apricot color set off her pale skin. Upon Mazie’s instruction, Alice had arranged her hair in a loose chignon, then twined an apricot-colored ribbon through it, leaving one dark, twisted strand to fall over her shoulder where it rested on the swell of her breast.

Mazie could feed a small village with the price of her apparel, but she did enjoy wearing it. Especially when it made Trent look at her with such thinly veiled desire.

“Lady Margaret,” the man seated next to her purred entirely too close to her ear. “How did you come to be a guest of our host?” The younger Lord Arlington withdrew only slightly when Mazie turned to face him. He did not hide his slow perusal of her form. It was maddening, this inspection, and the fear that he would recognized her.

“Lady Catherine and I had our coming out together. We were happy to be reacquainted.” Should she be haughty? Friendly? How best to distance herself from the girl who had stolen his billfold at the market?

He flashed a quick smile. A dandy, with his salmon-colored waistcoat and not one but three watch fobs. But attractive in the way pale, blond men are. “Might I call on you while you are here? Surely Radford would not hoard such a lovely guest.”

“Oh, well, I…” Mazie paused, unsure how to answer. She glanced at Trent, who watched their exchange with a hard expression. “Perhaps,” she answered, choosing to be coy. Lord Arlington would see what he wanted in her. And what he wanted was a flirt.

Her assumption was correct if his answering smile was any indication. There were no shouts for the magistrate, no accusations of theft.

For now.

Hoping to avoid further interaction, she picked at her lemon syllabub. The dessert was beyond delicious, but she had little appetite.

“Are you enjoying our fair countryside, Lady Margaret?” Lord Persings asked from her other side.

And so she turned to another one of her victims. “Very much.”

It had been an arrogant theft, and her largest, one she’d had to ask Roane to help her with. She had stolen Lord Persings’s coach, of all things, then had sold the conveyance and given the money to his sister. An aging spinster, she was left to molder in a small cottage while he and his family lived in the elegant family estate. Everyone in town knew Miss Augustus was suffering, as her clothes were old and thrice mended and she scrimped and scraped for food.

Lord Persings dabbed a handkerchief against his moist brow, and Mazie was glad to see she was not the only one who found the room overly warm. “It is a lovely time of year,” he puffed.

“Lovely or not, she should be in London, that is where one finds a husband.” Lady Arlington shook a bejeweled hand at them, sending shards of candlelight glittering across the room. “But at least you can entertain Lady Catherine. She could use some friends, living alone as she does.”

Mazie remembered this from before. The judgments, the rules, the barbed words. She did not miss it. She glanced at the windows, wishing they could be opened for a touch of fresh air. A smell of the freedom beyond.

“I much prefer living alone,” Lady Usling boomed, not attempting to moderate her voice. “No man directing me about. Who’s to say Lady Margaret here needs to go to London to find herself a husband?”

Thank you, Mazie wanted to say. She suspected she would much prefer living alone as well. Marriage was entirely too much of a bondage for the woman. And love was too…messy. Dangerous. It made one so vulnerable.

“I should hope my wife does not share such an opinion.” Lord Persings glanced down the table toward his spouse. “Though I am sure my sister would applaud your independence, Lady Usling.”

“Where is your sister tonight?” she asked. “I do enjoy her company.”

The older gentleman again dabbed his forehead. “She declined the invitation. Doesn’t like the fuss and bother of dinner parties.”

“I’d hoped to see her in a new dress with that fortune she found.”

“Then you did not hear?”

“That she gave it away?” Lady Arlington breathed. “Surely such rumors are not true.”

“It is true,” he sighed. “Silly old bird, she gave it all away. But I love her.”

She what? Mazie dropped her spoon and nearly choked on her own tongue.

“Are you well, Lady Margaret?”

“Drink some wine, dear.”

“It is this talk of husbands.”

“Then let us talk of kinder things.” Lord Persings patted Mazie’s arm, a warm smile on his face. “I was a friend of your father, you know. The trouble we got into as lads…”

Mazie sputtered on her wine and set the glass back on the table. She had robbed a friend of her father?

“You have the look of your mother,” he continued. “A beautiful woman. We were all green with envy when Reddy brought her back from France. That was before the war, of course.”

“Your mother once told me how she met your father.” Lady Arlington smiled, though her wrinkles still wanted to frown. “How fate brought them together. So romantic.”

“Thank you.” The words sounded choked. Her maman loved to tell that story, how her carriage wheel had come loose just as her father was riding by. “
Une catastrophe naturelle,
” her mother would say, An act of God. Mazie had believed her until later, when it became apparent God was not watching over them. Not at all.

“I did so admire your mother, even if she was French,” Lady Arlington continued. “She had the most delicate style, and such grace of manners.”

“Talking of delicate style, Etty, you must show my maid how to do that turban.” Lady Usling made a circling motion with her hand. “I must have one.”

Lady Arlington pressed her lips together as if annoyed, but she did hold herself taller. “If you need anything, Lady Margaret, you must come to me. I will introduce you to all the right people in Radford and see you well settled.”

“You are too kind.”

“You mustn’t think yourself alone.” Lord Persings again patted her arm. “You are among friends here.”

Mazie slid her hands into her lap, clutched them and willed her face to remain expressionless. She would return to her earlier numbness if she could. It was difficult, this talk of her parents. She had been on her own for so long she forgot what it was to be connected to something bigger. A family, a community.

She hated to think what her parents would say of her life, the disappointment they would feel. She had become a vagrant, a thief. She had turned down an offer of marriage from an earl.

She had robbed their friend, only to give the money to a woman who did not want it.

And what of Lady Usling and her prize roses? Surely there was a story there. And Lord Arlington and the chambermaid? Did she truly know the details, or just the gossip? Had she acted in haste?

Justice was a complicated beast.

Just as Trent had said. Mazie glanced over at him. He was deep in conversation with Lord Atherton, who looked well recovered from his carriage accident.

The war hero she had stolen from.

Damn. Mazie hated that Trent was right, if only a little bit.

An hour later, Trent stood by the dining room window and watched the fat droplets of rain splash against the flagstone outside. It had poured steadily all day, and he wondered idly if the lake would swell and overflow. He pictured the grassy bank where he had made love to Mazie. Was it drowned by the storm?

“I still think we should gather a militia and go after the Midnight Rider.” Like the rain, Lord Dixon had argued without cease all evening. He had cornered Trent in the foyer upon arrival and had even attempted to broach the topic at dinner. Now, with the ladies retired to the drawing room, Dixon he had brought Lords Horris and Nash with him, presumably in a show of power. Indeed, these three men could effectively wound Trent’s influence in Parliament. But not destroy it.

“No militia.”

“You must see the wisdom in it,” Lord Nash pushed.

Trent took a long drink of his port before he turned to the three men who had surrounded him by the window. “We have had enough violence in Radford without creating more.”

“Your father would never condone this.” Lord Horris punctured the air with his cigar. “He would never allow a hooligan to make him the laughingstock from Radford to London.”

Cold as stone, only Trent’s eyes moved as he flicked his gaze across the dining room. Most of the men still sat around the table, relaxed back in their chairs, their buttons undone and their conversation amiable. None had heard the insult. He need not address it.

But he would.

“Do you have the time, Horris?”

The other man hesitated, then pulled out his watch-fob, flipped it open and revealed a coat of arms. The same design Trent had seen on Dixon’s lapel that day at the assizes. The same design that had been on the papers that condemned Harrington.

Hell.

Were they some kind of group? Was his father part of it?

He kept the anger out of his voice. “An interesting crest on your watch, Horris. I find myself curious.”

The older man colored. “It is not your concern.”

“I think it is.”

Lord Nash broke in. “Harrington said you had someone here, an accomplice. We should be allowed to speak to him as well.”

Trent tightened his fingers around his wineglass. In no way was he going to let these men get their hands on Mazie. “My source is private. I want to know about the crest.”

His demand was ignored. “We won’t give you much longer before we feel compelled to act ourselves.” Nash’s posture showed no fear, no compromise. He was all that was privileged and expectant.

A bitterness filled Trent’s mouth. Mazie claimed he was arrogant as well. He hated to think he would be lumped into the same category as these men.

“If you do not like how my investigation is unfolding, perhaps you should share the information you have collectively decided to withhold. To begin, why this particular group of victims?”

“He is a highwayman. That is enough.”

“Your father never”

“We are being rude, gentlemen, and ignoring our other guests.” Trent drained his glass. He would not talk of his father. Not think of the man and his role in this.

He pushed his way between Dixon and Nash, hoping his anger did not show in his face, then paused at his seat and splashed port into his empty glass. He would numb his fury before joining the ladies in the drawing room. He would find his usual mask of control, the ever-polite face of Lord Radford. He would think of his father later.

Oh, the irony of the evening. He would choke on it. He had organized this little gathering in a pique of pride after Mazie refused his offer of marriage. She was to burn with irritation, not he. For two days he had planned it, his great retribution. Planned how he would awaken her to the truth of her own follies. It was she who was to see the error in her ways, she who was to regret her mistakes and false assumptions.

But it was he that was afire, he that wanted to leap from the heat of his own skin.

There was no freedom for such as he. No way out of the fire.

With a muffled curse, he swallowed back the wine.

Mazie was descending the staircase when a group of men walked through the foyer, their conversation loud and uninteresting. Her eyes scanned for Trent, of course, and found him in the back looking up at her. A flare of happiness brightened her chest and caught her off-guard. She was angry with him. Or at least she should be.

He watched her descent even as he murmured something to the man next to him and disentangled himself from the group. The men continued down the hallway to the drawing room and Trent alone awaited her with his full attention. He rested an elbow on the stone balustrade at the bottom of the stairs. “Running away so soon?”

She kept her steps light even as the hair on the back of her neck stood on end with agitation. “Not at all. I am
returning
to the party.”

She stopped on the bottom stair so that she was taller than he. It was brighter here than in the dining room. Candlelight gleamed off his dark hair and the fine thread of his evening coat. His jaw was closely shaved and his grey eyes glittered with awareness. He looked impeccable, untouchable and hard. A perfectly cut black sapphire.