"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.