A Comfortable Wife

Chapter Thirteen

Late the next morning, Antonia descended the stairs, Henrietta in her wake. Both she and her aunt were ready to depart for Ticehurst Place; they had both elected to breakfast in their bedchambers, Henrietta due to her slow preparations, Antonia due to a sudden conviction that facing Philip over the breakfast table with only Geoffrey for protection was not a sensible undertaking.

There'd been something in his demeanour, a certain intentness in his manner during their previous evening's parade through the ballrooms that had set her senses on edge. She had no real idea what it was she detected-she was not about to hazard a guess.

As they started down the last flight, Antonia keeping a watchful eye on Henrietta's ponderous progress, the front door opened. Geoffrey strode in, his tall form enveloped in a white drab driving coat sporting quite as many capes as Philip's.

Antonia halted on the last step. "Where on earth did you get that?"

Geoffrey grinned. "Philip introduced me to his tailor. Quite a dab hand at his trade, don't you think?" He whirled, setting the capes fluttering.

When he stopped and looked pointedly at her, Antonia nodded. "It's certainly…" She hesitated, then, beguiled by Geoffrey's obvious delight, smiled. "Something like."

Geoffrey glowed with pride. "Philip suggested arriving at Oxford in such togs wouldn't hurt. And, of course, it's the perfect garb for today."

Joining them, Henrietta humphed. "The sun's decided to remember us-you'll be too hot in the carriage in that."

"Indeed."

Antonia quickly turned as Philip strolled into the hall. His gaze met hers fleetingly, then he glanced down, lips firming as he pulled on his driving gloves. "So it's as well he's not travelling in the carriage."

"Oh?" Henrietta asked the question, much to Antonia's relief, allowing her to keep her lips shut and her expression satisfyingly distant.

"I'm taking my phaeton." Philip glanced at Antonia. "Geoffrey may as well come with me."

It was an effort not to meet his gaze. Determinedly cool, Antonia nodded. "An exceedingly good notion." Tilting her chin, she added, “It will leave us more space in which to be comfortable."

For an instant, Philip's gaze rested on her face, then he smiled-a slow predatory smile. "It would, perhaps, be wise to gain what rest you might. I suspect you'll discover this houseparty unexpectedly exhausting."

Antonia flicked him a suspicious glance but his expression as he moved forward to help Henrietta down the last steps was bland and uninformative.

The front door bell pealed; Carring came hurrying from the nether regions. He looked out, then set the front door wide. "Your phaeton and the carriage, my lord."

Between them, Philip and Geoffrey helped Henrietta down the front steps. Marshalling his footmen, Carring saw to the stowing of the luggage, assisted by acid comments from both Trant and Nell. Resembling a pair of black crows, the maids between them got Henrietta settled against the padded cushions, protected by a veritable mountain of shawls. Left on the pavement, Antonia glanced about. Geoffrey was already on the box-seat of the phaeton, the reins in his hands as he helped restrain the restive horses.

The sight stiffened her spine. Unbidden, her memory replayed the three, separate excuses she had spent the small hours devising, one for every possible tack Philip might have taken to inveigle her into sharing the phaeton's box-seat on the long drive to Ticehurst Place.

Excuses she had not needed.

Suppressing a disaffected sniff, Antonia turned, one hand raising her skirts to climb the carriage steps. Philip's hand appeared before her. For an instant, she regarded it, the long strong fingers and narrow palm. Reminding herself of her role, she lifted her chin and placed her hand in his.

Philip smoothly raised her fingers to his lips, artfully, lingeringly, caressing her fingertips.

Antonia froze, her breathing suspended. She glanced up through her lashes; Philip trapped her gaze in his.

"Enjoy the drive. I'll be waiting at the other end-to greet you."

Eyes widening, Antonia took in the hard planes of his face, the subtle aggression in the line of his jaw-and the clear intent that stared at her from the depths of his grey eyes. A skittering sensation shivered over her skin. Ignoring it, she set one foot on the carriage step. "I dare say there'll be many distractions at Ticehurst Place."

She'd intended the comment as a dismissal of his avowed intention; she expected it to be the conclusion of their exchange. Instead, as he handed her up, Philip's voice reached her, wickedly low. "You may count on that, my dear."

The promise in his words distracted her all the way to Ticehurst Place.

Although her gaze remained fixed on the scenery, she did not notice the sunshine beaming down from between fluffy clouds, did not feel the soft touch of the unexpectedly mild breeze. Summer's last stand had enveloped the country, a final burst of golden weather that had set the doves to cooing again in the trees along the way.

Lulled by the sound, Antonia found her mind treading a circuitous path, forever leaving her facing one, unanswerable question: Just what was her prospective husband about?

She had reached no conclusion when the carriage rocked to a stop on the gravel sweep before Ticehurst Place. As soon as the door was opened and the steps let down, Trant and Nell descended. Two footmen came hurrying down the long flight of steps leading up to the front door; together with the maids, they endeavoured to ease Henrietta from the carriage.

Antonia glanced out of the window-and saw Philip descending the steps, his pace relaxed and leisurely, his expression mild and urbane. Longing to escape the close confines of the carriage, aware of the dull headache its stuffiness had evoked, she gave vent to a disgusted sniff- and struggled to keep her mind from dwelling on how pleasant the drive in his phaeton must have been.

"Heh-me!" Henrietta exclaimed as her feet touched the ground. "My old bones are cramping my style." Grimacing, she leant heavily on the footmen's arms and slowly started up the steps.

Her head haughtily high, Antonia shifted along the seat, then moved to the carriage door.

As he had promised, Philip was there to assist her to the gravel. Alighting, her hand in his, Antonia glanced up- only to see him grimace.

"Much as it goes against the grain, I fear I must plead Miss Dalling's cause. Her situation is more serious than I'd imagined."

Antonia looked her question.

Drawing her hand through his arm, Philip turned her towards the steps. "To use Geoffrey's description, it appears the gorgon has entirely fallen off her perch. On arrival, we were treated to what I can only describe as a supremely distasteful scene in which her ladyship endeavoured to impress upon me that her niece has all but accepted the Marquess."

Outwardly nonchalant, they climbed the broad steps. Philip lifted his gaze to the small knot of people waiting on the porch. "It appears that dramatic flights are a Dalling family trait. The upshot was that Miss Dalling, for whom I must reluctantly concede a certain sympathy, has implored our help in avoiding a marriage by force majeure.''

"Great heavens!" Antonia followed Philip's lead in schooling her features to the semblance of polite conversation. “Is Catriona in a fury?''

"Worse. She's in a blue funk."

"Catriona?" Antonia looked up at him, her gaze direct. "You're bamming me."

Philip's brows rose. "Not at all-but see for yourself." With a nod, he indicated the reception party now a short way before them.

Antonia followed his gaze. A moment later, they reached the porch-and she discovered he'd spoken no less than the truth. The Catriona who stood mute by her aunt's side was a far cry from the defiantly confident young girl who had first come on the town. Eyes still huge but now filled with die-away despair fastened upon her. As she turned from acknowledging the Countess's somewhat strident greeting, Catriona stepped forward to clasp her hand.

"I'm so glad you've come." Her accents were hushed, fervent. "Come-I'll show you to your room." A quick glance revealed that Henrietta was the focus of the Countess's attention. "I have to unburden myself to someone who understands-I do not know what I would have done if you hadn't taken pity and travelled thus, into the lion's den."

Stifling an impulse to suggest that that last should be the "gorgon's den", Antonia allowed herself to be drawn inside. Only to have her nonsensical vision take on real shape. The hall was dark and gloomy; its ceiling was so high it could only be described as cavernous. Panelled in dark wood, the walls were hung with old wooden shields and dark-hued tapestries. A fire smoked and smouldered in a huge stone fireplace; a heavy wooden table stood on the dark flags. The chamber exuded a pervading sense of being the anteroom of some dangerous animal's lair.

Pulling back against Catriona's tug, Antonia halted in the centre of the room to stare at the huge, ornately carved staircase filling the end of the hall. Its wide treads led upward into the shadows of what she assumed was a gallery.

"Welcome to the delights of Ticehurst Place."

The deep, softly menacing words, uttered from just behind her ear, made her jump. Antonia threw a frowning glance over her shoulder; Philip had followed them in; he stood close behind her, his gaze roving the shadowed walls.

"It possesses a certain cachet, don't you think?" His eyes lowered to meet hers.

Catriona, apparently inured to the decor, gently tugged Antonia forward. Antonia did not move, anchored by Philip's hand at her waist.

"Don't leave her," he murmured, his eyes holding hers. "Not even when you're dressing."

Fleetingly, Antonia searched his eyes, then nodded and yielded to Catriona's insistent urging. Drawing closer, she tucked her arm in Catriona's. Together, they climbed the stairs, ascending into the shadows.

Philip watched them go, a frown gathering in his eyes.

With no attempt at her usual chatter, Catriona led Antonia to a large chamber, roomy but somehow oppressive. Nell was there, unpacking Antonia's bags. Eyeing the maid warily, Catriona towed Antonia to the window seat, pressing her to sit. "My room's just along the corridor," she said, her voice close to a whisper. Sinking onto the brocaded cushion beside Antonia, she grimaced. "So is Ambrose's."

Antonia blinked. "Ah." That was not, to her understanding, the habit when accommodating young people. "I see."

"I haven't told you the half of it yet." In suitably dramatic style, Catriona proceeded to do so, inevitably embellishing her account.

But no amount of dramatic description could detract from the impact of the basic facts; appraised of the full story of how Ambrose, on arriving late the previous evening, had been shown to Catriona's room, ostensibly by mistake, Antonia had no doubt of the appropriateness of her sympathies.

"If it hadn't been for the fact that I'd asked for more coal and the girl was late bringing it up, Ambrose and I could have been…" Catriona's eyes glazed. "Why-we could have ended sharing a bed." Her voice faded; Antonia did not think her undisguised horror owed much to her histrionic tendencies.

"Luckily," she said, leaning forward to pat Catriona's hand bracingly, “that eventuality was averted. I take it you had not yet gone to sleep and as the girl was there, Ambrose got no further than the threshold?"

Catriona nodded. "But you can see, can't you, how hopeless it all is? Unless Henry can find some way to rescue me from my aunt's talons, I'll be forced to the altar."

"Along with Ambrose." Antonia frowned. "What does he say to this?"

Catriona sighed. "He was horrified, of course. But his mother is truly overpowering-she has him well under her thumb. He simply cannot stand up to her, no matter how hard he tries."

"Hmm." Recalling Philip's words, Antonia stood and shook out her skirts. "Come-help me choose what to wear. Once I've changed, we must see what we can do to brighten you up a trifle." When this projected endeavour raised no gleam of response, Antonia added, "I should warn you that Ruthven is something of an authority on the subject of feminine attire. If I were you and wished to retain my standing in his eyes, I would not appear at dinner less than well presented."

Catriona frowned. "He does seem well disposed."

"Indeed. And if anyone can assist you and Henry, it is he." As she sailed across the chamber, Antonia added, somewhat acidly, "I can attest that his experience in arranging clandestine meetings is beyond compare."

As it transpired, that was to be her one and only allusion to what lay between herself and Philip. Absorbed in rein-flating Catriona's confidence while simultaneously considering all possible avenues the Countess might attempt to gain her ends, she had no time to dwell on her husband-to-be's unfortunate tendencies.

When she met him in the drawing-room two hours later, she made not the slightest demur when he possessed himself of her hand, kissed it, then settled it on his sleeve. The drawing-room was a cold and sombre chamber, designed on the same grandiose scale as the hall, its walls hung with a dark, heavily embossed paper, the ornately carved furniture upholstered in thick black-brown velvet. A small fire in an enormous grate struggled unsuccessfully to dispel the gloom.

Quelling a shiver, Antonia drew closer to Philip, conscious of the aura of safety emanating from his large, familiar frame. Catriona, who had entered with her, reluctantly responded to an imperious summons; haltingly, she made her way to the Countess's side, to where Ambrose, looking pale and uncomfortable, stood beside his mama.

Leaning towards Philip, Antonia murmured, "Catriona told me what occurred last night."

Glancing down, Philip frowned. "Last night?"

Antonia blinked, then briefly outlined Catriona's tale. "It's no wonder, after that, that she appears so moped. I believe she feels helpless." Looking up, she saw Philip's jaw firm, his gaze fixed on the unconvincing tableau the Countess had assembled by the chaise.

"If I wasn't convinced Miss Dalling deserved our support, I would have you-and Henrietta-out of here within the hour."

His clipped accents left little doubt as to his temper. Antonia studied his stern profile. "What should we do?"

Philip met her gaze, then grimaced. "Stall. Place hurdles in the gorgon's path." He looked again at the group about the chaise. "At the moment, that's the only thing we can do. Until we see our way clear, I would suggest the less time Miss Dalling spends in the Marquess's orbit, the better."

Antonia nodded. “Apparently Mr Fortescue remained in town with the intention of making a last push at securing the Earl's support. I understand he believes that it must be the Earl, not the Countess, who is her legal guardian."

"That's very likely." Glancing down, Philip met her gaze. “But from what I know of the Earl, that legal nicety will have precious little practical significance."

"You don't believe he'll consent to come to Catriona's aid?"

"I don't believe he'll stir one step from the safety of his club." Looking again at the Countess, resplendent in bronzed bombazine, a turban of gold cloth perched atop her frizzed curls, her eagle eye cold and openly calculating, Philip grimaced. "Entirely understandable, unfortunately."

The butler, Scalewether, entered on the words. Tall and ungainly, possessed of a distressingly sallow complexion, in his regulation black he resembled an undertaker without the hat. "Dinner is served, m'lady."

At the Countess's urging, Ambrose, all but squirming, led the way, Catriona a martyr on his arm. With suave grace, Philip followed, leading Antonia. He guided her into the echoing dining room, a chamber so immense the walls remained in shadow.

To Antonia's relief, the table had had most of its leaves removed, leaving space for only twelve. The Countess, sweeping all before her, took her seat at its head; the Marchioness haughtily claimed the foot. Henrietta was graciously waved to a seat beside the Countess. Having claimed Geoffrey's arm from the drawing-room, the Marchioness kept hold of him, placing him to her right. Which left Ambrose and Catriona on one side of the table; Antonia felt an undeniable surge of relief when Philip took his seat beside her.

The meal had little to recommend it, the conversation even less. Dominated by the Countess, aided and abetted by the Marchioness, it remained in stultifyingly boring vein. As her hostess droned on, Antonia studied the servitors who, under the direction of the cadaverous Scalewether, silently set the dishes before them.

She had rarely seen such a crew of shifty-eyed, soft-footed men. Crafty, watchful eyes followed every move made by their mistress's guests. As she attacked a custard, unpalatably tough, Antonia told herself she was being fanciful-that their constant surveillance was simply the outward sign of conscientious staff trying to anticipate their masters' needs.

From under her lashes, she watched Scalewether watching Catriona and Ambrose. There was patience and persistence in his unemotional gaze. Antonia felt her skin crawl.

"I must say, Ruthven, that I had thought you would hold a much stricter line in shouldering your new responsibilities." The Countess fixed Philip with a steely eye. "I believe, my lord, that the university term is well advanced."

Languid urbanity to the fore, Philip briefly touched his napkin to his lips, then, sitting back in his chair, regarded the Countess blandly. "Indeed, ma'am. But as the Master of Trinity acknowledged in his most recent communication, we must make allowance for the natural talents of a Mannering." Philip bestowed a swift glance on Geoffrey before turning back to the Countess. "It's my belief the Master thinks to restore the status quo by having Geoffrey start later than most." Geoffrey grinned.

The Countess humphed discouragingly. "That's all very well, but I cannot say I am at all in favour of letting young people go idle. It's tempting providence and all manner of mischief. While I say nothing to your belief that the boy should gain experience of the ton, I profess myself astonished to find him here, amongst us still." Her bosom swelling as she drew in a portentous breath. "Not, of course, that we are not perfectly happy to have him here. But I am nevertheless at a loss to account for your laxity, Ruthven."

Antonia glanced at Philip. He was reclining gracefully in his chair, long fingers stroking the stem of his wine glass. His expression was a mask of polite affability. His gaze was as hard as stone.

"Indeed, ma'am?"

For a defined instant, the soft question hung in the air. The Countess shifted, suddenly wary yet unquenchably belligerent.

Philip smiled. "In that case, it's perhaps as well you won't be called upon to do so."

Antonia held her breath; across the table, she caught Geoffrey's decidedly militant eye. Almost impercep-tibly, she shook her head at him.

Stricken silence had engulfed the table; the Countess broke it, setting down her spoon with a decided click. "It's time we ladies retired to the drawing-room." Majestically, her expression haughtily severe, she rose, fixing Philip with a baleful eye. "We will leave you gentlemen to your port." With a regal swish of her skirts, she led the way.

As she rose to follow, Antonia caught Philip's eye. He raised a brow at her. Quelling a smile, Antonia followed in their hostess's wake.

In the drawing-room, Catriona was banished to the pianoforte with instructions to demonstrate her skill. Visibly tired, Henrietta reluctantly summoned Trant; with polite smiles and nods-and one very direct glance for Antonia- she retired. Reduced to the role of unnecessary cypher, Antonia duly sat mum and counted the minutes.

She had lost count and Catriona was flagging before the gentlemen reappeared. They were led by Philip, who strolled into the room as if it was his own. With a glib smile, he appropriated her as if she, too, was his.

Antonia told herself she bore it only because she was all but bored witless. "What now?" she asked sotto voce, watching as, beneath the cool glare of his mother's eye, Ambrose dragged his feet to the piano.

Philip took the scene in one comprehensive glance. "Speculation."

Stunned, Antonia stared. "You can't be serious?"

He was-before her astonished eyes, he overrode all resistance, somehow inducing Scalewether to produce a pack of cards and counters to serve as betting chips. Ambrose, grasping at straws, hurried to set up a small table and chairs. Within ten minutes, the five of them were seated around the table, leaving the two older ladies isolated by the fireplace.

One glance at the Countess was enough for Antonia; thereafter, she studiously avoided their hostess's basilisk stare.

"Five to me."

Philip's demand focused her attention on the game. "Five?" Antonia studied the cards laid on the table, then sniffed. She doled out the required counters, then reached for the pack. She won three back, but her stack of counters was steadily eroded, falling prey to Philip's ruthless machinations. He was, apparently, a past master at this pastime, too.

Reaching for the pack, Antonia cast him a disapproving glance. “I admit I had not thought to find you so expert at this game, my lord."

The smile he turned on her made her toes curl.

"I dare say you'll be amazed, my dear, by just how many games I can play."

Unexpectedly trapped in his gaze, by what she could read in the grey, Antonia froze, her hand, outstretched, hovering above the pack.

"C'mon, Sis-you going to forfeit your turn?"

Geoffrey's words broke the spell. Glancing around, Antonia drew in a quick breath.

"Not," Geoffrey continued, "something I'd advise-if we don't take care, Ruthven's going to wipe us out. We'll have to use our wits if we're to counter his predatory incursions."

Antonia studied the situation afresh-and discovered he was right. "Nonsense," she declared, straightening and picking up the pack. "We'll come about." She dealt, settled the question of trumps, then turned up her first card; it was the ace of trumps. Smiling, she lifted her chin and glanced Philip's way. "When opponents believe they're invincible, they're sure to be defeated."

She received a very direct, definitely challenging look in reply.

Thereafter, the fight was on. Their attention fully engaged, Antonia and Geoffrey combined to counter Philip's steady accumulation of chips, draining his pile at every opportunity. Philip struck back, catching Geoffrey more frequently than Antonia, who, very much on her mettle, took care to cover her back.

Fifteen minutes later, Ambrose edged his chair from the table and somewhat ruefully declared, "That's my last three counters."

"I've only got one left," Catriona said.

Their comments halted play. Three heads came up; Antonia exchanged a glance with Philip. He grimaced, catching Geoffrey's eye as he pulled out his watch. "Too early," was his verdict.

"Right then." Geoffrey seized the pack and dealt.

During the following fifteen minutes, the three endeavoured to lose as many counters as they had earlier won, amidst a great deal of unexpected hilarity.

"Your pile is still a great deal too high, my lord." Magnanimously, Antonia handed six counters to Catriona. "It's my belief you're not trying hard enough."

Removing the pack from her fingers, his hand closing briefly about hers, Philip caught her eye. "Put it down to my having to fight against deeply ingrained habit."

Antonia opened her eyes wide. "Oh?"

"Indeed." Philip held her gaze. "None of my ilk like to lose."

Antonia's eyes widened even more; with an effort, she directed them to the table, to the cards he negligently dealt. "See?" Righteously, she nodded. "A knave. You will have to do better, my lord."

"Once this present distraction is passed, I will endeavour to do so, my dear."

The promise in those words sent a delicious shiver down Antonia's spine. Determined to ignore it, and the breathlessness it evoked, she fought to keep her attention on the cards, aware that Philip's too-perceptive gaze remained on her face.

Salvation came from an unlikely source; the doors opened and Scalewether rolled in the tea-trolley. Summoned to take then cups, they abandoned their game; by unspoken accord, they all remained together, standing in a loose group as they sipped.

Under the direction of her aunt, Catriona dutifully extolled the attractions to be found within the grounds. "The folly is probably the most interesting," she concluded. "It stands by the lake and is quite pretty when it's sunny."

Her tone suggested Newgate would be more appealing.

Antonia caught Philip's eye. "Actually, I'm rather tired." Delicately, she smothered a yawn.

"Doubtless the effects of the drive down." Smoothly, Philip relieved her of her cup; together with his, he laid it aside. "So enervating," he murmured solicitously as, turning, he met Antonia's gaze. "Travelling in a carriage."

Brows rising haughtily, Antonia turned to Catriona, raising her voice for the benefit of the ladies nearby. "I believe I should retire-perhaps, Miss Dalling, you would care to accompany me?''

"Yes, indeed." Catriona set down her cup.

"Not deserting us yet, are you, miss?" The Countess's gimlet gaze fastened on Catriona's face. "Why, what will the Marquess think of you, leaving him to entertain himself like this?"

"Indeed," the Marchioness of Hammersley opined. "I suspect my son, like any other young gentleman, would be very grateful for your company, Miss Dalling." With a commanding wave, she continued, “The night is quite mild. I dare say a turn on the terrace in the moonlight is just what you young people would like."

"Ah-no. That is…" Aghast, Ambrose goggled at his mother. "Mean to say-"

The Marchioness transfixed him with a penetrating stare. "Yes, Hammersley?" When Ambrose just stared at her, rabbit-like, she enquired, her tone sugar-sweet, "Do you find something objectionable about the notion of strolling her ladyship's terrace?"

"Nothing to say against her ladyship's terrace," Ambrose blurted out. His hand strayed to his neckcloth. "But-"

Philip cut in, his tones dripping with fashionable languor. “Perhaps I should explain, Lady Ticehurst, that Miss Mannering, hailing as she does from Yorkshire, is unaccustomed to finding her way about such…" his graceful gesture encompassed the house about them "…grand establishments as your own. I beg you'll allow Miss Dalling to act as her guide. Indeed," he continued, his gaze shifting to Antonia's face, "I must admit the idea of Miss Mannering wandering lost through your corridors quite exercises my imagination. Dare I hope you'll take pity on her poor sense of direction and allow your niece to accompany her?"

Frowning, the countess shifted on the chaise. "Well…"

"As for Hammersley," Philip smoothly continued, “there's no need to concern yourself over his entertainment. He and I had thought to adjourn to the billiard room." Turning, he bestowed an elegantly condescending look on the Marchioness. "I understand that, due to the late Marquess's early demise, Hammersley has lacked the opportunity to polish his talents in such manly arts as billiards. I had thought, perhaps, to be of some use to him while here."

The Marchioness's expression blanked. "Yes, of course. How very kind…" Her frown grew as her words trailed away.

"So-if you'll excuse us?" With a supremely graceful bow, Philip turned from the chaise. Avoiding Antonia's eye, he captured her hand and placed it on his sleeve. "Come, Hammersley-let's escort these young ladies to the stairs. Mannering?"

With that, he led the way; in less than a minute, the drawing-room door was shut upon the twin harpies, leaving the rest of them safe in the hall. Pausing at the foot of the stairs to wait for Catriona, Antonia glanced at Philip. "Quite a tour de force, my lord."

Philip met her gaze; he smiled, deliberately, with the full force of his intent. "As I told you, my dear, I'm not one who generally loses." Raising her hand, he kissed each fingertip, his eyes on hers all the while. "I suspect you'll be amazed by what forces I can, when moved, bring to bear."

The ripple of awareness that shivered through Antonia and the soft blush that tinged her cheeks stayed with him long after she retreated up the stairs.

At eight the following morning, Antonia slipped from the lowering bulk of Ticehurst Place and headed for the stables. The sun again ruled the sky; as she entered the low-ceilinged stables, she paused, blinking rapidly. As her vision adjusted, she saw a cap bobbing in a nearby loose box. She hurried forward.

"I'd like a horse, please. As quick as you can." Rounding the end of the open box, Antonia cast a swift glance over the bay the stableman was bridling. "This one will do nicely."

The aged retainer blinked owlishly at her. "Beggin' your pardon, miss." He broke off to tug at his cap. "But this one's for the gentleman."

"Gentleman?" On the instant, Antonia felt her senses shiver. She swung around-to find herself breast to chest with her nemesis. She took a step back, and hauled in a quick breath. "I didn't see you there, my lord."

"Obviously." Philip studied the tinge of colour highlighting her cheekbones, then let his gaze meet hers. “And where are you headed?"

Inwardly, Antonia cursed. She hesitated, then, recognizing the hint of steel beneath the soft grey of his eyes, capitulated. "I was going for a ride."

Philip's brows rose. "Indeed? Then I'll ride with you." Reaching forward, he took hold of her arm and drew her closer, clear of the bay the stableman was turning. "So much more suitable," he murmured, "than a young lady riding alone."

Suppressing a snort, Antonia swallowed the rebuke with what grace she could muster.

"Here you be, sir." The groom came up, leading the bay. He handed the reins to Philip, then turned to Antonia. "Now, miss. I've a nice steady mare that would suit you. Not one as gets overly frisky, so you won't have to panic."

He turned away on the words, heading for the row of boxes across the stables, leaving Philip as the only witness to Antonia's stunned reaction. Horror and outrage mixed freely in her expression, dazed disbelief filled her eyes. Then her jaw firmed.

Philip swallowed his laughter and called to the stableman. "I fear you mistake Miss Mannering's abilities. She's perfectly capable of managing one of your master's hunters. By the look of them, they could do with the exercise."

Frowning, the stableman shuffled back. "I don't rightly know as how I should, sir. Wondrous powerful, the master's hunters."

"Miss Mannering can handle them." Philip felt his face harden. "She's a dab hand at reining in all manner of untamed beasts." Conscious of Antonia's swift glance, he lifted his head and scanned the hunters shifting restlessly in then boxes. "That one." He pointed to a glossy black, every bit as powerful as the bay he had chosen. "Put a side saddle on-I'll take all responsibility."

With a resigned shrug, the stableman headed for the tack-room.

"Come-let's wait in the yard." Taking Antonia's arm, Philip steered her out of the stable, the bay following eagerly.

Antonia glanced about. "I'd thought Geoffrey or Ambrose would be about."

"According to the stableman, they've already gone out. Or should that be 'escaped'?"

Antonia grimaced. "You'll have to admit Ambrose has just cause."

Walking the restive bay, Philip spoke over his shoulder. "You may console yourself with the thought that your brother is doing an excellent job of putting their ladyships' collective noses out of joint."

"Geoffrey?" Antonia frowned. "How?"

"By sticking with Ambrose." When she continued to look bemused, Philip smiled wryly. "I fear Geoffrey is very much the fly in their ladyships' ointment. In case you haven't yet realized, this so-called 'houseparty' was very carefully designed. We each have specific roles: Henrietta, you and me to lend countenance-imagining, of course, that Henrietta is a like-minded soul who shares their ladyships' proclivities and that you and I will be too involved with each other to notice anything else. Geoffrey's presence, however, has thrown a definite spanner into the works. Although she extended the invitation, the Countess had imagined he'd go up to Oxford after the last of the parties."

Antonia narrowed her eyes. “The Countess is a very manipulative woman."

"Indeed." Philip's tone hardened. "And I do not appreciate being manipulated."

Antonia shot him a glance, then elevated her chin. "Nor do I."

It was Philip's turn to glance suspiciously but Antonia had turned away to greet the sleek black hunter the stableman led forth. Under her direction, the stableman held the horse by the mounting block. Philip inwardly snorted and swung up to the bay's saddle. The instant Antonia had settled her skirts, he turned the bay's head for the fields.

He held back only long enough to ensure Antonia was secure and in command, then loosened his reins, letting the bay's stride eat the distance to the trees on the first hill. They drew into the shade of the outliers of the wood and Philip drew rein. He waited until Antonia brought the restive black up alongside, then fixed her with a distinctly strait look. "Now-where are you going?"

Inwardly, Antonia grimaced; outwardly, she lifted her chin. "To meet Mr Fortescue-should he be there to meet."

"Fortescue?"

"Catriona arranged to meet him at the end of the ride through the woods. He said he'd come to tell her how he'd got on with the Earl. She was to keep watch every day but at present, she's convinced herself no one can save her from the Countess's machinations."

Annoyance crept into Antonia's voice as she recalled the hours she had spent trying valiantly to raise Catriona's spirits. "From my previous experience of her, I would not have believed she would give up so easily. I've been telling her she must make a push to secure what she wants from life- that if one really wants something, one has to be prepared to fight for it."

The bay jibbed; Philip tightened his reins. His eyes, fixed on Antonia, narrowed. "Indeed." He might have said more had another, more immediate realisation not intruded. “You were on your way to meet a gentleman alone."

Antonia shot him a frowning glance. "Only Mr Fortescue."

"Who happens to be a perfectly personable gentleman some years your senior."

“Who happens to be all but betrothed to a young lady I regard as a good friend." Chin high, Antonia gathered her reins.

Philip held her with his eyes. "I have to inform you, my dear, that meeting personable gentlemen alone is not the behaviour I expect of Lady Ruthven."

Antonia held his gaze, her own eyes slowly narrowing, golden glints appearing in the green. Then she hauled on the reins, pulling the black about. "I am not," she replied, decidedly tart, "Lady Ruthven yet."

With that, she touched her heels to the black's sides and took off through the woods.

Philip watched her go, his eyes slitted, his gaze as sharp as honed steel. Suddenly, he recalled he rode much heavier than she-he couldn't let her get too far ahead. With a curse, he set out in pursuit.

Despite his best efforts, Antonia was still in the lead when the end of the ride hove in sight. It led up to a small knoll at the back of the woods; cresting the rise, Antonia saw a single horseman waiting patiently. Recognizing his square frame, she waved; moments later, she drew up alongside Henry Fortescue.

He returned her greeting punctiliously, nodding as Philip joined them, then, somewhat glumly, turned to Antonia. "From your presence, I take it all is lost?"

Antonia blinked at him. "Heavens, no! Catriona is too well watched for it to be safe for her to ride out to meet you-Ruthven and I came in her stead."

Ignoring Philip's glance, she smiled brightly and was rewarded with a smile in return.

"Well, that's a relief." Henry's smile faded. "Not that my news holds out any hope."

Philip brought his bay up beside Antonia. “What did the Earl say?"

Henry grimaced. "Unfortunately, things weren't as we thought. There was no legal guardianship established, so the Earl has no real rights in the matter. The Countess assumed Catriona's guardianship by custom, so there's no gainsaying her. Not, at least, until Catriona comes of age-but that's years from now."

"Oh." Despite her earlier optimism, Antonia felt her spirits sink.

"Not that we wouldn't be prepared to wait," Henry went on. "If that was the only way. But the problem is, the Countess has her own row to hoe. And she's not one to let up."

Antonia grimaced. "Indeed not."

Henry drew a deep breath. "I don't know what Catriona will say-or do-when she hears the truth."

Antonia didn't bother to answer; Henry's gloom was contagious.

"Then before we tell her, I suggest we establish the facts ourselves."

Antonia stared at Philip. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I suspect we have not yet reached the truth." Hands folded over his pommel, Philip raised a brow at her. "I took refuge in the library last night-a little habit of mine, you might recall."

Antonia narrowed her eyes. "So?"

"So, while idly pacing, not having any other distraction to hand, I noticed a family bible on a lectern in one corner. It's a handsome volume. Out of sheer curiosity, I looked at the fly-leaf. It doesn't, as I had imagined, belong to the Earl's family but to the Dallings. Indeed, I imagine it might belong to Catriona as it was certainly her father's before."

Henry frowned. "But what has that to say to oversetting the Countess's schemes?"

"Nothing in itself," Philip acknowledged. "But the information the bible contains bears consideration. Inscribed on the fly-leaf are the recent generations of the Dalling family. The history clearly shows the Countess is one of twins-her only sister is her twin. As is often the case with twin females, there's no distinction made between them- no record of who was born first-that fact is stated explicitly in the bible. So, by my reckoning, Catriona's other aunt would have equal right to act as her guardian by custom."

"Lady Copely!" Henry sat his horse as one stunned. "She's always been Catriona's favourite but she couldn't come to Catriona's father's funeral because one of her children came down with whooping cough. Instead, the Countess arrived and swept Catriona up as if she had the right to do so. Naturally, we all assumed she had."

Philip raised a hand in warning. "We do not, at this stage, know if the Countess acted with Lady Copely's assent. Do you know if Lady Copely would be willing to aid Miss Dalling in marrying as she wishes?"

Henry frowned. "I don't know."

"I do." Eyes bright, Antonia looked at Philip. "I saw Lady Copely's daughter and her husband in town. Catriona told me they had married for love." Blushing lightly, she transferred her gaze to Henry. "Indeed, she told me Lady Copely herself had married for affection, rather than status. From all she said, her ladyship sounds the perfect sponsor for yours and Catriona's future."

"If that's so," Henry mused, "then perhaps Catriona could claim her ladyship's protection?"

Philip nodded. "It seems a likely possibility."

"Well, then!" Fired with newfound zeal, Henry straightened in his saddle. "All that remains is to discover her ladyship's direction and I'll apply to her directly." He looked hopefully at Antonia.

Antonia shook her head. "Catriona never mentioned where Lady Copely lives."

Henry grimaced.

"I suggest," Philip said, "that as Catriona may have information on how best to approach Lady Copely, it would be wise for you to meet with Catriona prior to hunting up her ladyship."

Henry nodded. "I confess I would like to do so. But if she's truly kept close, how will we manage it?"

Dismissively, Philip waved one elegant hand. "A little forethought, a spot of strategic planning and the thing's done. There's a small field, part of an old orchard, at the back of the shrubbery. If you leave your horse in the woods on that side, you should be able to reach it easily. Be there at three this afternoon. The older ladies will be snoozing. I'll arrange for Catriona to be there."

Henry's eagerness was tempered by caution. "But if the Countess keeps watch on her-Catriona said even the servants spy on her-then what hope has she of winning free?"

"You may leave all to me." Philip smiled and gathered his reins. "I assure you the Countess herself will speed her on her way."

Henry managed to look doubtful and grateful simultaneously.

Philip laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Three-don't be late."

"I won't be." Henry met Philip's gaze. "And thank you, sir. I can't think why you should put yourself out for us like this, but I'm extremely grateful for your help."

"Not at all." Philip wheeled his mount, collecting Antonia with his gaze. "It's the obvious solution."

With a nod, he clicked his reins; with a wave to Henry, Antonia fell in beside him. Together, they cantered back towards the woods. As they neared the entrance to the ride, Philip slowed and glanced at Antonia's face. She was frowning. "What now?"

From beneath her lashes, she shot him a suspicious glance.

Philip met it, and pointedly raised his brows.

Antonia pulled a face at him. "If you must know," she declared, her accents repressive, "I was recalling telling Catriona that you were a past master at arranging clandestine meetings." With that, she tossed her head, setting her curls dancing, then flicked her reins and entered the ride.

Following on her horse's heels, Philip smiled. Wolfishly.