The Runaway Countess (42 page)

“The law must leave space for justice.” Her hands tightened on him. “It must be big enough to encompass truth, otherwise it is tyranny.”

He tried to pull away, but she held firm. She stood to lose everything and had no choice but to place her heart, her soul, in his hands. She would trust him. She
did
trust him.

“I love you, Trent, because you are kind and just. And I trust you. I trust your heart. Not the man you think you need to be, but the man you are. And, due to circumstance of fate,
you
are the law, Trent. You alone have the space to mete out a fair ruling.”

He shrugged away from her. “I’ll not listen to more of this.” He walked away and paused at the door, did not turn around. “I want you gone by morning.”

He pulled open the dark door and left.

Just walked away.

From her. From her love. From her desperate plea for her brother’s life.

A deadening silence filled the room. And it was dead, whatever had lived between them. Whatever thread of genuine affection and even love had suffered a quick demise, leaving only the rotting stench of a corpse.

She didn’t dare breathe, for breathing would make her feel.

This was not how it was supposed to end. She had never meant to hurt him. He was taking this all wrong, as a male is wont to do. Making it about him and his pride.

She fell against the back of the settee, dropped her chin to her chest. She could not stand it. How could she possibly stand it? This sorrow. This panic. A sob tore from her throat and she pressed her fist to her mouth, bit her knuckle.

The man she loved might very well kill her brother.

She picked up a pillow from the settee and smashed her hand into it. Utterly unsatisfying. She wanted to destroy something, see it shatter as she felt shattered.

She threw the pillow down, pressed away from the settee and paced around the room. There was nothing more she could do. It was out of her hands now.

It was up to Trent, or fate, or whatever force made such a mess of this life.

She huffed a breath, half-laugh, half-exasperation, then did something she had not done in years. She walked to the window and bent her head. Placed her hands together before her heart. “Beloved Father, please hear my prayer.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“To strictest justice many ills belong, And honesty is often in the wrong.” Lucan

The next morning, Trent walked through the Radford picture gallery, wishing the previous Earls of Radford could talk, impart their knowledge. He could use some help about now.

He had gotten himself into one hell of a mess and he couldn’t see his way out. No, his father had gotten them into the mess, but Trent had gone ahead and made it worse. He had fallen in love with the very woman who would have ruined the Radford name.

And he did love Mazie.

Certainly his heart wouldn’t feel so ravaged from mere lust or affection. No, even now, with the admission of her deceit, he missed her. Wanted to awaken with her in his arms. Wanted to turn to her for comfort.

He was an idiot.

Late morning sun poured through the lone window at the end of the hall, offering little illumination. His hands clasped behind his back, Trent paced up and down the long length of the blue carpet.

He needed to expunge his lying prisoner from his mind. Whatever Mazie had done to him, whatever spell she had cast, he would find a way to control it. She would not influence his decision in any way.

She was out of his life now.

Out. Of. His. Life. His feet stomped heavily on the worn carpet, but his sigh was empty and deflated. What was done was done, and it was preposterous that he was upset about it. He’d known all along she was dangerous and a criminal. Her betrayal should come as no surprise.

She would leave anyway. The first chance she got she would run and he would never see her again. She’d proven again and again she could not be trusted.

It was over.

His brain seemed well enough with the decision. Why then did his heart protest so profoundly?

And why did her challenging words have him so piqued?

“You are the law, Trent. You alone have the space to mete out a fair ruling.”

What foolishness. He smacked his fist into his open palm, then cursed. His hands were still sore and swollen from his fight last night.

He turned and paced down the hallway, shaking out his fingers. Mazie, who thought to take the law into her own hands, did not understand it one bit. How could
he
be the law? The law was not one man. It was many. It was the totality of decisions passed down one precedent at a time.

And it should be that way. As one man, he was entirely biased. He now realized how many of his beliefs stemmed from what he wanted to see rather than the facts. He had been blind to the truth about his father, the truth about his county. The truth about Mazie.

More than anything, Trent wanted to do the right thing. But for perhaps the first time in his life, he did not know what the right thing was.

He needed to act. London awaited his next move. The
prime minister
expected to hear firsthand when the Midnight Rider was caught.

Trent raked his hand through his hair. He must choose between the aristocracy, his father among them, and the highwayman who exposed their corruption. It was like some Greek tragedy, where the son must destroy his own father.

And with his father, Trent would destroy the honor of his family. His own future. The future of his children.

The children he could, even now, have with Mazie. Had she thought of that? What she would do if he had got her with child? He would want to know. Of course he would want to know.

He shook his head. One thing at a time. For now he must focus on the Midnight Rider, on his impossible decision.

He could only think of one solution, which was to take himself out of it. Make the decision no longer about what he stood to lose. Justice needed to be unbiased, based on the truth. Served by an impartial hand.

He needed to send the case to London.

But try as he might, that answer did not sit well with him. Mazie was right. Her brother would be hanged as the law demanded, and the truth about his father’s group would never be revealed. Justice would not be served.

He paused before the portrait of his sire. Painted some twenty five years prior, the picture portrayed his father wearing a short powdered wig and lace at his cuffs. Trent recognized his physical resemblance to the man. They had the same dark hair, the same grey eyes.

Beyond that, he did not truly know anything of his father. For years Trent had emulated the man, fought for his approval. Lived to please him. Tried to follow his father’s ever-asserted code of family honor.

And his father had been corrupt. Abusive of his power.

Trent felt ill to think of it. The menthe familieswho had suffered. Were it not for Mazie and her brother’s courage, he might never have known.

Air. He needed air. Trent turned and walked to the other end of the gallery, opened the tall windows and stepped out onto a small balcony. Billowing clouds filled the sky, but the day still appeared bright.

He gulped down large breaths, tried to settle the turmoil building within him. He felt trapped, drowning. There was no way out. No way to fix this. One way or another, he was going to lose something of infinite value.

Lifting, lifting, everything was lifting up within him, demanding release. He could not take it. He opened his mouth and let out a wide, wild yell. A howl of pain and anger. He startled a flock of birds from the nearby trees. Startled a carriage horse waiting with its wagon outside the kitchen doors.

“What have you done, Father?” He slammed his hand against the iron railing, ignoring the pain that shot up his arm.

He felt like the black raven. Like he wanted to shred the truth with his sharp talons, shred it into tatters.

But he could not. He did not have the power to change the past, only to shape the future.

He needed to think.

He scrubbed his hand over his face then looked across the horizon. Clear skies. It would be a good day for travel, for sending a man to London.

He could do just that—adhere to precedent and procedure as he always had. Abide by the letter of the law, as Mazie said. He could protect his family name and hide the evidence of his father’s corruption. All of England awaited the capture of the famed Midnight Rider. If Trent brought him to trial, he would have a heyday of press and the glory that came with it. The Radford name would be celebrated far and wide, as it had been for centuries. It would be so very easy.

He would be elected on to the Committee on Foreign Trade. His career in Parliament would be assured.

But Trent would have to ignore his truth and his sense of justice. He would be on the same path as his fathervaluing fame, power and riches above integrity.

He took a deep breath, blew it out.

He could side with the Midnight Rider. He could admit the truth and expose the crimes of the aristocracy, the harm they had wrought on the villagers. He could admit the failings of justice, admit that Mr. Grantham had been forced to become an outlaw to protect the innocent. But if Trent let the criminal go free he would also be siding with anarchy, with those who said the individual should not surrender to society. And he would lose the power and respect he’d gained in Parliament these last eight years. He would be judged as an ineffectual failure.

Honor his truth.

Or honor his family name?

There was no way to do both.

If he wanted another solution, he needed to open himself to it. Step outside his comfort.

He looked down, over the wrought iron railinga three-story drop straight to the earthand felt a moment’s apprehension that he would fall. He pressed a hand to the sturdy rock of the house and caught his bearings.

The delivery wagon pulled away from the kitchens. The day continued as normal, as if the very foundation of his understanding had not been cracked and splintered.

He looked out over the fields. Two young boys played a game of catch with some dark object he could not identify from this height. So young and carefree on this summer morning.

What would their lives be like when they gained their majority? Would they be his tenants? Ruled by his whims?

Trent stared at them. The boys ran through a fallow field, leaping and rolling. So much innocence and hope. Such possibility for a better future. He could make this decision for them. Not for himself, his family name. Not for Mazie or even the institution that bound him. But for these children, these innocent souls tied to him by the hand of fate.

“I trust your heart. Not the man you think you need to be, but the man you are.” Mazie knew him. She knew it would come to this.

God, he loved her.

She saw things in him he couldn’t see himself.

A laugh tore from his heart, rusty and tentative. What a debacle this whole highwayman affair had turned out to be. Nothing was as it seemed, no one was who they professed to be. Even him.

A strange lightness filled his chest. Perhaps it was freedom.

His choice needn’t be one path or another. He could forge his own future. One stemmed not from reaction, not from fear or being bound by rules, but from the freedom in his heart.

He could make his own ruling that, while not entirely lawful, was just. He could ensure that the law was not a dead weight but a living, changeable thing.

He must begin with the basic principle of justice. As Hobbes said, “If a man be trusted to judge between man and man, that he deal equally between them.” He must treat Roane Grantham and the lords as equals. They deserved equal access to justice. And equal punishment.

And Mazie, ah Mazie. Her betrayal still stung. He would just take it one step at a time.

Finally, he knew what he must do. He stepped back into the gallery and did not once look up at the portraits watching him.

It was chaos. Trent looked out over his study with a frown. He had a rather unusual assortment of
guests
today. Mazie, the infernal minx, was seated in the front, looking miserable but angry and loud as she bickered with Lord Nash. Oh, but his foolish heart was happy to see her. How quiet his life would be without her in it.

She looked up at him and he resisted the urge to smile at her. She wore the white muslin day dress printed with cherries and he thought she’d never looked more charming. He would see the lines of worry on her face vanish. She had put her trust in him, and he would keep it. No matter what else happened, he would see to that.

To Mazie’s left, Mrs. Pearl played the part of the confused older lady and knit in silence, unmindful of the insults and threats being slung across the room. And Mr. Grantham, self-confessed highwayman, sat next to her, arrogantly arguing with Lord Dixon. Grantham’s face, Trent noticed, was bruised and swollen. He felt a moment’s satisfaction, though he knew he did not look much better himself.

Horris was there, and Harrington, of course. And Cat, though he had tried to keep her away, it was pointless. She was not going to miss out on this excitement.