The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie Laurens
Antonia grimaced, her unprecedented nervousness very fresh in her mind. But there was no place in her scheme for faintheartedness; this afternoon, she’d taken the first step. Playing out her part was now inevitable—aside from anything else, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t at least try. If Philip didn’t see her in that light, so be it.
Recalling her promise to warn her aunt of his arrival, she shook herself. Glancing in the mirror, she fluffed her curls, her fingers stilling as she recalled Philip’s fixation. Her lips quirked. Almost as if he’d been bowled over—in the circumstances, a definitely heartening thought.
Holding tight to that prop to her confidence, she headed for her aunt’s rooms.
* * *
Downstairs in the library, duly fortified by a tankard of superlative ale, Hugo turned his thoughts to satisfying his curiosity. “Mannering, Mannering,” he mused, then cocked a brow at Philip. “Can’t quite place the family.”
Jerked from contemplation of the most beguiling lips he’d ever seen, Philip set aside his empty tankard. “Yorkshire.”
“Ah—that explains it.” Hugo nodded sagely. “The wilds to the north.”
“It’s not as bad as that.” Philip settled back. “Mannering Park, so I understand, is an estate of some significance.”
“So what’s the darling of it doing here?”
“She’s Henrietta’s niece—her father was Henrietta’s only brother. He and Lady Mannering used to visit every summer.” Philip felt the years roll back, saw again a young girl with long thick plaits astride his father’s favourite hunter. “They’d leave Antonia here while they went the rounds through summer. She was always about.” Laughing, chattering but, somehow, never irritating. He was ten years her senior, but that had never stopped her—he’d never been able to retreat behind any superior social facade, not with Antonia. He’d watched her change from a delightfully precocious brat to an engagingly quick-witted young girl; he had yet to come to terms with her most recent transformation.
“Their visits stopped when her father died.” Philip paused, calculating. “Eight years ago now. I understand Lady Mannering declared she was too weary to face the social round thereafter. Henrietta was—is—very fond of Antonia. She issued a standing invitation but apparently Lady Mannering could never spare her daughter.”
Hugo raised his brows. “So at long last Miss Mannering’s escaped the maternal clutches?”
Philip shook his head. “Lady Mannering died about a year ago. Henrietta renewed her entreaties with a vengeance but, if I recall Henrietta’s ramblings aright, Antonia was adamant on remaining at Mannering Park to care for her brother—he’s much younger than she.” Philip frowned. “I can’t remember how old he’d be now—I can’t even remember his name.”
“Whatever, it looks like she’s changed her mind.”
“Knowing Antonia, that’s unlikely. Not unless she’s altered dramatically.” After a moment, Philip added, “Perhaps her brother’s gone up to Oxford?”
Studying his friend’s distant expression, Hugo sighed. “I hate to be obvious but there’s a mystery here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Philip glanced at him. “Mystery?”
“You’ve seen the lady!” Hugo sat up, gesticulating freely. “There she is—beautiful as be damned. Not a giddy girl, nor yet too long in the tooth but the sort to stop a charge of chasseurs in their tracks. And, to all appearances, she’s unwed.” Sinking back in his chair, Hugo shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. If she’s as well-born and well-connected as you say, she’d have been snapped up years ago.” As an afterthought, he asked, “They do have gentlemen up north, don’t they?”
Philip’s brows slowly rose. “I’m sure they do—and they can’t all be blind.” A long moment passed while they both considered a situation that, in their experience, constituted a conundrum. “A mystery indeed,” Philip eventually mused. “Given the facts you’ve so eloquently expounded, I can only conclude that you and I, dear Hugo, might be the first to catch sight of Miss Mannering in many a long year.”
Hugo’s eyes slowly widened. “You’re not suggesting her mama kept her locked up?”
“Not locked up, but possibly very close. Mannering Park is isolated and, I gather, Lady Mannering became something of a recluse.” Uncrossing his legs, Philip stood, his expression unreadable. Settling his sleeves, he glanced at Hugo. “I rather think I should pay my anticipated visit to Henrietta. As to Miss Mannering’s state, I strongly suspect we’ll discover that to be a direct consequence of her mother’s malaise.”
* * *
HENRIETTA, LADY RUTHVEN, put it rather more forcefully.
“A damned shame, if you ask me. No!” She held up one hand, pink chins quivering with indignation. “I know one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead but Araminta Mannering’s neglect of poor Antonia was nothing short of wicked!”
They were in Henrietta’s sitting-room, a cosy apartment made bright with flowers and floral embroideries. Henrietta occupied her favourite armchair beside the hearth; Philip stood before her, one arm negligently extended along the mantelpiece. At the back of the room, Henrietta’s dresser, Trant, sat stitching industriously, head bent, ears flapping.
Lifting eyes of faded blue presently lit by her ire to Philip’s face, Henrietta went on, “Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the good offices of the other local ladies, that poor child would have grown to womanhood with not the first inkling of the social graces.” Her expression mulish, she fluffed up her shawls. “And as for contracting a suitable alliance—it pains me to say it but I’m quite sure that that was the furthest thought from Araminta’s mind!”
With her frown as near as it ever came to forbidding, she looked like an irate owl. Philip set himself to soothe her. “I met Antonia as we came in. She seemed wholly confident, quite in her customary mould.”
“Of course!” Henrietta threw him a scornful glance. “The girl’s no namby-pamby chit full of die-away airs! Araminta left the running of that huge old house entirely on Antonia’s shoulders. Naturally she knows how to greet visitors and act the hostess—she’s been doing it for years. Not only that, she had to manage the estate and take complete care of Geoffrey, too. It’s a wonder she hasn’t become bowed down beneath the weight of all the accumulated responsibilities.”
Philip raised one brow. “Her shoulders—indeed, her carriage—seem to have held up admirably under the strain.”
“Humph!” Henrietta shot him a glance, then settled deeper into her armchair. “Be that as it may, it’s not right! The poor child should have been brought out years ago.” She fell silent, idly toying with a fringe, then she looked up at Philip. “I don’t know if you were aware of it but we offered to sponsor her—take her to London and introduce her to the ton. Puff her off with all the trimmings. Your father insisted—you know Horace always had a soft spot for Antonia.”
Philip nodded, aware that was the truth. Even when, as a scrawny twelve-year-old, Antonia had blithely put a saddle on his father’s favourite hunter and taken the ferocious beast on a long amble about the lanes, his sire, stunned as they all had been, had praised her bottom rather than spanked it. His sire had never disguised the admiration he felt for Antonia’s particular brand of straightforward confidence, an admiration Philip was well aware he shared.
“We argued and even pleaded, but Araminta wouldn’t hear of it.” Henrietta’s gaze grew cold. “It was perfectly plain she considered Antonia’s place was to act as her nursemaid and chatelaine; she was determined the girl would have no chance at any other role.”
Philip said nothing, his expression remote.
“Anyway,” Henrietta said, her tone that of one who would brook no denial, “I’m determined, now