The Trouble with Virtue. Stephanie Laurens

“Indeed?”

      Henrietta nodded, the action an eloquent testimony to the strength of her resolution.

      A pause ensued, which Philip, somewhat diffidently, broke. “Might I enquire as to whether you have any...” he gestured languidly “...further scheme in mind?”

      A beatific smile lit Henrietta’s lined face. “I intend on finding her a husband, of course.”

      For an instant, Philip remained perfectly still, his expression utterly impassive. Then his lids fell, veiling his eyes. “Of course.” Gracefully, he bowed; when he straightened, his expression was as bland as his tone. “Hugo Satterly’s downstairs—I should return to him. If you’ll excuse me?”

      Only when the door had closed behind him and she had listened to his footsteps retreat along the corridor did Henrietta allow herself a gleeful cackle. “Not a bad start, if I do say so myself.”

      Trant came forward to plump the cushions at her back and straighten her myriad shawls. “Seems like they’ve already met.”

      “Indeed—nothing could be more fortunate!” Henrietta beamed. “So like dear Antonia to remember to summon you to make sure I didn’t oversleep. I detect fate’s blessing in Philip arriving at just that moment.”

      “Maybe so, but he didn’t seem all that taken. You don’t want to get your hopes too high.” Trant had been with her mistress ever since her marriage to the late Lord Ruthven. She had seen young ladies aspiring to the role of her mistress’s successor come and go with sufficient frequency to entertain serious reservations as to the present Lord Ruthven’s susceptibility. “I don’t want you getting moped if it don’t come off.”

      “Nonsense, Trant!” Henrietta turned to view her henchwoman. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned after sixteen years of observing Philip, it’s that one should never place any reliance on how he reacts. His nerves, I’m persuaded, have become so deadened by fashionable disinterest that even should he suffer a...a coup de coeur, he would merely raise a brow and make some mildly polite comment. No impassioned speeches or wild declarations from Philip, of that you may be sure. Nevertheless, I’m determined, Trant.”

      “So I see.”

      “Determined to see that languidly uninterested stepson of mine legshackled to Antonia Mannering.” Henrietta thumped her chair arm for emphasis, then swivelled to look at Trant who had retreated to the window seat. “You have to admit she’s everything he needs.”

      Without raising her eyes from her stitchery, Trant nodded. “She’s that and more—you’ll get no argument from me on that score. We’ve watched her grow and know her background—good bones, good breeding and all the graces you could want.”

      “Precisely.” Henrietta’s eyes gleamed. “She’s just what Philip needs. All we have to do is ensure he realizes it. Shouldn’t be too difficult—he’s not at all dull-witted.”

      “That’s what worries me, if you want to know.” Trant snipped a thread and reached into her basket. “Despite that sleepy air of his, he’s wide awake enough on most suits. If he gets wind of your plans, he might just slip his leash. Not so much a case of not liking the girl as of not liking the persuading, if you take my meaning.”

      Henrietta grimaced. “I do indeed. I haven’t forgotten what happened when I invited Miss Locksby and her family for a week and promised them Philip would be here—remember?” She shuddered. “He took one look, not at Miss Locksby but at her mother, then recalled a prior engagement at Belvoir. Such a coil—I spent the entire week trying to make amends.” Henrietta sighed. “The worst of it was that after that week I couldn’t help but feel grateful he wouldn’t marry Miss Locksby—I could never have borne Mrs Locksby as a relative.”

      A sound suspiciously like a smothered snort came from Trant.

      “Yes, well.” Henrietta fluffed her shawls. “You may be sure that I understand that we must go carefully in this—and not just because of Ruthven. I warn you, Trant, if Antonia gets any inkling of my active interest, she’s likely to... to...well, at the very least, she’s likely to become uncooperative.”

      Trant nodded. “Aye. She likes running in harness no more’n he.”

      “Exactly. But whether they like it or not, I see this as my duty, Trant. As I’ve said before, I don’t believe it’s my place to criticize Ruthven, but in this particular area I feel he’s allowing his natural indolence to lead him to neglect his obligations to his name and to the family. He must marry and set up his nursery—he’s thirty-four years gone and has shown no signs whatever of succumbing to Cupid’s darts.”

      “Mind you,” Henrietta declared, warming to her theme, “I freely admit that susceptibility on his part would be the most desirable avenue to pursue, but we cannot base our plans on improbabilities. No! We must do what we can to, very tactfully, promote a match between them. Antonia is now my responsibility, whatever she may think. And as for Ruthven—” Henrietta paused to lay a hand on her ample bosom “—I consider it my sacred duty to his sainted father to see him comfortably established.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      AT PRECISELY SIX O’CLOCK, Philip stood before the mirror above the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, idly checking his cravat. It was the household’s habit to gather there during the half-hour preceding dinner; Henrietta, however, rarely made it down much in advance of Fenton’s appearance.

      Focusing on his reflection, Philip grimaced. Dropping his hands, he surveyed the room. When no distraction offered, he fell to pacing.

      The latch clicked. Philip halted, straightening, conscious of a surge of expectation—which remained unfulfilled. A boy—or was it a young man?—came diffidently into the room. He stopped when he saw him.

      “Er...who are you?”

      “I believe that’s my line.” Philip took in the wide hazel eyes and the thick thatch of wavy blonde hair. “Antonia’s brother?”

      The youth blushed. “You must be Ruthven.” He blushed even more when Philip inclined his head. “I’m sorry—that is, yes, I’m Geoffrey Mannering. I’m staying here, you know.” The boy stuck out his hand, then, in a paroxysm of uncertainty, very nearly pulled it back.

      Philip solved the problem by grasping it firmly. “I didn’t know,” he said, releasing Geoffrey’s hand. “But had I considered the matter, I should, undoubtedly, have guessed.” Studying the boy’s open face, he raised a brow. “I presume your sister felt she needed to keep you under her wing?”

      Geoffrey grimaced. “Exactly.” His eyes met Philip’s, and he promptly blushed again. “Not that she’s not probably right, of course. I dare say it would have been dev—” he caught himself up “—deuced slow staying at Mannering by myself.”

      Rapidly revising his estimates of Geoffrey’s age downwards and his intelligence upwards, Philip inclined his head. The boy had the same ivory skin Antonia possessed, likewise untouched by the sun—strange in one of his years. “Are you down for the summer?”

      Geoffrey flushed yet again, but this time with gratification. “I haven’t actually gone up yet. Next term.”

      “You’ve gained entrance?”

      Geoffrey nodded proudly. “Yes. Quite a stir it was, actually. I’m only just sixteen, you see.”

      Philip’s lips curved. “No more than I would expect of a Mannering.” He had years of experience of Antonia’s swift wits on which to base that judgement.

      Engaged in an entirely unaffected scrutiny of Philip’s coat, Geoffrey nodded absentmindedly. “Dare say you don’t remember me, but I was here, years ago, when the parents used to leave Antonia and me with Henrietta. But I was mostly in the nursery—and when I wasn’t I was with Henrietta. She used to be very...well, motherly, you know.”

      He draped