Juliet sat up, all lounging forgotten. “Oh, my poor Simeon! Is he getting terribly wet?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Wylde caught Georgie’s eye, and they shared an amused look.

“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that,” he muttered. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you have any plans for tomorrow evening? I’m meeting someone at Vauxhall. If we’re seen there together, I can show you some conspicuous attention and get rumors flying.”

Before Georgie could reply, Mother returned, accompanied by Mrs. Potter, the housekeeper, carrying a large tray.

“Will you stay for some tea, Mr. Wylde?”

“I’m afraid I cannot, Mrs. Caversteed. But I was hoping I might see you ladies at Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night. I hear Madame Sacqui is performing her rope-walking tricks, and there will be fireworks at ten.”

Mother shot a congratulatory look at Juliet. “That sounds lovely! Juliet’s been wanting to see the fireworks for an age, haven’t you, dear? If the weather is fine, we’ll be there.”

He bowed slightly. “Shall we say nine o’clock, by the rotunda?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll see Mr. Wylde out,” Georgie said, herding him toward the door.

The front hall was uncharacteristically deserted; Pieter was doubtless below stairs making a cold compress for Juliet. Georgie opened the front door—and came face-to-face with a sodden Simeon, who was standing at the bottom of the steps, apparently summoning the courage to knock. His black hair was plastered to his skull, and in one hand, he held a limp posy of flowers, presumably purloined from Hyde Park’s borders.

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, come in, Mr. Pettigrew, for heaven’s sake.”

She stepped back to avoid his sopping figure as he splashed up the steps and into the hall.

“You are an angel, Miss Caversteed,” he breathed fervently. “An angel.” He tried to possess himself of her hand, then changed his mind and sneezed instead. “I do beg your pardon, but I couldn’t stay away. I saw what happened in the park.” He glanced over at Benedict and frowned, then turned back to Georgie. “Is Juliet well? Bee stings are no trifling matter. And Juliet is such a delicate creature. Why—”

Georgie cut off what promised to be a long list of Juliet’s attributes. “She will be perfectly well, I am sure, Mr. Pettigrew. But please, you must go, before Mother hears you. You know she disapproves of your association.”

Simeon scowled. “My love for Juliet could survive anything! Even the direst of opposition—”

“Yes, yes,” Georgie said impatiently, “that’s all very well. But you’re dripping on the rug.”