Page 29

HER NAME IS BELLE?

Miles was seated at his desk, writing up a report for Lord Paget, the Lord High Steward. “My investigation has proved that Lady Lamont had an amorous relationship with the household’s third footman, as evidenced by several letters. The lady wrote those missives not realizing that the object of her affections was illiterate; the affair was discovered when the footman asked the cook to read them aloud.”

He put down his quill. Lord Lamont wanted a divorce; his lady just wanted the footman. When he first began working with Lord Paget, three years ago, he found such cases interesting. Now he felt besmirched by the sexual depravity that “polite” society ignored.

Not for the first time, he considered stepping away from his position in the House of Lords. He would be deeply grateful to return to a state of ignorance with regard to his peers.

Yesterday he had listened to a pained lady explain her husband’s penchant for behavior so outrageous that she faltered in her explanation, bursting into tears. Thereafter, he interviewed a lord who insisted that it was his wife’s clumsiness that had caused her to fall down the stairs; his father-in-law was entirely mistaken when he insisted that he—her husband—had pushed her. “I treat my wife like a queen,” he had blustered, turning red in the face.

If Miles had ever believed in innocence and decency, he didn’t any longer. Daisy’s face flashed through his mind, and he pushed the image away.

He was doing his best to ignore her. Allow her to kiss her young suitors. Younger-than-he suitors. He had made up his mind to marry, but certainly not someone whose flirtatious ways inspired homicidal jealousy. Which is what he felt about her.

That would be madness.

His butler, Hobbs, opened the door and gobbled something, even though Miles had explicitly told the man that he was working.

“For God’s sake, Hobbs,” Miles said, taking up his quill. “Take care of it yourself, won’t you? I have to finish this report.”

“That’s Miss Peacham to you,” a lady’s voice said—not just any voice. It was unmistakably Daisy’s. He surged to his feet.

Sure enough, Daisy was closing the door in his butler’s face.

“Hello, Miles.”

Where in the hell was her chaperone? Lady Wharton would be appalled by this clandestine visit. The conversation they had following his first and only proposal of marriage had become one of his least favorite memories.

Lately he found himself waking at night and questioning his choices as a younger man. Yes, he had enjoyed the charms of opera dancers, though he’d never engaged in adulterous relationships, as did many of his peers. He had always used a condom and thankfully had avoided catching syphilis or another such disease.

Even so, his reputation had become a millstone around his neck, dragging him to the level of those he investigated.

As he walked toward the door, Daisy turned to him. Sparks of alarm went through him: her hair was more disarranged than normal, and her eyes were red. She’d been crying.

“What’s the matter?” he asked sharply.

“Everything,” she said. “Everything has gone wrong, Miles. I didn’t know where else to turn.” She glanced down.

He hadn’t even noticed that she was carrying a basket, let alone a basket from which a small foot was waving in the air. His breath caught in his chest. “Daisy.”

Her mouth quivered into a shaky smile. “Daisy—and Belle.”

Miles took the basket and pulled back the lace cover. The child took one look at him and let out a squeal that escalated into a shriek.

“Oh, my goodness,” Daisy gasped, patting her shoulder. “Belle, please don’t scream.”

Not for nothing had Miles grown up with four younger sisters. He felt around to make sure the child was dry before he picked her up, dropping the basket to the floor. Somehow through a haze of disillusionment and fury, he managed to ask, “Her name is Belle?”

“Yes,” Daisy said. “You are acquainted with babies, I see.”

What right had she to narrow her eyes at him? She was the one carting around an infant who was her spitting image. An adorable baby. Even in the grip of sheer, bloody jealousy, he had to admit that.

“I am,” he said coolly. “Not entirely willingly.”

Why should he be surprised that she had a child? No one in polite society was exempt from the uncivilized behavior he saw every day—and that included young ladies. If anything, Daisy was more honest than most, since she had jested about her future husband’s adultery. Moreover, she had attended that masquerade, so her innocence had always been in doubt.

“I am impressed,” she said, somewhat surprisingly. “I find your readiness to admit familiarity with children to be honorable.”

“Honor has nothing to do with it.” After he and his elder sister were born, his parents had allowed a decade to pass before they had a sudden spate of offspring. When they died of influenza on the same terrible day, he stepped into parenthood at the age of fourteen.