The Runaway Countess (7 page)

Cat looked the picture of the gentle country lady in her blue walking gown, her blonde hair done up in curls beneath her bonnet. She wore gloves—clean gloves—and held a small parasol over one shoulder.

Mazie, on the other hand, was attired in some old riding habit, though it did hug her curves in the perfect places. She wore a hat for once, but her hair was already falling loose. Her skin was darkened from the sun, she wore no gloves and just the way she held her wide, sensual mouth spoke a challenge.

She did not look like any lady he had ever met.

Her posture though, her speech and the regal way she held her head, those did speak of training in the social graces. He should have noticed it before. There was more to her beauty than just her dark eyes or the shape of her face.

But a lady?

He glared at her without mercy, but she refused to meet his gaze, simply kept an inane smile plastered to her face. “I cannot believe you remember my dress, Lady Catherine.”

“But it was so unusual. So elegant.”

“My—” Mazie cleared her throat. “My mother designed it.”

“Oh, your mother.” Cat sighed. “She had the
most
enviable wardrobe.”

Ridiculous. Only women would talk of dresses at a time like this.

Dresses…mothers…the Queen… Trent froze. A trickle of cold sweat slid down his back.

A lady. He had a goddamned
lady
locked up in his house.

Mazie cast him a sly glance from the corner of her eye, perhaps gauging his reaction. Perhaps enjoying his befuddlement. Whatever she saw caused her to bite her lip and drop her brown eyes to the earth.

Guilty. She looked guilty.

Hours of interrogation, a searing kiss and a bloody altercation in the woods—never once had Mazie looked as abashed as she did now.

He clamped his jaw closed. The stableyard was not the appropriate place to yell at Mazie, Lady Margaret, whoever the hell she was.

Later. He would deal with her later. In private.

She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. Looked at Trent then glanced away. Cleared her throat again. “And you, Lady Catherine, hooked the bachelor of the Season.”

“Yes, quite the match.”

If Mazie noticed the irony in Cat’s tone, she did not acknowledge it. “And how is His Lordship? Is he here with you today?”

“No, he’s not. You’ve not been in London for many years.” Cat turned the topic back to Mazie. “Do you have family in Radford? I recall you left Town to reside with a relation.”

“I lived with my aunt and uncle for a time, yes.” She offered only the briefest answer to his sister’s question.

The familiar gleam of stubborn curiosity brightened his sister’s eyes. She looked up at him, expecting further answers. Specifically, how was it that Mazie was in his stableyard with a rough-looking man—who would be Harrington’s brute—hanging about? Catherine would figure out the truth eventually. He had no need to keep secrets from his sister. But he would let her do the interrogating for a while. Maybe she would have better luck than he.

She eyed Mazie from head to toe. “Have you married?”

“No.”

“Are you…are you a
guest
at Giltbrook Hall?” A small line of concern formed between her brows.

“A guest? Well…in a way, I suppose.” Mazie shifted on her feet and again glanced over her shoulder toward the estate. She kept her body angled away this time, as if she would leave at any moment.

“And you are here with…” Cat prodded.

Trent held back a snort. They were hardly worried about chaperones and propriety. She was his prisoner, for heaven’s sake.

“I have taken care of myself for years.” Mazie’s words were sharp though her tone was soft. “I haven’t the need nor the luxury of a companion.”

Cat smiled overbrightly. “Well, in that case, I am glad to be here and renew our acquaintance.”

Trent would like to
renew his acquaintance
with Lady Margaret as well. He would start by shaking the truth out of her.

“If you will excuse me, I was on my way to rest.” Mazie’s voice was thin as if the effort to converse had taxed the last of her strength. “I find I did not sleep well last night.”

“I will look forward to visiting with you at a later time, then.” His sister was incorrigible in her quest for information.

Mazie smiled weakly at her before she turned toward the house. She did not so much as glance in his direction. Ignored him really. He burned at the slight.

“Lady Margaret.” The words were like chipped ice in his mouth.

She had the good sense to freeze in place. Squared her shoulders before she faced him. Her chin lifted in pride and determination and there was nothing left of her earlier distress. Again, he swallowed the urge to yell at her, to relieve the burning of his anger by showering it over her like meteors. But he did flaunt his power, made her wait in the pulsing heat until he nodded—a firm motion of authority granting her permission to walk away. Her guard trailed behind.

Trent watched the gentle sway of her hips and silently muttered every curse word that came to mind, many he had not used since his youth.

What in the world was he going to do with her? A lady.

She had fooled him, but never again. He would know every single thing about this woman. Everything. She would have nothing left to hide.

An image of her—naked, begging, legs spread open—flashed to mind. With a sharp inhale, he forced the thought away, forced his eyes from her swaying backside. He was a reasonable man, objective and moderate, and executing a well-conceived plan. He would do well to remember that.

“Trent.” Catherine’s hand clapped down in his arm. “What in the world is going on here?”

Ah, yes, his sister. How could he forget? He placed his hand on hers and addressed a stable boy.

“Lad, run and tell the cook I will take my nuncheon as a picnic. She may deliver the basket to me in the gardens.”

“Yes, milord.” The boy hurried off.

He turned back to Cat with what he hoped was a charming smile. It made the scratch on his face burn. “Would you care to wait with me in the gardens?”

“Yes, of course.” She was in no hurry to leave Giltbrook Hall when there were such dramatics to uncover.

They walked out of the bright stableyard and into the shade of the oak-lined path. He felt a surprising gladness at having his sister by his side. He had missed her more than he realized. “Tell me what you know about Lady Margaret.”

Cat looked at him askance as she handed him her parasol and retied the ribbons to her bonnet. “But I already told you. We had our coming out together—”

“Yes, yes.” He thrust the parasol back in her hands. “Who is her family? Her father?”

“But—”

“She is known to me only as Miss Mazie.” Hell, he hated to admit his own ignorance, even to his sister.

The graveled path, lined with box plants, opened into the formal gardens at the south side of the estate. Despite the gardener’s attempts to keep the beds tame, they were wild, disorderly. The flowers were in full bloom—a riot of color and smell—and matched his mood. To their left, the manicured lawns rolled down the hill to the lake.

“Miss Mazie?” Cat clucked her tongue. “How curious. How exactly do you know her?”

Trent did not reply, merely glared at his sister as he led her past an exuberant row of blood-red roses.

“Very well. No need to be a beast about it. If you chose to have an affair—”

“Cat.”

She sighed, wrapped her hand around this inside of his elbow and pulled him close. “Her full name is Margaret Chetwyn, daughter of the Earl of Redesdale. Her mother and father passed away five years ago, just after our coming out.”

He nodded. Chetwyn. The current earl was on the Home Affairs Sub-Committee with him. “How is it that I cannot recall her as an acquaintance of yours?”

“Since when are you interested in a fresh young miss from the country? You have always been too busy with your speeches and bills to pay much attention to the social scene.” She squeezed his arm under her hand. “Besides, Lady Margaret and I were the briefest of acquaintances. We ran in different circles.”

Mazie was not one of the more celebrated debutants, then. Cat only associated with the darlings of the
ton
.

“But she was not without her own friends.” Cat stopped to admire a fragrant vine of Star Jasmine. “Mother would love the gardens right now.”

“Yes, she would.” He did not say anything more, just led her down the graveled path as if nothing was amiss. Waited for her to fill the silence with her own thoughts and observations.

“I heard from the cook, who heard from the baker, that you returned to Radford three evenings hence. I should scold you for not contacting me, but I also heard that a suspect was brought into your home just before you arrived and he has yet to be seen leaving.”

With a slight nod, he encouraged her to continue.

“Then my coachman, though he is loath to gossip, was persuaded to tell me that the villagers are distressed. Everyone feels you have apprehended the wrong man.”

His shoulders tightened. He hated being the subject of negative gossip. No, hate wasn’t a powerful enough word. In fact, he couldn’t think of a word dark enough to describe how he felt. Despise, abhor, scorn, none did his disgust justice.

Cat continued, unaware of his internal gloom. “What I cannot understand is Lady Margaret’s presence here, unchaperoned. Unless you consider that man following her a chaperone.”

She looked at him, a sly side glance, and held her tongue. She wouldn’t say more until he talked.

Interfering lot, younger sisters.

She could be trusted with the truth, of course. Though Catherine loved to know the facts,
demanded
to know them, she wasn’t one to spread gossip.

“Lady Margaret has confessed to some of the Midnight Rider’s crimes—”

“No…” Cat stopped in her tracks.

“And she is a known accomplice to the highwayman.”

“My word.” She turned toward him with wide eyes. It was obviously a shock that any of her personal acquaintances would do something so bold, so daring.

“I am holding her here under house arrest.”

“No,” she breathed. “I cannot believe it.”

“I am telling you this in the strictest of confidence, Cat.”

“Of course.”

A young maid approached with his nuncheon. Silently, they circled back toward the stables and stopped under an archway draped in ivy. He took his sister’s hand in his.

“I am sorry to be short, but I really must be off.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “We will talk more later. Come to dinner. And send over a dress or two for Lady Margaret. Whatever you are done with.”

“Of course, but where are you going, Trent? Not some dangerous part of the investigation, I hope.”

“No, nothing to do with the highwayman. I must go help farmer Smith.”

“Farmer Smith?” Her confusion was evident in her voice.

“His leg was broken in a carriage accident and the villagers are gathering to assist him with his fields. ’Till tonight.” He nodded and walked out of the cool shade, picnic basket in hand.

“Trent William Alistair Ballinger Carthwick,” Catherine called out behind him. “Are you going to farm?”

Mazie paced the small confines of her maid’s quarters. Whirls of panic gnawed at the corners of her attention, and she tried valiantly to keep the demons at bay.

“
Ciao
.
Grazie,
” she said aloud, practicing her Italian accent. One day, she promised herself, she would be a free woman again. She would secure passage on an elegant ship and visit Italy. “
Un bicchiere di vino
.
Grazie
.”

A heavy hand rapped on her door. “Who you speakin’ to, Miss Mazie?”

“No one. Myself,” she called out to the guard stationed in the hallway. “Like our great king, I’ve finally lost my mind.”

She turned and paced then turned and paced some more.

She knew her past would catch up with her eventually, that her Chetwyn name would not quietly go away. But never in one hundred years, one
thousand
years, could she have imagined this disastrous scenario. The haughty Lady Catherine herself—the girl beloved by all, who had never before spared even a glance at Mazie—had recognized her today. Not only recognized her, but even remembered her name. Such irony.

At least Catherine wouldn’t have much information to share with her brother. Even the less fashionable girls in London had stopped associating with Mazie after her parents died and she was forced to leave Town a pauper, so none could know about her recent activities.

“
Dove può una scoperta la cattedrale?
”

Yes, Mazie told herself, she would leave this place and visit the exalted cathedrals. She would travel to Venice and Rome, see the art of the great masters.

When this was over she would take Roane and Mrs. Pearl to Florence, Bologna, Milan. She would travel until her sad memories had faded. She would fall in love with a kind man and be ecstatically happy.