The Runaway Countess by Leigh LaValle Page B

suspect here, Harrington. You needn’t follow me about the county.” He drew in a breath and forced his muscles to relax. He refused to be controlled by such a childish emotion as reflexive anger. “If this is how you conduct your investigations, I can see how the Midnight Rider has been allowed to run amok these last months.”
    Harrington worked his facial muscles into a bland expression, seemingly contrite. “Of course, my lord.”
    Trent studied his employee, noting the tension under the man’s posture. He looked about as comfortable as the stuffed boar over the fireplace. If Trent’s instincts were correct, as they often were, Harrington did not feel remorseful. Nor was he excited by the return of his lord lieutenant.
    Harrington had been favored by the previous earl for over a decade. Trent thought his father a great leader, a man with power and the honor to use it wisely. If his father found Harrington competent, Trent had assumed the man could be trusted without close monitoring. But that was before he had seen Mazie’s bruise and heard the concern in Cat’s voice.
    It was clear his deputy lieutenant had been allowed free rein for too long.
    Something he was going to change. “The investigators I hired will report back to me, naturally.” Yes, that was a twitch of anger in the other man’s jaw. “And I expect detailed updates from you as well. Everyone will answer to me now. About everything.”
    Harrington managed a semblance of a nod. “It still stands that I am the one the lords are coming to. I’m the one who has to give them answers. Lord Dixon stopped by my cottage yesterday, full of nastiness.”
    “Good,” Trent snapped. “If you are Dixon’s bosom friend you can explain why he is avoiding me. You can tell me what he is hiding about that night he was robbed.”
    The man’s bushy brows drew together. “How could he be hiding something? He’s the victim.”
    Trent snorted and looked away. As if matters could be so simple.
    But he did not say more on the subject. It was just an instinct he had, a feeling that everything wasn’t on the table. None of the victims wanted to talk about the Midnight Rider. Oh, they were happy enough to malign the man, but never were details of the robberies clear or consistent. When Trent had paid a call on Lord Nash, the older gentleman had been forthcoming in his anger, but jumbled in his description, as if he was trying to put information in the telling or leave information out. The other victims either avoided Trent’s inquiries altogether, like Lord Dixon, or were similarly vague.
    It was frustrating as hell. He would have thought that these men, who well understood the need for order within the system and the demands of family honor, would have been more generous with information about the robberies.
    “All due respect, sir, we must act. Your father, God rest his soul, would have agreed that a militia action could work.”
    Trent touched his father’s quill, still on the desk.
    Harrington was correct. His father had loved having his own small army and would have no qualms calling it together. The man had skillfully handled the Pentrich Uprising just four years earlier, had stabilized the district in the face of a possible revolt. Trent was proud of his father, a hero to be admired and emulated by King and country.
    So why would he choose any different than his predecessor?
    Because he had been in Parliament these last few years. He had seen the turmoil building throughout England. “If a military action is needed, we will use professional men.”
    “But”
    “I’ll not gather a militia, Harrington. Not yet.”
    “Did you find something interesting at the gypsy camp, then?”
    Trent shook his head. More dead ends. They had not found anything interesting at the camp. Nor at the caves Mazie had taken them to earlier that morning.
    Harrington looked down and picked a piece of lint off his jacket. “Miss Mazie take you to the camp? I hear she arrived in