The Runaway Countess by Leigh LaValle Page B

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.