“I have a parish in the East End,” Mr. Fielding said. “A small church called All Saints in Shadwell, among the most wretched of society. But as I came from a wretched place myself, I fit there.” He flashed me a smile that contained no hint of that dark past. “Daniel and I were raised together, and he tells me you know under what circumstances. We refer to each other as brother, but we were no such thing, though as close as. After the man we called our father died, I eked a living on the streets until I had the fortune to be taken in by a gentleman who’d lost his own son. He raised me and paid for me to be privately tutored, and then managed to get me into Balliol—Oxford—as a charity student, where I studied and took holy orders. Though my foster father is wellborn—the younger son of a marquess, in fact—I am not, and so I doubt I will rise higher than I have, but I will be forever grateful for him.”

His speech sounded a bit rehearsed, but perhaps Mr. Fielding was trying to convince me he was respectable. The gentleman who’d taken him in must have been one of rare benevolence to give a boy off the streets an education at his own expense.

“I find that I like being a shepherd—as it were,” Mr. Fielding went on. “Helping those who were like myself. Though I am no soft touch—I worked hard to relieve myself from poverty and to show my gratitude to my foster father, and I expect no less of my parishioners. One duty I have taken on, which I do without objection, is to serve on the board of governors of the Foundling Hospital in Brunswick Square.”

I knew exactly the place to which Mr. Fielding referred, and a chill went through me.

Years ago, when I’d realized I’d conceived, I’d made myself walk to the formidable gray building that was the Foundling Hospital. It stretched its arms around a vast courtyard, forbidding and confining at the same time. I’d hated the Hospital yet was drawn to it, my young heart terrified I’d have no choice but to leave my child there when I delivered her.

I knew that within the Foundling Hospital’s walls, Grace would have been fed, clothed, and taught a trade, one that would keep her from the streets, disgrace, and an early death. But I’d likely never have seen her again. That was the price a woman paid for depositing her baby on their doorstep. She turned away and left the child, trusting others to do what they could for her.