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“How unfortunate.” Knee cocked, Robyn placed a hand on his hip. “I am equally penitent that I shall not be donating to the charity this year. Or in the future.”

Daggers shooting from her eyes, Mrs. Wynecott pressed her lips together so tightly, they resembled a goose’s hind end. “I vow, I shall inform Reverend Goodfellow. Such blatant and wicked behavior calls for excommunication.”

If that were true, half of England’s church pews would sit empty on Sunday mornings.

Robyn had had enough of the woman’s insolent behavior.

He flashed her his most charming smile, all the while condemning her to Hades with a blistering stare. “Did I mention I shall be making a very generous donation to St. Winifred’s? It is your fundraiser that I want no further association with.”

St. Winifred’s Church wasn’t such a wealthy parish that Obadiah Goodfellow would look a gift horse in the mouth, and from the sour expression contorting Mrs. Wynecott’s face, she knew it. “We shall see. There are other ways of dealing with the likes of you. I vow, you shan’t be putting on airs then.”

A threat if Robyn had ever heard one.

And one, the malevolent harridan would not hesitate to act upon. Which meant, Robyn had just waded into shark-infested waters and dragged Georgine with him.

He had best come up with a solution and swiftly.

Drawing herself up, Mrs. Wynecott jutted her chin out. An unfortunate act, as it exposed two long black whiskers, which appeared to compete for length and stiffness. Radiating sanctimonious propriety, she stomped toward the door, causing several gewgaws to rattle on the marble-topped tables they rested upon.

“Come, Miss Twigg. I refuse to spend another minute in this house of sin.”

A muffled gasp carried into the drawing room, followed by indiscernible muttering, though Robyn clearly heard “purple cow” and “tale-peddler.”

Bichard, no doubt—fiercely loyal but prone to eavesdropping.

Miss Twigg defied her employer and slipped closer to Georgine. Voice lowered, she murmured, “I would like to place a wager with the Ladies of Opportunity.”

She darted a nervous glance over her thin shoulder, and relief flooded her features upon realizing her infuriated employer had tramped into the corridor.

“May I call another time? When you have recovered?” She clasped her reticule. “If I win my wager, I shall have enough funds to leave her employ. With her sour looks and sourer tongue, she is enough to curdle cream, and I’ve had quite enough of her unkindness.”

“Of course, Hetty.” Georgine laid a hand on the woman’s arm. “I shall inform the other members. If you cannot get away, just send a note around with the bet. We can collect the funds another time.”

“Excellent.” Hetty beamed.

Georgine returned her grin. “May I ask what the wager is?”

Hetty glanced nervously at the door again. “Mrs. Wynecott has been skimming off the charity donations for years. That’s all I can say for now.”

“Miss Twigg!” Mrs. Wynecott bellowed. “If you wish to remain in my employ, attend me at once.”

“I don’t, but I must. For a little while longer.” With a little flutter of her fingers, Miss Twigg dashed from the drawing room.

“That woman…” Georgine sucked in a large breath, then slowly released it, shaking her head. “If I never lay eyes upon that creature again, it will be too soon. She is utterly vile.”

Georgine had only glimpsed the smoke, not the fire.

And Robyn had to protect her from the raging inferno that was sure to come.

Hell, how was he supposed to tell her?

Robyn scraped a hand through his hair.

“We have a problem, Georgine.”

“Oh. And what is that?” She tilted her face to meet his eyes, and he vowed he saw admiration in their depths. “I think you did a splendid job of ridding the house of that maggoty potato.”

Clearly, she did not understand what was about to happen—what Mrs. Wynecott could this very instant be setting into motion.