Page 49

Thirteen

Still at Gunter’s Tea Shop

An impossibly uncomfortable heartbeat later

From the corner of his eye, Robyn caught sight of Mrs. Wynecott, wearing ruffled puce from head to toe and resembling an overripe plum, barreling toward them, a second before she trumpeted her arrival at the auditory expense of Gunter’s unfortunate and unsuspecting patrons.

So much for avoiding unpleasantness on their outing.

“For shame, Mr. Fitzlloyd. Flaunting your mistress in public and in the company of your sister and Miss Thackerly’s as well. It’s beyond the pale.” She plowed to a stop two feet from their table, her expression smug and superior, pure venom flashing in her eyes as she fanned her red, sweaty face.

Miss Twigg was nowhere to be seen.

Lucky her.

Several women, including Matilda, gasped, and a few pulled their skirts closer as if fearful of Georgine contaminating them.

Robyn did not doubt that every eye bore into them, and fury billowed within him.

Georgine froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

Shock and horror darkened her eyes to navy blue.

Regina’s jaw dropped, and her spoonful of lemon ice plopped onto the table, immediately melting into a sticky pool.

Robyn fisted his hands against the disturbing urge to grasp Mrs. Wynecott by her thick neck and shake her until all the feathers fell off her bonnet. Before he could give the cow the tongue-lashing she deserved, a familiar voice echoed over his shoulder.

“Fitzlloyd, you old rascal. I heard you had taken a beautiful bride. I suppose we shall forgive you for not inviting us to the wedding. I cannot blame you for wanting to keep her to yourself. I was of the same mind when I wed.”

Maxwell, Duke of Pennington.

Robyn glanced behind him, delighted to see Pennington and several other peers. All leveled Mrs. Wynecott scathing glowers. ’Twas a wonder she remained standing under their scornful scrutiny.

Never in his life had Robyn been more grateful for titled friends. He didn’t know or care what had brought the lot to Gunter’s at this precise moment—probably on their way to White’s Club—but their arrival was nothing short of a godsend.

If Verbena Wynecott thought to take the field against these peers, she ought to think again; a fat goose at Michaelmas stood a better chance of survival. Several were known for their sharp tongues and intolerance for stupidity.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Mrs. Wynecott paled, uncertainty flitting across her broad face.

Good.

She should be apprehensive.

Standing noble shoulder to noble shoulder and presenting a united front, several aristocrats stood a few feet behind Robyn. Besides Pennington, the Duke of Harcourt, the Earls of Renshaw and Wainthorpe, and Viscount Sethwick regarded Mrs. Wynecott with utter disdain.

Robyn rose and bowed. “Your Graces. My lords.”

If their audience had been rapt before, now the patrons stared agog, their coveted ices forgotten and melting in the July heat.

“Come, old chap. Introduce us,” the Earl of Renshaw urged.

He winked at Georgine before leveling Mrs. Wynecott a blistering stare that would have sent a more astute woman running with her tail between her stout legs.

Mrs. Wynecott was not astute, or else she would have concealed her thievery better. Obtuse, intrusive, and meddlesome, the dame continued to stare while sweating like a racehorse.

A flurry of introductions commenced, the peers waving Georgine and the sisters back into their chairs when good etiquette dictated that they rise.

The onlookers whispered among themselves, some likely never having encountered so many peers at once. There would be many exaggerated stories told around the dinner table and in drawing rooms tonight.