He would have taken refuge in the library or the billiard room but she had commandeered those as well. In a mood close to perilous, Philip abandoned his search for peace and quiet to wander through the throngs of his servitors, all furiously engaged in executing Antonia’s commands.

      He wondered if he should tell her her assertiveness was showing. He knew it of old—her tendency to take charge, to organise, to get things done. His lawns looked like chaos run mad, but even he could see, beneath the hectic bustle, that it was effective, organised activity. Pausing to watch two of his farm labourers struggle to erect a stall, he mused on Antonia’s very real talent for getting people to work for her, often for no more direct reward than her smile and a brief word of approbation. Even now, he could see her at the far end of the lawn, where a narrow arm of the distant lake lipped a reed-fringed shore, exhorting the undergardeners to get all the punts cleaned and launched.

      “Watch it there, Joe! Easy now, lad—just let me see if we’ve got this thing straight.”

      Refocusing on the action more immediately before him, Philip saw the younger of the two labourers trying to balance the front beam of the stall while simultaneously holding one of the side walls erect. The older man, a hammer and wooden strut in his hands, had backed, trying to gauge if the beam and wall were at the right angle. Joe, however, had no hope of keeping both pieces still.

      Philip hesitated, then stepped forward and clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Give Joe a hand, McGill—I’ll direct you.”

      McGill touched his cap. “If you would, m’lord, we’ll get on a dashed sight faster.”

      Joe simply looked grateful.

      Before they were done, Philip had his coat off and was helping to hammer in nails. That was how Antonia found him when she did her rounds, checking on progress.

      She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face.

      Philip looked up—and read her expression. It didn’t improve his mood. Nor did the instant urge he felt to call her to him—or go to her. Instead, he held her gaze, his own, he knew, dark and moody. Half of him wanted to speak to her, the other half wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea—not yet. He hadn’t yet decided how he felt about anything—about her, about what he inwardly labelled her machinations. Looking away, he grimly hammered in another nail. He hadn’t felt this uncertain in years; pounding metal into wood was a comforting occupation.

      Released from his mesmerising stare, Antonia couldn’t resist a swift survey of his shoulders and back, muscles flexing beneath his fine shirt as he worked, his hands, long-fingered but strong, gripped about nail and handle. When she moved on, her mouth was dry, her heartbeat not entirely even. Oblivious of the activity about her, she reviewed their recent meetings. He was usually so even-tempered, too indolent to be moved to any excess of emotion—his aggravated mood was a mystery.

      She glanced back—he had paused, shoulders propped against the side of the stall. He was watching her, his gaze brooding and intent.

      “Miss—do you want the doilies put out now or tomorrow?”

      “Ah…” Whirling, Antonia blinked at the young maid. “Tomorrow. Leave them in the morning-room until then.”

      The maid bobbed and scurried away. Drawing in a deep breath, Antonia followed more gracefully in her wake.

      Philip watched her go, hips gently swaying as she climbed the slope, then pushed away from the wall and reached for another handful of nails.

      An hour later, lunch was served—huge plates of sandwiches and mugs of ale laid out on the trestles already up and waiting. Exhorted by Antonia, no one stood on ceremony; as he helped himself to a sandwich stuffed full of ham, Philip noticed Geoffrey’s fair head among the crowd. The boy waved and pushed through to him.

      “Antonia’s put me in charge of the Punch and Judy. Fenton’s helping me—one of the footmen is going to do Punch but I think I’ll have to do Judy. None of the maids will stop giggling long enough to say the lines.”

      Philip uttered a short laugh. Geoffrey’s eyes were alight.

      “We’ve got the booth up, but the stage is going to take some work.”

      Philip clapped him on the shoulder. “If you can keep the children out of the lake, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

      Geoffrey grinned. “I might take you up on that once we get to London.”

      “Just as long as it’s not my greys you’re after.”

      Geoffrey laughed and shook his head. Still grinning, he moved away.

      Sipping his ale, Philip saw his steward and baliff, both ostensibly lending a hand. Normally, both men considered themselves above such activities; Philip wondered whether it was his presence that had changed their minds—or Antonia’s confident imperiousness.

      His eye ranging the throng, he saw one of the maids—Emma was the name that came to mind—artfully jog Joe’s elbow. Joe was a likely lad, well grown and easy-mannered, barely twenty. As he watched Emma apologise profusely, smiling ingenuously up at Joe, Philip felt cynicism raise its mocking head. Joe smiled down at her, truly ingenuous. The little scene was played out in predictable vein; Philip moodily wondered if it might not be his duty to warn Joe that, despite the common assumption that man was the hunter, there were times when he might prove to be the prey.

      As he himself had found.

      He could see it now—now that Hugo had ripped the scales from his eyes. Henrietta’s behaviour should have triggered his innate alarms—instead, as he’d admitted, he’d been distracted. Not by the usual flirtatious encouragements—they wouldn’t have worked. But Antonia had not sought to attract him in the usual way—she’d used other wiles—more sophisticated wiles—wiles more likely to succeed with an experienced and recalcitrant gentleman rake who had seen it all before.

      She’d used their old friendship.

      With a grimace, Philip set aside his empty tankard and hefted the hammer he’d been using. He was still not sure how he felt—how he should feel. He had thought Antonia was different from the rest. Instead, she’d simply been using different tactics.

      His expression still grim, he headed back to help McGill and Joe put up the rest of the refreshment stalls. They were banging the supports into place on the last of the stalls when a sound to his left had him turning his head. Antonia stood three feet away.

      She met his gaze, then, with a slight smile, gestured to the tray she had placed on the counter of the next stall. “Ale—I thought it might be more acceptable than tea.”

      Philip glanced about and saw the womenfolk bearing trays and mugs to the men. Most of the small workforce had completed their tasks; the refreshment was welcomed by one and all.

      Looking back, Philip met Antonia’s calmly questioning gaze, then turned and, with one heavy blow, drove his last nail home. Laying the hammer aside, he called Joe’s and McGill’s attention to the ale. Antonia stepped back, hands clasped before her. Turning, Philip picked up a mug—and took the two strides necessary to trap her between the stall and himself.

      Scanning his lawns, he took a long draught of ale. “Is there much more to do?”

      Distracted from watching his lean throat work as he downed the ale, Antonia blinked and quickly looked about. “No—I think most of what we can do we’ve done.” She reviewed her mental lists. “The only thing remaining is for the barrels to be brought out. We decided to leave