"We've got the booth up, but the stage is going to take some work."
Philip clapped him on the shoulder. "If you can keep the children out of the lake, I'll be forever in your debt."
Geoffrey grinned. "I might take you up on that once we get to London."
"Just as long as it's not my greys you're after."
Geoffrey laughed and shook his head. Still grinning, he moved away.
Sipping his ale, Philip saw his steward and baliff, both ostensibly lending a hand. Normally, both men considered themselves above such activities; Philip wondered whether it was his presence that had changed their minds—or Antonia's confident imperiousness.
His eye ranging the throng, he saw one of the maids—Emma was the name that came to mind—artfully jog Joe's elbow. Joe was a likely lad, well grown and easy-mannered, barely twenty. As he watched Emma apologise profusely, smiling ingenuously up at Joe, Philip felt cynicism raise its mocking head. Joe smiled down at her, truly ingenuous. The little scene was played out in predictable vein; Philip moodily wondered if it might not be his duty to warn Joe that, despite the common assumption that man was the hunter, there were times when he might prove to be the prey.
As he himself had found.
He could see it now—now that Hugo had ripped the scales from his eyes. Henrietta's behaviour should have triggered his innate alarms—instead, as he'd admitted, he'd been distracted. Not by the usual flirtatious encouragemerits—they wouldn't have worked. But Antonia had not sought to attract him in the usual way—she'd used other wiles—more sophisticated wiles—wiles more likely to succeed with an experienced and recalcitrant gentleman rake who had seen it all before.
She'd used their old friendship.
With a grimace, Philip set aside his empty tankard and hefted the hammer he'd been using. He was still not sure how he felt—how he should feel. He had thought Antonia was different from the rest. Instead, she'd simply been using different tactics.
His expression still grim, he headed back to help McGill and Joe put up the rest of the refreshment stalls. They were banging the supports into place on the last of the stalls when a sound to his left had him turning his he
ad. Antonia stood three feet away.
She met his gaze, then, with a slight smile, gestured to the tray she had placed on the counter of the next stall. "Ale—I thought it might be more acceptable than tea."
Philip glanced about and saw the womenfolk bearing trays and mugs to the men. Most of the small workforce had completed their tasks; the refreshment was welcomed by one and all.
Looking back, Philip met Antonia's calmly questioning gaze, then turned and, with one heavy blow, drove his last nail home. Laying the hammer aside, he called Joe's and McGill's attention to the ale. Antonia stepped back, hands clasped before her. Turning, Philip picked up a mug—and took the two strides necessary to trap her between the stall and himself.
Scanning his lawns, he took a long draught of ale. "Is there much more to do?"
Distracted from watching his lean throat work as he downed the ale, Antonia blinked and quickly looked about. "No—I think most of what we can do we've done." She reviewed her mental lists. “The only thing remaining is for the barrels to be brought out. We decided to leave them under tarpaulins for the night."
Still not looking at her, Philip nodded. "Good. That leaves us time to talk before dinner."
"Talk?" Antonia stared at him. "What about?"
Philip turned his head and met her gaze. "I'll tell you when we meet."
Antonia studied his eyes, what she could see of them before he looked away. "If it's about the fete—?"
"It's not."
The finality in his tone declared he was not about to explain. Inwardly, Antonia frowned; outwardly, she inclined her head gracefully. "In that case, I'll just—"
Her words were cut off by shouts and yells and a muffled rumbling. Antonia turned—as did everyone else—to see an ale barrel come rolling down the lawn.
“Stop it!'' someone yelled.
"Heavens!" Antonia picked up her skirts and hurried forward.
For one stunned instant, Philip watched her rush towards the barrel. Then, with a comprehensive oath, he flung aside his tankard and went after her.
She slowed as she drew in line with the oncoming barrel, deaf to the cries of warning. Close on her heels, Philip wrapped one arm about her waist and swung her out of harm's way, pulling her hard against him.
"Who.—!"