A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

"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 mil

itant 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.