I longed to stand and bask in his praise, his smile, the light in his eyes, but the omnibus had already started moving, the wind was sharp, and Grace awaited.

“You do talk a lot of nonsense.” I extracted myself from his grip and hurried for the omnibus.

I heard his laughter behind me, before it was swallowed by the rumble of wheels on stone and the rising wind.

*   *   *

I reached the Millburns’ house off Cheapside and spent time hugging my daughter. She was full of chatter about her lessons and games she and Jane, Joanna’s older daughter, had played.

“Have you found the poor children yet?” she asked me when she had a chance to speak to me alone.

“I’m afraid not,” I had to tell her. “But we are looking hard.”

“You’ll find them.” Grace patted my hand. “You and Mr. McAdam and Lady Cynthia.”

Her confidence was touching.

Darkness fell early in February, and lamps had been lit by the time I departed, though it was not yet five in the evening. I kissed Grace good-bye, and she made her usual promise to be good until we saw each other again on Thursday.

I walked away with a heavy heart. The days between visits were always so long.

I climbed aboard another omnibus, but I did not take it directly home. I decided, as I was already out, to investigate the addresses the director of the Foundling Hospital had given Mr. Fielding. Mr. Fielding had already done so, of course, with no results, but I could not shake the need to see for myself.

The first was in a lane near High Holborn, not far from Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Not the most prosperous of addresses, but if one turned down the correct roads, one could find respectable homes.

I walked along Red Lion Street toward the square of the same name, but the number of the house I looked for did not exist—Mr. Fielding had been quite correct. The numbers ceased long before the one he’d been given.

The next address lay near where High Holborn segued into New Oxford Street. It was too close to St. Giles and Seven Dials for my comfort, near the church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields.

I paused before this church, which had much the same look as the one Mr. Fielding had charge of in the East End—spare lines and a graceful steeple, a refreshing picture of calm in the busy city.

Behind the church sprawled the slum of St. Giles. Reformers and building schemes swept the area from time to time, trying to tame the rookeries, but with limited success.