A Comfortable Wife (28 page)

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 imperceptibly, 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 pi
anoforte 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, catch
ing 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 their 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?”