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“Can I have one, Mrs. Stanley?” Asher’s plea was filled with hope.

“Yes,” Mrs. Stanley said. “But only one.” She glanced outside before pulling a bun out from under the cloth and handing it to Asher. The child took it, holding it almost reverently. “Now, off with you,” she said. “There’s wash to be done.”

Still holding his bun in two hands before him, Asher nodded and started for the stairs. He took a bite as he climbed the first step. He paused. Then he turned around and ran back to Jane. Wrapping his arms around her legs, he brushed the spiced bun against her skirts. “Thank you, miss.” Asher’s voice was muffled against the heavy fabric. “I like buns. I weally, weally do.”

Caught off guard by the force of his embrace, Jane stumbled back. Alice seized her elbow to steady her.

“Asher! Unhand Miss Hadford immediately.” At Mrs. Stanley’s sudden outburst, the baby began to cry. Mrs. Stanley’s pale face showed a hint of pink, and she reached for Asher’s bony shoulder and pulled him away. “My apologies, Miss Hadford.”

“It is quite all right, Mrs. Stanley.” Jane glanced at Asher’s stricken face. Terror shone in his eyes, and Jane knew she needed to eliminate it immediately. She leaned over her cane so she was closer to him. “It was not your fault, Asher. My leg is not as steady as it should be, and sometimes, it lets me down. I am very happy that you like the bun, and I shall tell Cook that you liked it well enough to come running back to tell me.”

Clinging to his crushed bread, Asher gave her a hesitant nod.

“Promise me that you will finish every last crumb,” she added.

He nodded again, this time more firmly. Jane smiled, grateful to see his fear subsiding. She stood up straight and raised her voice slightly to be heard over the distraught baby. “I shall take my leave of you now, Mrs. Stanley. I am very happy to have met you.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Miss Hadford,” Mrs. Stanley said, bouncing the child in her arms even as she held on to the basket.

“You are most welcome,” Jane said. “Good day, Mrs. Stanley. Good day, Asher.” Jane turned toward the carriage. Muted voices came from inside the butcher’s shop, but the street was quiet. She wrapped her arm through Alice’s, and they crossed the road together. Albert was watching for them and had the carriage door open when they reached him. He offered his hand to Jane to help her inside. She took it, then paused, glancing over her shoulder to look back at the worn door. It was closed, and there was no sign of Mrs. Stanley or Asher. A few feet away, however, a burly, redheaded man was standing in the doorway of the butcher shop. Hands on his hips, he was watching the activity at the Hadford carriage with unnerving focus.

Jane’s foot slipped slightly on the carriage step, and Albert tightened his grip.

“All right, miss?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, regaining her balance and climbing inside without further mishap. “I am well, thank you.”

Alice followed her in, and with a nod, Albert closed the door behind them. Jane sank back in her seat and turned to face the green, but in her mind’s eye, Mr. Stanley’s antagonistic gaze remained on her. She shuddered. There was something about High Brodmore’s butcher that disturbed her. Actually, almost everything about the Stanleys’ situation disturbed her, but other than dropping off a basket of spiced buns, she had yet to determine what more she could do.

Alexander had pondered everything he’d learned at the Foundling Hospital all the way home. But when he entered Claremont House, his thoughts were no clearer than they’d been when he’d watched Mr. Morris usher Benjamin out of the lobby and had wished the man good day. Indeed, if anything, he had more questions now than he’d had before he set out on his impromptu quest a couple of hours before.

“I have something I must see to right away,” he said, handing the butler his hat and gloves at the door. “Have Mrs. Turley join me in the study, would you, Hastings.”

“Right away, my lord.”

Crossing the hall briskly, Alexander entered his study and took a seat behind the desk. Reaching for a fresh piece of paper and a quill, he slid the inkpot closer. Amid all the perplexity of the last few hours, there were two things that were certain: First, Miss Hadford’s intuition had steered her right; there was no doubt in his mind that all was not well at the Stanley house. Second, he must write to the young lady immediately to tell her what he had learned from his visit to the Foundling Hospital.

He heard a soft knock and looked up. Mrs. Turley was standing at the door.

“You asked to see me, my lord?” she said.

“I did.” Alexander turned his attention to her. “I wish to have a large basket of food delivered to the Foundling Hospital.” He smiled. “Cook may be a little out of practice. I fear it has been some years since she was preparing baskets for me at Eton. But I have no doubt she remembers well what would appeal to young boys with ravenous appetites.”

“I am sure you are correct, my lord,” Mrs. Turley said. “Is there any particular name you wished attached to the basket?”

“Yes. The young man’s name is Benjamin Harris.” He withdrew a small card from his drawer and wrote a short message: From one tadpole collector to another. “Take this,” he said, handing it to his housekeeper. “Insert it into the basket. Benjamin will know who it is from.”

“Very good, my lord.” With the card in hand, she turned to go.

“Oh, and, Mrs. Turley.” Alexander’s voice stopped her. “Be sure that there’s enough in the basket to feed an entire dormitory. That’s the way it works at school, you know.”

Mrs. Turley smiled. “As you said, my lord, Cook will know exactly what to do.”

The door closed behind her, and Alexander was faced with a blank page once more. He dipped his quill into the ink. Sharing his struggle over locating Miss Brown’s son with Miss Hadford at the Norringtons’ library had enabled him to reach this point. Perhaps sharing his experience at the hospital with her in a letter would help him see the new puzzle pieces more clearly. He could only hope that would be the case.

Chapter 12

Over the next couple days, Jane devoted her time to painting. Her rendition of the forsythia arch at the village green was beginning to take shape, and even though she’d visited the village only twice, her memory of the magpie sitting in the majestic horse chestnut tree beyond the arch and the smattering of puddles on the road in the foreground were firmly etched in her mind. She had long since learned that it was little details like these that brought a painting to life.