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“How did you know that the child was female?” Miles inquired. “I didn’t say.”

Wharton scowled. “I’d admit that a French vixen, Hortense, thought to charge me with the child’s care since the woman was determined to return to her own country. ‘Tis nothing to do with me! Her profession is such that she ought to have guarded against this inevitability.”

Miles rose to his feet. “Be prudent with that frown, Lord Wharton. The wrinkles may prove permanent.”

“Out,” Daisy’s father cried, leaping to his feet. “Have you not insulted me enough? Making your way into my presence pretending to be a bailiff, and accosting me with news of an ill-begotten brat who is no business of mine?”

Wharton had no conscience, no morals, and no concern for his children. To inflict his presence on Belle would be folly; Miles was caught by sincere regret that Daisy had grown up with this cold fish for a father.

“In six months I intend to announce that a cousin of yours, born on the wrong side of the blanket, has died in India, leaving his legitimately born child in your care. In turn, you will allot Belle to my guardianship.”

“Oh, I will, will I?”

“From this day forward you will have no contact with either of your daughters. If you visit brothels in the future, you will wear a condom.”

“My behavior is none of your business!” Lord Wharton blustered.

Miles narrowed his eyes and waited.

Wharton shrugged. “As it happens, this, ah, gentleman’s complaint has curtailed my romantic life. You may have married Daisy—and I still want to see the marriage certificate—but you’ve no right to order me about!”

“I could remove you from this snug apartment as easily as a mouse is evicted from its hole,” Miles said contemptuously. “Or I could pay off those bailiffs, ensuring that my wretched father-in-law doesn’t embarrass his daughters by being hounded before the courts or sent to debtor’s prison.”

A charged silence followed.

“I suppose you shall have your way,” Lord Wharton said heavily. “I remember who you are now. The guardian of morality in the House of Lords, aren’t you? You hounded the poor Earl of Debbleton for the grave crime of owning his own theater.”

“He was forcing young women from the country to engage in sexual acts on his stage.”

“Rubbish! They were well paid—and well satisfied. Debbleton is always generous. The men in my club took it amiss, I don’t mind telling you. I don’t suppose you could neglect to announce this wedding in the paper? I’d rather not be associated with you.”

“An announcement of my marriage has already been sent to The Times. While I am proud to have married your daughter, I have no more wish to be connected with you than you to me. I certainly don’t give a damn about the opinion of the hellhounds belonging to whatever club invited you to join.” He headed for the door.

“Hypocrite. You’re a hypocrite and a liar,” Lord Wharton spat.

Miles turned. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“You? With your infamous propensity for Russian dancers? You dare to wield a holier-than-thou attitude toward Lord Debbleton? Do you think that those dancers were well paid? Well-treated? From Russia rather than the countryside? Rumor has it you paid for the attentions of any number of strumpets and only later began judging others for doing the same.”

Miles’s jaw tightened. His hand landed on the rapier slung on his hip—and froze. The man wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Who’s to say that you don’t have the odd bastard floating around London?” Wharton hissed.

“I always used a French letter, for my protection and that of the woman in question.”

His father-in-law’s mouth twisted, but he kept silent.

“If I ever hear that you recovered from your ailment sufficiently to enter a brothel, there’ll be no money from that point,” Miles stated. “No matter whether you’re dragged off to debtor’s prison or not.”

“My doctor seems fairly certain that I won’t live to see the new year,” Wharton said abruptly. “The pox has spread, though it isn’t visible.”

“Daisy will be sorry to hear that.”

“She always chattered too much for my taste, but she’s a good lass, nothing like her mother. I suppose you’ll take care of her?”

“My wife will always be safe with me. As will your other daughter, Belle.”

“That mopsie is not—” Lord Wharton broke off at the look in Miles’s eyes. “Likely not mine,” he amended.