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Daisy couldn’t stop herself. “To be honest, Mother, I’ll look more like an Egyptian mummy than an angel.”
“Fiddlesticks!”
“Remember all those lengths of white satin? I had my final fitting yesterday.”
Her opening gown for the Season had been designed with panels of silk falling from a high waist, intended to lightly float around the wearer’s body. But Lady Wharton had ordered the modiste to use a heavier fabric and add three times as many panels as in the original design.
If Lady Regina thought Daisy was fat last year, wait til the lady caught sight of her in this gown.
“Nonsense!” Lady Wharton snapped. “The dress is fashionable and appropriate. Your hair will stay in a chignon, or I’ll fire your maid. No lip color, of course. A jeune fille, but without French sauciness.”
Daisy nodded. She could do it.
And she would have done it too …
If the entire back of her gown hadn’t ripped clear off her body.
On the dancefloor.
EPISODE NINETY TWO
THE JESTERS’ CORNER
March 2, 1817
THE DUCHESS OF TRENT’S BALL
THE OPENING EVENT OF THE 1817 SEASON
Naturally, having made up his mind to spend the Season looking for a wife, Miles no sooner entered the Trent ballroom than he caught sight of a lady who was manifestly ineligible for that honor.
With ten months’ further acquaintance with Daisy Wharton, he was no longer surprised by the fact she had attended the Rothingale masquerade. Although he had dragged her out of that house, she had spent her time since merrily engaging in impudent mischief, such as smuggling a file to her uncle in the Tower of London.
Admittedly, she had been instrumental in proving that same uncle’s innocence of the charge of treason.
As for the charge of murder? No one could clear Tyron’s name from that accusation, even though his solicitor had done an excellent job of painting Jeremy Tulip as a ne’er-do-well, while prosing on about Sir Tyron’s medal for bravery in the French wars.
And now, of course, Daisy Wharton had returned to polite society. She was standing beside her mother, the swirl of hair atop her head precariously held in place by diamond-clad butterflies. Her gown covered her like a shroud, but even so she was … exquisite.
With a start, he looked away, surveying a ballroom full of ladies with pale lips and orderly hair.
Daisy was far too young and foolish to consider as a wife. Perhaps she wasn’t overly young, but foolish? In the extreme. Impulsive and reckless. She courted scandal: just look at the way she and her cousin used to gallop at top speed through Hyde Park, something no proper lady would do.
In fact, now that he thought of it, Daisy might still be galloping in the park, even though her cousin had married and moved abroad. He should impress upon her the undesirability of that behavior.
It took him two hours to make his way to her side, thanks to his sister Clementine having spread the news that he intended to find a wife. One young woman actually stabbed him with her fan to gain his attention.
When Miles finally reached Daisy, she had just finished dancing with the future Earl Paget. Frederick wasn’t entirely drunk, nor entirely sober.
About the same as always, in other words.
Miles bowed. “Good evening, Miss Wharton. Lord FitzRoy-Paget.”
Daisy’s face stilled, and her smile fell away as she curtsied. “Lord Devin. How do you do?”
“Evening, Devin,” Frederick said, more genially. “How’s the pursuit of murderers serving you these days?”
“I don’t pursue murderers,” Miles replied. “I investigate criminal charges when Earl Paget—your father—requests my assistance. Miss Wharton, it is a pleasure.”
