Morgan took the wooden box to a nearby table and considered her with a weary expression. “I didn’t know how, or where to begin, and in truth, I was afraid.” The honesty of his answer rang through his words. “But it was a matter of honor to tell Rowles. I know him well enough that he wouldn’t cast you aside because of your adoption. Heaven knows he’d marry you if you were a scullery maid, and damn the consequences.”

“He’s romantic like that.”

“Call it what you will, but notwithstanding, I knew I could trust him, and he needed to know since he was to be your husband.”

Joan’s irritation simmered. “I find it difficult to understand how my future husband needed to know something I did not.”

Morgan paused. “When you put it that way, I have no good answer. It seemed logical at the time, but that won’t suffice now, I understand.”

“At least you admit it,” Joan said with less fire.

“My humility knows no bounds,” Morgan said with a little sarcasm, enough to be teasing.

“For that, I have no response.” Joan gave a soft chuckle. “What’s in the box?” she asked, her irritation soothed slightly.

Morgan lifted the lid and set it aside. Within was a dirty white blanket, knit in a tight weave with an embroidered lamb in the corner. “You were wrapped in this. And there was a letter, but we don’t have it any longer.”

“Do you know what it said?” Joan asked, lifting the blanket from the box and holding it. The fabric was a thick wool, slightly stretchy against her skin as she rubbed her fingers over it.

“All I know is that the letter was in French, which was distinctive since we’d been at war with Napoleon. Maybe your mother was escaping the war, only to be caught up in it here as well? Maybe she was a British sympathizer. I suppose we will never know. The letter was short, simply a plea to have you cared for.”

“At least she wanted me cared for.” Joan sighed. “I suppose that’s more than some ever have.”

“It is indeed, and from that we can deduce that she loved you and wanted something better for you than she could give.”

“All good qualities to have in a mother, even one I never knew.”

“And all good qualities she likely passed on to you,” Morgan added, and in a rare show of affection, gave her an awkward side hug.

Joan leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. “Thank you, I know this isn’t easy for you either.”

“No, it’s not. But there’s one more thing.” He sighed and stepped back. “At dinner the other night with Rowles, you mentioned a name you were searching for at the Foundling Hospital.”

“Yes.” Joan nodded. “Agneau.”