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The mulish minx would insist on driving herself.

Nevertheless, wasn’t she the one forever going on about impropriety, appearances, her reputation, and all that rot? Well, perhaps not rot—the haut ton extolled men sowing their wild oats while casting a gimlet eye at any female who merely blinked wrong. Still, he’d heard Georgine’s concerns so many times, he could recite them by rote.

Regina had offered to play whist in Georgine’s bedchamber—a tremendous sacrifice for the flighty girl—but Georgine only shook her dark head.

“No. I am leaving this chamber. Today. Now.”

For a moment, Robyn thought she might actually stomp her foot.

And now here she was, sitting on a once plush armchair covered in faded floral damask, with bastions of equally faded and worn cushions and pillows surrounding her…just in case.

Robyn felt no discomfort or embarrassment at Fernleigh House’s aging and dated content. As long as things remained functional, what need was there to spend funds to replace them?

Who cared if the rugs had grown a bit threadbare or the wallpaper and tapestry were better suited to two or three decades ago?

He preferred the lived-in, time-worn comfort of well-used and well-loved furnishings. Not that he couldn’t afford to refurbish if he desired.

He simply did not wish to.

If he married, his wife could tackle that task, if she so chose. In fact, his nonexistent wife could refurbish the whole blasted house—except for his study. That private, masculine oasis would remain just the way it was.

Oh, very well.

He might permit his wife to replace the draperies and carpets. Something Turkish would do.

The Fitzlloyds’ wealth came primarily from importing and exporting fine textiles, especially high-quality wool and cotton supplied to domestic and international markets. The booming demand for English cloth secured them lucrative contracts with mill owners and merchants. Robyn also invested in the East India trade, profiting from tea, spices, and other coveted goods.

Never let it be said that the Fitzlloyds skimped on their tea.

Only the best would do.

Orange Pekoe, Imperial, and Flowery Congou.

Beyond textiles, he held interests in shipbuilding and maritime commerce, owning shares in merchant vessels that carried cargo across the Atlantic and throughout the British Empire. Though these ventures carried risks, they provided a steady income.

While they never rivaled banking dynasties or the great landed aristocrats, the Fitzlloyds’ prudent financial management sustained a refined lifestyle, including a respectable household, well-bred horses, and occasional participation in the social season. Descended from gentility, they occupied the space between the traditional gentry and the rising class of industrialists.

It had never bothered Robyn that he didn’t hold a title, though he claimed several titled peers as friends. The Fitzlloyds rubbed elbows with London’s elite when it suited them, but did not aspire to anything loftier. Smelling of the shop, kept a few doors closed to them, but not many. Neither Robyn nor Matilda had any desire to associate with those snobs.

He knew little of Georgine’s family, only that her father had died when she was a teenager, and her mother had gone to meet her maker two years ago. Not wealthy, Georgine and her sister survived on a small inheritance from Georgine’s maternal grandmother—and that questionable gambling income from the Ladies of Opportunity.

Robyn allowed himself a few moments to observe Georgine covertly.

Color had returned to her cheeks, and the addition of solid food this past week had removed the hollows from her cheeks. Her sable hair, threaded with coffee-brown and molasses shades, shone in the afternoon light. She wore the luxurious cascade down, with a pale blue ribbon across her crown and tied at her nape.

All in all, she looked remarkably well—a lovely delicacy too pretty for mere words.

He narrowed his attention on her shoulder.

The infection had subsided, but her shoulder had a long way to go before completely healing, according to the doctor. And given the nature of her wound, the risk of reinfection lurked. Erring on the side of caution to ensure Georgine wasn’t exposed to any illnesses, the no visitors order remained in effect.

That also worked well to help conceal her presence in the house, and although he had explained the delicacy of the situation to the servants, that didn’t mean some of them hadn’t blabbed.

Even the best, most loyal servants gossiped.

Not Bichard, the butler, however.

That man would cut his tongue from his head with a butter knife before revealing the smallest private detail about what went on in Fernleigh House.