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Pandora frowned, looking vaguely alarmed. “We have lovely skin. You shouldn’t muddle it with that rubbish.”

“Your father gave it to me,” Daisy protested.

“You’re so naïve. I don’t know how you ever survived to your twenties.”

“You just told me to drink his ginger brew!”

“Some things are good, and others aren’t,” Pandora explained. “We sell the pearl cream under three different names. He gave you the one for ladies, but it’s just a mixture of wheat bran and vinegar. Costs nothing and sells for a lot. Throw it out.”

Belying Daisy’s fear that her eldest half-sister might have been shunted into a life of crime or hard labor, Pandora had been adopted as an infant and raised by her doting, extremely rich parents. She had been happy to meet Daisy but expressed absolutely no wish to be introduced to polite society—until her father and mother begged her.

“Iffen it don’t work out, you’ll be home with us in a trice,” Mr. Gale had pleaded. “Did I get where I am by saying no to opportunity? What have I taught you, girl?”

“I don’t like pretending that my father’s dead,” Pandora said now, pushing one of the knives slightly to the right so that it was in perfect alignment with its fellow.

“Unfortunately, our father is dead,” Daisy said. Lord Wharton had died two months after her wedding. Only his valet had cried during the funeral.

“My real father,” Pandora said moodily. “I like being with you, but the rest of this foolishness? What’s more, I don’t want to get married.”

Daisy eased into a seat, clutching her stomach as if that would stop it from turning upside down. “Why not?”

“Most men I’ve met are boring. Gentlemen don’t seem much better, your husband excluded. In fact, they might be worse, because they’re so spoiled.”

“You merely need to find the right one,” Daisy said. Something odd was happening; Under her fingers her stomach hardened and then seized up. As she glanced down, she discovered to her horror that she had peed all over the Aubusson carpet.

“Baby’s coming,” Pandora said cheerfully. “Luckily for Hobbs, me dad has a cleaning solution for that.” She pulled Daisy upright. “Let’s get you upstairs and call the midwife, shall we?”

Daisy made it to the dining room door before she stopped and gave a little scream. Her entire body clenched as a wave of blinding pain swept up her legs.

Miles burst out of his study, his eyes wild. “Is the baby coming?”

“Shoo,” Pandora said, over her shoulder as she drew Daisy toward the stairs. “A birthing chamber is no place for men.”

Miles paid her no attention, which allowed Daisy to collapse into his arms when another contraction wrenched her body.

“I thought they were supposed to be spaced apart!” Daisy wailed.

“Our hips are designed for this,” Pandora observed. “You’ll get through it in half the time compared to a girl who’s got the waist of a greyhound.”

Daisy clutched her sister’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Pandora leaned over and kissed her cheek. “So am I. Now you,” she said to Miles, “Make yourself useful. Carry Daisy to the bedchamber.”

Before they could move, another wave of pain hit. A moan escaped her lips, and Miles’s arms tightened around her.

“Baby’s going to be born in five minutes at this rate,” Pandora remarked, turning to run up the stairs.

As soon as the contraction relaxed, Miles swept Daisy into his arms. “Bundle of laundry again,” she muttered, leaning her sweaty forehead against Miles’s chest.

By the time they reached the bedchamber—having stopped halfway when another contraction hit—a canvas cloth and a sheet protected the mattress. Pandora was drying her hands on a clean piece of toweling.

Miles set Daisy onto her feet.

“Wash your hands twice,” Pandora ordered, pointing to a bar of soap, a basin, and a pail of water. “Daisy, you first. Everyone needs to be clean.”

“Is that one of your father’s concoctions?” Miles demanded. “It’s gray. The soap is gray.”

“Soda ash. They’ve started to use it while doing amputations to stop infections. Wash,” Pandora said in a ferocious voice. “I only found my sister a month ago, and I won’t have her dying of childbirth fever. Nor the babe, either.”