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“Yes, Mother,” Daisy replied, nodding.

“Tomorrow night, at the Duchess of Trent’s opening ball, I will conduct myself soberly, as if garbed in sackcloth and ashes.”

Daisy knew perfectly well that her mother planned to wear a magnificent gown of periwinkle-blue satin adorned with a circlet of diamonds; a costume farther from sackcloth could hardly be imagined. She nodded again. “Of course.”

Her mother looked at her sharply. “My gown is dark blue. Very close to gray. I believe sackcloth is brown, but the color is ruinous for my complexion.” Dismissing that sartorial observation, she began leafing through a thick stack of invitations that had arrived in the previous week.

Before her uncle’s trial for treason, followed by his death by apoplexy on learning that he was going to be convicted for murder, Daisy would have relished a lively debate on the suitability of diamonds with sackcloth, but these days she tried not to upset her mother’s equilibrium. Lady Wharton veered between fretting and brooding, interspersed with frequent bouts of tears.

“Everyone but the haughtiest of sticklers will welcome my daughter back to society,” Lady Wharton muttered to herself. “Daisy’s dowry and breeding are excellent, and her beauty is incomparable.”

Last Season, the thoroughly dislikable Lady Regina had mocked Daisy for being “short, fat, and unkempt,” which had stung at the time. Since then, based on ogling males, Daisy had concluded that her plump bosom was an asset in husband-hunting. And Lord Argyle had not labeled her hair unkempt but compared it to a moon’s nimbus.

Which he then kindly clarified as a “luminous cloud of moonbeams.”

So who cared what Lady Regina thought?

“Livie and I had plenty of suitors last Season before my uncle’s circumstances forced us to withdraw,” she reminded her mother.

“Your cousin’s marriage does clear the field, making you one of the most eligible ladies on the market,” her mother said, taking a practical view of the matter. “Unfortunately, Robert de Lacy Evans is now betrothed, and Lord Argyle married over the summer. It’s a pity he didn’t wait for you.” She brightened. “Of course, Livie’s brother-in-law, Lord Frederick FitzRoy-Paget, is both unmarried and a future earl.”

“Fond though I am of Frederick, he’s an inebriate,” Daisy noted.

“The Earl of Winchester is looking for a wife after his betrothal to Lady Regina broke down,” Lady Wharton added, with a touch of uncertainty.

The man Daisy and Livie had compared to a scallion? Never. “Any man foolish enough to betroth himself to Regina is not someone I’d care to marry.”

Lady Wharton snatched a missive out of the pile and broke the seal, her fingers trembling slightly. A ticket fell out. “Thank goodness,” she cried. “Lady Castlereigh has reissued your Almack’s voucher.”

Daisy scowled. “What about Livie’s?” Back when her uncle was first accused of treason, Almack’s had promptly withdrawn admission vouchers from both girls.

“Livie no longer needs a voucher,” her mother said, looking up. “She is happily married and living abroad, as we shall inform anyone impertinent enough to inquire.”

“Yes, but—”

“Do not mention his name!” Lady Wharton’s voice rose to a pitch. “My brother, my own brother—” She choked, dropping Lady Castlereigh’s note back on the table before she rose and walked across the room to the window, wrapping her arms around her waist.

Daisy hopped up and went to her side, giving her a consoling hug and a handkerchief.

Her mother blotted her eyes. “It was bad enough when he was accused of treason! But murder? How shall I ever live it down? I dread the thought of walking into a ballroom.”

“We must remember that Capt—that he—died before he was actually convicted,” Daisy offered.

“Pshaw! That poor boy,” her mother continued unsteadily. “That poor, poor boy.”

While captaining a navy vessel, Daisy’s uncle had ordered a young sailor named Jeremy Tulip to be thrown overboard for a minor infraction, and the lad had either been eaten by sharks or drowned.

“Naturally, my brother had no concern about the damage he’s done! One of the last things he said to me was that he intended to put the whole unpleasantness out of his mind. That’s what he called it: an ‘unpleasantness.’ Sometimes I just hate men.” Lady Wharton’s voice crackled with grief.

“I understand,” Daisy said, handing over another handkerchief. She had begun carrying three or four.

“My brother may have left this world, but that’s not far enough. I would be pleased never to hear his name again. Ever. The moment I walk into the Trent ballroom, he is all anyone will speak about. They’ll be asking me with feigned sincerity how I feel after my loss. And what am I to say to that? How does the family of a murderer grieve his loss?”

“Not for long,” Daisy promised. “The world will quickly move to the next scandal.”

Her mother swallowed hard and mopped her eyes again. “I have spent years establishing myself as an ethical, upstanding member of polite society. Merely for a cruel, selfish man to drag my reputation through the mud.”

“Livie cannot be blamed for her father’s transgressions—and neither can you, for your brother’s,” Daisy said, for approximately the thousandth time.