Page 46

Twelve

Gunter’s Tea Shop

Regent’s Park - Berkeley Square

That same sultry afternoon

No one is staring or whispering—excellent.

Sitting beneath the striped cream and forest green awning jutting over Gunter’s Tea Shop windows and shading the patrons from the blazing sun, Robyn and the women waited for their ices. Alert for the merest sign that anyone recognized him or Georgine, he surveyed the genteel crowd as he tapped his fingertips atop the pale cream iron-framed table.

If Georgine hadn’t been recuperating, he would have initiated an outing weeks before. The delay in entering the public arena suggested guilt to those eager to spread more lies.

However, the postponement didn’t concern him overly much.

Introducing Georgine and himself as blissful newlyweds to a few carefully selected elites, and soon, Mrs. Wynecott’s ploy to destroy them would wither like a nosegay left to the mercy of July’s unmerciful sun.

Satisfaction thrummed through him, not because he was spiteful or vengeful, but because actions and choices had consequences, and he suspected Mrs. Wynecott, once a pillar of High Society, was about to get her well-deserved comeuppance and topple off her high horse, straight into infamy.

Yesterday, when Robyn delivered the bank draft to cover the cost of the new hymnals to Reverend Goodfellow, the usually staid man had been in a dither. So much so that he had taken Robyn into his confidence—a rare occurrence and one which revealed the man of God’s distress.

Mere days ago, St. Winifred’s churchwarden had received an anonymous tip: Mrs. Wynecott hadn’t been entirely forthcoming about her fundraising, and the entries in her ledger differed from the actual donations.

Robyn would bet his reputation that Miss Mehetabel Twigg was the nameless source, and she had evidence to support her claim. Motivated by self-preservation, Miss Twigg had too much integrity to make such a bold accusation without proof.

Though the warden had only contacted the first few patrons recorded in the fundraising ledger to verify their contributions, according to the reverend, a disturbing pattern had emerged.

Apparently, Mrs. Wynecott stole a portion of every contribution and recorded the remaining sum. It appeared she had been doing so for several years with no accountability.

Had no one thought to audit her before now?

Embarrassed by his lack of oversight, the mortified man of God swore Robyn to silence until the investigation had been completed. In short, however, Verbena Wynecott would soon become the pariah of Society she had sought to make Georgine.

Justice well served, by thunder.

Robyn couldn’t summon a jot of compassion or sympathy for the woman.

Georgine laughed at something her sister said, drawing his attention.

His heart burgeoned with emotion.

Steady on, old chap.

He was worse than a besotted youth experiencing his first infatuation. Only what Robyn felt for his wife went far beyond youthful captivation.

Far, far beyond.

He loved Georgine. Adored her. Cherished her.

Once he had admitted the truth to himself, his entire perspective on their marriage—his life—changed. And if he lived to be one hundred, a bald, hunch-backed, toothless codger, he would never tire of gazing upon her.

Even when time robbed her of her silken skin, sparkling blue eyes, shiny hair, and fetching smile. His memory—no, his soul—would forever be engraved with the woman now sitting across from him.

Until this morning, he hadn’t dared to believe she might return his regard. But that kiss…

Their kiss by the fountain suggested something altogether different.

Up to this point, he had been content to love her without being loved in return, but now…?