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It felt as if all the corruption, unkindness, and sexual depravity he’d been forced to witness—and investigate—had come down to this: a man so vile that he refused to wear a condom, resulting in children whom he discarded like snagged silk stockings: imperfect, worthy of no notice, tossed aside to be mended by someone else.

By his long-suffering wife, Lady Wharton. Or by Miles’s wife.

Daisy’s father apparently didn’t care that most of his children were considered a disgrace, degraded from the moment they breathed air, the sins of their father visited on their heads.

The entrance to the Albany clung to the trappings of an aristocratic home, though with a touch of self-consciousness, like a noblewoman fallen on hard times. The Aubusson rug was worn before the door, but numerous candles burned brightly, and the butler who advanced to meet Miles was properly attired in black with snowy white touches.

“I am Lord Devin,” Miles said, pulling off his hat and gloves.

“It is a pleasure to welcome you to the Albany, your lordship,” the man said with a deep bow. “My name is Mr. Guppy, and I’ve the pleasure of butlering for all seventy-three bachelor apartments. One of the very best has recent—”

“I’m married,” Miles interrupted him. “And so, by the way, is Lord Wharton, so ‘bachelor apartments’ is something of a misnomer, is it not?”

“The famous poet, Lord Byron, also lives here, and he is married,” Guppy said brightly. “Am I to take it that you’d like to pay Lord Wharton a visit, my lord? If you’ll give me your card, I’ll see if his lordship is receiving.”

“No, you’ll take me to his door on the double,” Miles said, handing his greatcoat, hat, and gloves to a footman. Daisy was waiting at home. Waiting for him in a towel.

He’d been so enraged that it was only when he was driving away from the house that he abruptly realized that he’d made a ludicrous mistake. He’d been close to bedding the one woman whom he’d desired in years. Instead, he’d left her sitting on the bed in peach-cheeked perfection while fury swept him into a carriage.

When had anger and revulsion ever swayed him to this extent? He’d been unkind to her, too. Wretchedly unkind, and he felt ashamed of it.

He would send a note to Lord Paget resigning his post tomorrow morning. He’d had enough of the dissolute practices of the wealthy and mighty. The anger that was swilling in his gut wasn’t due to his hasty marriage. It stemmed from countless hours spent listening to gentlemen with hard smiles explain away their crimes.

He wanted no more of it.

The only thing he wanted, in fact, was to return home and make peace with his wife. Because Daisy was terribly important to him. He hadn’t realized how important until he was in a carriage bowling away from her.

“Here you are, my lord. Number sixty-nine, and you are lucky to find his lordship in on an evening. He’s a night-owl, Lord Wharton.”

Miles rapped on the door, thinking that he must have met Daisy’s father at some point, though he had no memory of it. To the best of his recollection, his lordship did not attend his brother-in-law’s treason trial.

The door was opened by a manservant. The gentleman who languidly rose from the couch seemed surprisingly youthful for a man in his sixties. Miles might actually have thought Lady Wharton was older than her husband, perhaps because worry and anger had worn on her spirit.

His lordship’s silver hair had thinned significantly on the top of his head, so he had brushed the two sides up to meet in the middle like the ridgepole of a thatched roof. His cravat brushed his jowls in a fussy style worn by young men. Even worse, he was wearing fawn-colored, closely fitted pantaloons with an opening at the ankle.

“May I help you?” he inquired.

Miles jerked his head at the valet, who took himself away. “You may indeed help me,” he said, walking into the apartment. The drawing room was pleasantly enough laid out, though a touch over-theatrical given its red velvet hangings and gilded wainscoting.

“Excuse me,” Wharton said in a pained tone. “May I know who you are? If you are a bailiff—”

“I am your son-in-law,” Miles said, wheeling about.

Wharton gasped, “No.” He might have turned pale from shock, but no sign was visible since he wore a thick layer of face paint, his cheeks dusted with rouge.

“Yes,” Miles said, walking close enough to confirm inadequately disguised syphilis scabs around the man’s mouth. A beat of sadness went through him, not for the wretched Wharton, but for Daisy, who had lost her good regard for her father and was likely to lose him altogether in the near future.

“You must have forced my girl,” Wharton said, his voice rising. “Daisy’s too young to be married.”

“She is over twenty.”

He blinked at this clearly unwelcome information. “Did you elope with her?” he demanded, recovering.

“Do you care?”

“Of course I care! As she is mine, I may dispose of her. I’ve told her mother many a time that I won’t allow her to marry below the nobility.” Wharton’s eyes rested disdainfully on Miles’s hastily tied cravat.

“You’re in luck,” Miles said, seating himself. “I am Lord Devin. My claim to nobility stretches back to a close friend of Henry VIII.”