DANIEL STUDIED THE BEAUTIFUL BREAKFAST room in the Thorndike townhouse as he took a seat. The early morning summons had been delivered to Bow Street before dawn, where Daniel had been filling out his reports and winding up his case to present to the magistrate. He had seen some of the opulent rooms of the Thorndike townhouse, of course, but that was before he knew he might own one himself. What might the Darby London abode be like? Newly renovated, he understood. It seemed odd to be keeping this secret, and yet it had been kept a long time from a lot of people. Another little while would do no harm.

He traced the lace pattern on the tablecloth with his thumb. Somewhere in this house his mother was at work as the housekeeper, yet she was a titled woman. Would she be addressed as the Viscountess Coatsworth? Lady Darby? With a jolt, he realized his proper last name was Darby, not Swann. Daniel Darby? Lord Rotherhide? An odd feeling of not belonging to either name swept over him.

Sir Bertrand sat at the head of the table, his left arm cradled in a sling. He tapped a special edition broadsheet beside his plate.

“How are you faring this morning?” Daniel asked.

“Fine. A surgeon with the ability to keep his own counsel was summoned late last night, and according to him the sling is necessary for a few days. I think it gives me a bit of flair, don’t you? Perhaps someone will think I’ve been dueling on the heath over some woman’s honor?”

“Or that you were drunk and accidentally shot yourself.” Daniel grinned.

“Quite possible.” Sir Bertrand did not seem put out at the jest. “The arrest made quite a splash.” He pointed to the large headline. Montgomery Murder Solved.

“It took most of the night, but he confessed in the end.” Daniel stifled a yawn. He had taken Earnshaw directly to Newgate Prison, that edifice being much closer to St. Bart’s Hospital than Bow Street. He’d questioned the accountant at length, presenting him with the mounting evidence against him. In the end, Earnshaw had crumbled. The newspapers always had sources at the prison, and they must have been quick to race back to the office to get the word out so rapidly.

Lady Juliette entered the room, and Daniel shot to his feet so fast his chair toppled over. He mumbled a greeting as he righted it.

She smiled brightly, as fresh as if she had not been out of the house for hours last night.

He rounded the table to pull out a chair for her, and as she sat, her perfume—roses—swirled about him. He shook his head. Was she even now carrying a pistol or knife? How could he align the beautiful debutante and the capable agent in one alluring girl?