Page 28

Eight

Still in the drawing room

Half a dozen awkward seconds later

Robyn froze.

Bollocks.

Several more, even fouler curses paraded through his mind.

He knew that voice.

Of all the drawing rooms in all of London, she had to walk into his, just now.

“I am correct in surmising Matilda and Regina have not returned with tea?” he whispered.

“You are,” Georgine murmured, her eyes wide as she peered past him.

Bracing himself, Robyn glanced over his shoulder.

As he expected, Verbena Wynecott, attired in lavender from her garish feathered bonnet to her bombazine gown and spencer, clutched her black ledger to her ample bosom and gaped at him, aghast.

And if he weren’t mistaken, slightly titillated as well.

She rather resembled a beached bass, gasping for air, and her eyebrows, graying, wiry things, cavorted about her forehead like drunken caterpillars.

With considerable effort, he wrestled his grin into submission and schooled his face into a banal mien.

Mehetabel Twigg, Mrs. Wynecott’s long-suffering companion, as timid, thin, and dowdy as Mrs. Wynecott was intrusive, stout, and garish, hovered near her employer’s elbow.

Miss Twigg braved a shy peek through her eyelashes before slamming her focus to the floor.

Crimson skated up her cheeks as she fidgeted with her reticule’s strap.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzlloyd.” Bichard pinned Mrs. Wynecott with a condescending glance. “Madam would not listen when I explained you were not at home to callers.”

Mrs. Wynecott was so high in the instep, she was likely to trip over her own consequence. Besides, other than tackling the woman—and probably losing the wrestling match—what was Bichard to do?

“You may go, Bichard.” Robyn dipped his chin. “Please check on Miss Matilda and Miss Regina and the preparation of the tea tray.”

“Very good, sir.” The butler nodded, and after glowering at the dame again, retreated.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wynecott, Miss Twigg.” Robyn stood, and acting like it was perfectly normal to be found on his knees before a lady, brushed off his trousers. The dashed book would have to wait. “How fortuitous. You are just in time for tea.”

Mrs. Wynecott always timed her arrival to partake in tea.

She set upon a bountiful tea service like a wolf on a Sunday lamb.

“Matilda should return any moment with the tray.” Robyn adjusted his coat sleeve, taking a moment to half-turn and wink at Georgine before facing Mrs. Wynecott again. “I believe she mentioned Cook baked fresh jam tarts.”

Mrs. Wynecott couldn’t quite conceal her little “O” of delight, and Miss Twigg blinked her owlish eyes as if she could not quite believe her ears.

When was the last time the poor woman was permitted such a treat?

Recovering from her momentary excitement about the tarts, Mrs. Wynecott directed her buggy-eyed gaze at Georgine. She peered down her substantial nose before speaking in her haughtiest and most disapproving tone, though avid curiosity glittered in her eyes. “I do not believe we are acquainted.”

Blast and damn.