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“We could help you,” Frederick offered. “As we did last time, deciphering those coded letters. Daisy and I made an excellent pair of investigators, don’t you think? If we hadn’t been born to the wrong families, we could have become Bow Street Runners.”

Daisy’s eyes began dancing. “You could have become a Runner,” she pointed out. “I was born to the wrong gender.”

“I have no need for assistance,” Miles told them.

“I doubt that,” Frederick drawled. “You were sending people all over France looking for that traitor, remember? Any fool could have told you that the man had to be a Londoner.”

“Actually, Frederick,” Daisy said, “I made that point, and I do not consider myself a ‘fool.’”

Miles had the distinct feeling that she considered him to be the fool in question. “Miss Wharton, may I have the honor of a dance?” he asked, rather coldly.

Daisy flipped open her fan and looked at its bare spines as if she were hoping a few signatures had miraculously appeared. “As you can see, you may have whichever dance you choose,” she responded, without visible enthusiasm.

“I’ll take you in for supper,” Frederick promised. “Daisy isn’t enjoying the same popularity as last Season,” he told Miles. “I suspect the murderous uncle has put them off. Likely the young fools are afraid that she’ll put arsenic in their tea if they put a step wrong.”

Daisy snapped her fan shut and tapped her lips, drawing attention to her mouth. Her lips were the deep ruby of port wine, but Miles could have sworn that she wore no lip color. Her eyelashes were darker than her hair, though she hadn’t turned them sooty with coal; they fringed her blue eyes like—

He tore his mind out of an absurd riot of similes. He didn’t care about the color of her eyes.

“A woman should plan for her future,” Daisy said. “What missteps should I consider worthy of arsenic? After all, my uncle has set a standard for criminality that might be hard to match.”

“Adultery,” Frederick said promptly.

Perhaps Lord Fitzroy-Paget thought she would turn pink at the word, or hide behind her fan, or giggle madly. Miles knew better.

“Adultery is so common that avenging it might be taken amiss,” Daisy retorted, not flicking an eyelash. “Like killing a husband because he slurps his tea, which frankly, might actually tempt me to homicide.”

Frederick burst out laughing, but Miles just raised an eyebrow. The man who’d stray from Miss Daisy Wharton’s bed? He didn’t exist.

“Oh dear, I’ve shocked you,” Daisy said to Miles. She flicked open her fan and hid behind it. “Give me a minute …”

When she dropped her fan, her whole face had changed. Her eyes were now soft and bewildered, her lower lip trembling. “I protest and vow, Lord FitzRoy-Paget, that you have shocked me to the bone. ‘Tis a horrendous shock to hear such a nasty word spoken in my presence. I must beg you to have more care for my innocence.”

“Impressive,” Miles said, unable to hold back a smile.

“Yes, especially because a young lady would have to know the meaning of adultery in order to be offended,” Daisy pointed out. “Ignorance and innocence are not always synonymous.”

“Moving on,” Frederick said. “Let’s pretend you transform yourself into an avenging angel for the chaste wives of London, Daisy. If you poisoned every faithless man in this city, there’d scarcely be an intact marriage left.”

“So I have assumed, Frederick. So I have assumed.” Daisy flicked a glance at Miles from under her lush eyelashes, her expression suggesting that she had not forgotten Miles’s appearance at the Rothingale masquerade.

Miles used to think her a nitwit, but after she helped crack the code of a traitor’s letters, he’d come to the conclusion that she was one of the most intelligent women he knew.

Albeit mischievous, impulsive, and prone to telling falsehoods.

“Personally, I believe that murder is worse than adultery,” Frederick said thoughtfully. “It is unfortunate that society will forgive the first, but not the second. Your uncle is a case in point. I shouldn’t have been shocked when the House of Lords acquitted him, but I was.” He took a swig of whiskey.

“Stop drinking,” Daisy said, poking him in the side. “I promised Livie that I’d do my part to rehabilitate your reputation and your liver.”

“Daisy plans to shove me on the market … if she doesn’t marry me herself,” Frederick told Miles.

“You’ve set yourself a challenge, Miss Wharton,” Miles remarked.

“That’s an insult … Pistols at dawn!” Frederick shouted giddily, collecting glances from a good half of the ballroom—who instantly looked away when they saw who had bellowed, their mouths screwed up with disapproval.

Somewhat surprisingly, Miles discovered he was scowling back at them. Frederick might not be a perfect gentleman—obviously he drank too much—but he was far cleverer than most in the room.

Further, there was something wounded behind his mocking eyes. He was an impudent, careless jester, but more interesting than most of the pompous lords Miles dealt with in the House, many of whom had readily excused Sir Tyron for throwing a boy to the sharks.