A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Stunned, Antonia looked again; the second figure was wearing a white drab driving coat. "Merciful heavens! What are they up to?''

For five full seconds, she sat transfixed, listening to the hoofbeats grow fainter. Then, with a muttered curse, she grabbed a cloak from the wardrobe, pausing only to swing it about her shoulders before quietly opening her door.

She paid not the slightest attention to the deep shadows, to the gloom that pervaded the darkened house. Not even the suit of armour, shrouded in Stygian shadow on the land­ing, had the power to make her pause. Hurrying as fast as she dared, she reached the bottom of the stairs; her evening slippers skidded on the polished hall tiles. With a valiantly smothered shriek, Antonia grabbed the newel post just long enough to right herself, then, in a flurry of silk skirts, she dashed down the corridor.

Pacing before the fire in the library dutifully rehearsing his lines, Philip heard the scratch and slide of Antonia's feet on the tiles. The odd sound she made had him heading for the door. He opened it in time to see her pale skirts, visible beneath the hem of her cloak, disappear around a distant corner. Mystified, he followed.

The turning she had taken led to the garden hall; when he reached it, the door to the gardens stood wide. Frowning, wondering if, by some mischance, she had thought to meet him in the maze, Philip stepped into the night. The gardens were a mass of moonlight and shadow, the gentle breeze creating a fantastical landscape of shifting shapes. Antonia was nowhere to be seen. His frown deepening, Philip strode towards the shrubbery.

He'd reached the centre of the maze when the sound of hoofbeats and the rattle of carriage wheels reached him. For one incredulous instant, he stood stock-still, then he swore.

And ran for the stables.

Skidding to a halt in the stableyard, he caught a glimpse of his greys drawing his phaeton—his high-perch phae­ton—disappearing at a rattling clip down the drive. Of the identity of the figure holding the reins he had not the slightest doubt.

Cursing fluently, Philip plunged into the dark stables.

By the time he'd saddled the chestnut he'd ridden the previous day, Antonia had a good start on him. Halting at the end of the drive, he scanned the fields—and caught sight of her, tooling his horses at a spanking pace along a straight stretch of lane hugging an already distant ridge. Jaw clenched, his face like stone, Philip set off in pursuit.

Feathering the next corner, Antonia checked the skittish greys. The road ahead was deeply shadowed; she couldn't see if there were potholes. Grimacing, she kept the reins tight as she guided the greys on, inwardly praying the horses, occasionally as devilish as their master, would be­have.

Always eager, they had let her pole them up without fuss; luckily, the phaeton was so light she'd been able to ma­noeuvre it easily. Harnessing had taken longer but she'd forced herself to do it carefully, comforting herself with the reflection that Philip's horses would easily overtake the sin­gle beast Geoffrey had put to the gig.

It was only then, as she tightened the final buckles, that she remembered Philip, waiting for her in the library. Fo­cused on protecting Catriona and Geoffrey, used to acting on her own, she had not, until then, considered the possi­bility of throwing herself on her husband-to-be's chest and demanding he fix things. Grimacing, she hesitated, only to decide she couldn't afford the time to retrace her steps and tell Philip what she'd seen. She couldn't risk Geoffrey get­ting too far ahead; she was certain Philip had no more idea of what was afoot than she.

Her memory replayed Geoffrey's words in the maze, the odd glance he, Catriona and Ambrose had shared as they'd prepared to retire. She had a strong suspicion her brother had guessed what was in the wind between herself and Philip—and had decided to leave them undisturbed while he and Catriona brought off whatever mad scheme they'd hatched.

Emerging from the shadowed stretch, Antonia set the greys up a long hill. Looking up, she glimpsed the gig, Geoffrey and Catriona in silhouette as they topped the rise ahead. They sank from view; with a muttered curse, An­tonia clicked the reins. The gig was more stable than the phaeton; Geoffrey was not having to be as cautious as she. Despite the greys' superiority, the distance between them and the gig had not decreased.

Driving as fast as she dared, she sent the phaeton rushing up the hill. There were lanes aplenty—she had no idea which way they were headed. The thought of the likely outcome if their plans, whatever they might be, went awry, and Geoffrey and Catriona ended spending the night essen­tially alone, spurred her on, the spectre of the Countess as a relative-by-marriage at her back.

Pushing the greys to the limit of safety, she topped the rise, then rattled on down the slope.

Labouring in her wake, Philip had run through his rep­ertoire of curses. While he presumed his intended had a reason for rushing off into the night, he did not, he had decided, actually care what it was. What he did care about was her safety and the sublime disregard for his tender sen­sibilities she was presently displaying. Gritting his teeth, he urged the chestnut on. Catching up with his greys was out of the question; all he could hope for was to keep Antonia in sight until she reached her destination.

Once he caught up with her, the rest, he felt sure, would follow naturally.

He quite clearly recalled telling her he would never con­sent to her risking her neck; he quite clearly recalled warn­ing her not to even think of so doing. She had evidently not believed him.

He would make the matter plain—along with a few other points.

"All I want is to tell the damn woman that I love her!"

The wind whipped away the growled words. Gripped by frustration, Philip set the chestnut up the hill.

He pulled up at the top, briefly scanning the valley below. He saw Antonia in his phaeton—and for the first time glimpsed the carriage she was following.

"What the devil. . .?" Philip frowned. He was too far away to make out the figures in the gig but he could guess who they were. Shaking the reins, he took to the fields, shaving a little off Antonia's lead in the descent from the ridge. But once they gained the flat, not knowing which way they would turn, he was forced to keep to the roads.

Ahead of him, Antonia had managed to draw closer to the gig, but it was still too far distant for her to hail it. Given the state of the country lanes, she'd given up hope of catching Geoffrey this side of a main road. Having as­sumed his intention was to deliver Catriona to Lady Copely, she was surprised to see him check, then turn the gig under the gateway of what appeared to be an inn.

The small town the inn served lay beyond it, nestled in a hollow, its residents no doubt slumbering soundly. Perched halfway down the slope overlooking the town, the inn looked to be substantial, a solid structure in stone with a good slate roof.

Filled with relief, Antonia whipped up the greys and forged on, drawing rein only to enter the innyard.

A sleepy, middle-aged ostler was leading away the gig. His eyes widened, whether in alarm or understandable sur­prise Antonia had no time to wonder as she wrestled the greys to a snorting halt.

"Here—take them." She flung the reins at the ostler, grateful when he caught them. Scrambling down from the box-seat with what decorum she could, she added, "And. . .er. . .do whatever needs to be done. They're quite valuable."