Georgie let out a sigh when he’d gone and sank into the nearest chair. Her limbs still quivered with outrage and dismay, both at her cousin’s daring and her own pathetic inability to refuse him. He’d bullied her neatly into a corner, and she hated the feeling of having been taken advantage of. With a sudden cry, she jumped up and rang for her maid. “Tilly, will you get my hat and gloves please? I’m going out.”

The servant bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, ma’am. Pieter’s not back from the stables yet, if you’re wanting the carriage brought around.”

“No, thank you. I’ll just take a walk in the park. I need a little fresh air.”

Georgie didn’t wait for a maid to chaperone her. She reached Hyde Park, hailed a cab, and instructed the driver to convey her to the Tricorn Club, St. James’s.

If Wylde wouldn’t come to her, she would go to him.

Benedict glanced up from his desk at the knock on his apartment door. “Yes, Mickey, what is it?”

The ex-boxer’s huge head appeared around the doorframe. “There’s a woman ’ere for you.”

Ben frowned, even as his heart gave a little skip. It was bound to be Georgie. He should have known she wouldn’t have the patience to wait for him to call on her. “What kind of woman?”

“The same one as was ’ere last time.”

Ben sat back in his chair. “That’s what I was afraid of. Bring her up.”

She swept into his parlor like a tiny whirlwind, all bustling skirts and windswept coiffure. Beneath a lunatic confection of a bonnet, strewn with all manner of fashionable bows and ruffles, her cheeks were flushed a becoming pink, and her eyes sparkled with a strange, almost combative light.

His brain immediately wondered what he could do to make her cheeks that pink—and he was glad he’d stayed seated, so his crotch was hidden behind the desk.

“Mrs. Wylde,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You know perfectly well.” She tugged at the ribbon bow by her ear, removed her bonnet, and tossed it onto a chair. She must have left her cloak with Mickey. Her morning dress was a delicate sprigged muslin that molded to her body with fashionable and unnerving faithfulness. Benedict prayed for strength.

“You promised to share the contents of the scroll we stole last night. I have been waiting in all morning.”

She sent him a chiding look; he was clearly not dressed for an imminent visit to her house. He wore only a white shirt and breeches, covered by his favorite long, deep-red banyan robe.

He drew himself up in his chair. “As a matter of fact, I’ve only just returned from a meeting with Admiral Cockburn.”