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."

"Aye, mum." Stupefied, the ostler nodded.

Waiting for no more, Antonia hurried into the inn. The door was unlatched; there was no sign of the host but a lighted candle stood on a wooden table at the back of the hall. Her attention caught by wavering light from above, Antonia glanced up the dark stairwell in time to see shadows, thrown by candlelight, flung up against a wall. The shadows disappeared as their owners continued down one of the upstairs corridors.

Antonia grabbed the candle from the table and followed.

When she gained the head of the stairs, there was no one in sight. Following the corridor she was sure Geoffrey and Catriona had taken, she paused outside each door to place her ear against the panel. She heard nothing more than snores and snorts until she came to the last door, right at the end of the corridor.

Gruff voices rose and fell; others spoke but she could not make out their words. Antonia frowned-then glanced at the door to her right. Ear against the panel, she listened carefully but no sound came from within. Holding her breath, she gently eased the latch free. Pushing the door open, she warily raised her candle.

The room was empty. With a sigh of relief, she whisked herself in and shut the door firmly. Glancing about, she saw another door, set into the wall shared with the last room- the one on which she wished to eavesdrop. Thanking her stars, she set the candle down on a tallboy and gently eased the door open.

Beyond lay a small space, the space between the thick walls, bound by another door. As the voices beyond reached her easily, Antonia surmised this last door opened directly into the room at the end of the corridor.

"I knows as how that was what you asked for, but, like Josh here said, it ain't what you're getting."

The owner of the gruff voice sounded the opposite of refined. He also sounded smugly threatening. Antonia heard Geoffrey answer but her brother's accents were too measured, too controlled, for her to catch what he said. Grimacing, she carefully gripped the knob of the door; breath bated, she turned it until she felt the latch give, then eased the door open the merest fraction.

"Ain't no point arguing no more," came a second, very deep, distinctly menacing voice. “The whelp over there got us here-you've heard our price. T'my way of fhinkin', it's take it or leave it."

A whispered conference was the result. Carefully releasing the knob, Antonia leaned as close as she dared to the open door, her senses straining to pick up her brother's and Catriona's words.

A hand came over her shoulder, fastening over her mouth; an arm slid about her waist, hauling her back, locking her against a very large, very hard, definitely masculine body.

Eyes starting from her head, Antonia went rigid.

Then relaxed-and tugged at the hand over her lips.

Philip eased his hold, bending his head to growl directly into her ear, "What the devil are you doing here?"

Antonia ignored his tone-and all it promised. Pressing her head back into his shoulder, she managed to catch his eye-she decided to ignore the fury she saw there, too. With her own eyes, she indicated the room beyond the door. "Listen," she mouthed.

“My friend here hired you-you agreed on a sum to take us to London."

Antonia's eyes widened. She tugged again at Philip's hand. "That was Mr Fortescue."

Philip flicked her a warning glance. "Shh."

"Aye, that we did," came in gloating tones. "But that was afore we realized there'd be a young miss making one of your party. The way we figures it, now we knows the score, is that it's got to be worth a great deal more to you to make the trip to Lunnon. What with the pretty young miss an' all."

"Mind," came in the other, even more disturbing voice. "If n you're pressed for the ready, there's likely other ways we'd agree to take our cut."

Antonia suppressed a shiver.

The suggestion gave rise to a muted discussion centred on the far end of the room.

A long-suffering sigh distracted Antonia. Glancing up and back, she saw Philip close his eyes fleetingly. When he opened them, Antonia saw his jaw firm. Before she could speak, he lifted her bodily and set her back against the narrow side wall of the tiny space they shared.

"Stay there." His eyes boring into hers, Philip put all the dire warning he could into his necessarily muted tones. "Do not move."

"What-?" "And be quiet!"

Suppressing the urge to sniff disdainfully, Antonia did as he said.

Settling his coat with a deft flexing of his shoulders, Philip grasped the door knob and calmly walked into the room.

As he had surmised, the two hulking coachmen had their backs to him; beyond, a quartet of surprised faces stared at him, thoroughly stunned. The door had been well-oiled; no squeak had given him away. The room was furnished with a large square rug, muting the sound of his footsteps. The villainous coachmen had not heard him.

Predictably, Geoffrey was the first to find his wits. Shifting his gaze back to the coachmen, he glibly stated, "Actually, I don't think you've quite taken our measure. We have powerful backers you might not care to cross."

"Ho! That's a good one," the larger of the coachmen jeered. “Very likely, that is, with you three and the young miss making your getaway in the dead of night."

"Indeed, I fear I must agree with our friend here," Philip remarked in his finest Bond Street drawl. "I must admit the point mystifies me-you'll really have to explain to me, Geoffrey, why you saw fit to haul your sister out in the dead of night."