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Most would not paint Mrs. Wynecott in a flattering light.

Despite that, the woman did not budge an inch.

By Jove, she had the brass for it—to stand there and smile as though she had not a thing to answer for.

Wainthorpe turned his black stare upon her. Many a man had cowed under that ebony glare. “I do hope I misheard you, madam, for besmirching the good name of our friend and his bride might be considered social suicide.”

“Indeed,” Harcourt murmured, his steely stare unyielding and unforgiving. “One should carefully weigh the words one speaks, particularly when they are pure fabrication.”

Mrs. Wynecott licked her lips and glanced around. Few people regarded her with anything other than contempt. “I am privy to information⁠—”

“I doubt you are on intimate terms with either Fitzlloyd or his wife.” Renshaw scraped his hooded gaze over her, leaving no doubt he found her wanting. “And what you think you know means nothing. What we know…” he swept his hand toward the other aristocrats, “is that Robyn Fitzlloyd is an honorable gentleman and a man of impeccable integrity. Who are you to impugn his honor?”

“I…I…” she blustered and flapped her fan with such vigor, one would think she meant to sail the channel.

Robyn covered Georgine’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

She straightened her spine, pinning Mrs. Wynecott with a look that would have frozen the Thames. “Leave. Now. And never, ever approach me or my family again. And before you sully others, perhaps you should take care that your behavior is beyond reproach.”

“Indeed.” A half smile arching his mouth, Pennington tugged on his earlobe. “St. Winifred’s warden paid my wife a call recently. It seems there are discrepancies between what individuals have donated for the Charity Garden and Fancy Fair fundraisers the past several years, and what the church actually received.”

A feline grin of satisfaction split his face. “Aren’t you in charge of that charity?”

A buzz erupted among the spectators.

Likely, at one time or another, a few of those enjoying ices today had been approached by Mrs. Wynecott to donate.

Mrs. Wynecott visibly sagged, the wind having gone out of her sails. Without a word, she turned and, with her head down, wended her way from the enthralled crowd.

Harsh whispers and insults followed in her wake.

Thief. Charlatan. Judas.

Robyn almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

He turned his attention to his friends. “Georgine is still recovering, but once the physician gives the all clear, we intend to have a reception. Of course, you are all invited.”

To Georgine’s credit, she maintained her poise at his heretofore undisclosed revelation.

They had never discussed having a reception, but once the idea took root, Robyn became convinced it was just the thing to establish their marriage and erase any remaining smudges from their reputation.

“Excellent. I shall inform my wife.” Harcourt nodded. “I have no doubt she will be as delighted as I to accept the invitation.”

The others murmured their agreement.

Regina, silent as a terrified mouse until now, perked up.

“A fete. Oh, I do love planning a party.” She glanced at her sister. “Do you think we can have ices and sorbets, and Chinese lanterns, and…?”

Georgine gave her a tolerant nod while patting her hand.

“We can discuss the details later, dearest.” She tipped her mouth into a pretty smile. “We will send the invitations soon.”

Robyn hadn’t expected her to agree to his impulsive declaration, let alone collaborate with him.

“I fear we must take our leave or risk being late for a meeting at White’s, Fitzlloyd,” Renshaw doffed his hat. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fitzlloyd.”