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Stunned, Alexander looked from the woman’s tortured, gaunt face to the vicar’s apologetic one. “You wish me to convey her last words?”

Alexander had been speaking loudly enough for the vicar to hear, but it must have also reached Charlie’s ears. “Last words” were too much to bear. There was a thunder of footsteps against the stairs, followed by the slamming of the door.

“Yes. I can give her no comfort unless I know exactly what is needed,” the vicar said.

Breathing through his mouth, Alexander dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Forgive me, Mrs. Stanley,” he said. “I am here to help. What would you have the vicar know?”

“The boys,” she whispered. “Elijah . . . David . . . Daniel . . . They did not . . .” Her eyes remained closed, and her fingers pulled at the threadbare blanket. “They did not die.”

Breathing through his mouth was forgotten. Taking any breath at all was almost impossible. “They did not die,” he repeated.

There was an almost indiscernible shake of Mrs. Stanley’s head, and he saw a tear trickle across her sallow skin. “My husband . . .” Her voice was becoming weaker.

“Your husband? What did he do?” Alexander pressed.

“He . . . he sold them.”

It took every ounce of self-control Alexander possessed to keep an expletive from hurtling past his lips. Only by clutching the blanket did he remain on his knees at the bedside. Heaven help him. He had to keep his head. Somehow, he must convey this damning confession to the vicar without his own emotions interfering. And for the sake of those children, he must learn more. “How did this happen?”

“I took them.” She was openly weeping now. “I took them to his brother. Jasper . . . he wanted them badly enough to pay.”

“Lord Bloxley?” The vicar shifted impatiently. “What is she saying?”

“One moment, Vicar.” Alexander had to learn as much as he could before the woman’s strength failed her.

“Why, Mrs. Stanley? Why did he want them?”

“So . . . so small,” she whispered. “They fit through the f . . . f . . . flues.”

Alexander bowed his head and took gulping breaths of the sour air as all the puzzle pieces fell into place. The Foundling Hospital boys had been sold as chimney sweep apprentices right before they were due to return to London. Mr. Stanley had purposely starved them to stunt their growth so they would be small enough to climb through the chimney flues. Only Benjamin had been spared, and that was thanks to his gangly limbs. He had been too tall for the job.

He felt her clawlike hand scrape against his arm. “Mr. Stanley threatened . . . He threatened to . . .” She swallowed hard. “No matter. I should have refused. May God have mercy on my soul.”

“Lord Bloxley.” Mr. Fossum’s patience was at an end. “Pray, tell me what I need to know.”

“Mrs. Stanley lied about the deaths of the Foundling Hospital boys who were in her care.” He recited the facts as though reading a list. If he thought of what he was saying, there would be no holding back his fury. “She wishes to confess her part in selling them to her brother-in-law to be bound as apprentice chimney sweeps.”

Mr. Fossum stared at him through the gloom. “Forgive me. I did not hear you aright.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Fossum, I believe you did.”

The vicar’s gaze slid to Mrs. Stanley. “You sold the boys? They did not die of the influenza or dysentery?”

Mrs. Stanley’s only response was another tear, and suddenly, Alexander could not be there any longer.

“I believe you now know what Mrs. Stanley needed to say, Vicar,” he said. “It is not my place to stay any longer. If you will excuse me, I shall take my leave.”

Rising to his feet, he marched out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. Barely aware of his surroundings, he walked until he spotted Sampson waiting outside the churchyard. Then he mounted, swung the stallion around, and headed back to Bloxley Hall at a gallop.

Chapter 18

Alexander paced across his father’s study—his study—and took mental inventory of what he had done since returning to Bloxley Hall. Upon his arrival two short hours ago, he had come directly to this room and had yet to step outside it. Not even the promise of Cook’s bread pudding had been sufficient to induce him to eat in his current state.

Three letters lay on the desk. The first was to Mr. Barrett, the director of the Foundling Hospital, reporting the imminent passing of Mrs. Stanley and requesting that new arrangements be made for Asher and the baby presently staying with a neighbor. Alexander had considered informing the director of his belief that three of the hospital’s wards who had been presumed dead were, in reality, sold as chimney sweep apprentices, but until he had firm proof, that would have to wait.

His hope was that the second letter would, in fact, garner the very proof he needed. It was addressed to Mr. Toole at Bow Street. Alexander had worked with the man once before and knew him to be an outstanding Runner. If anyone could locate Jasper Stanley, it would be Mr. Toole. Once that occurred, discovering whether the butcher’s brother had bound apprentices by the names of Daniel, David, and Elijah should be easy enough.

The third letter was to the Diocesan Bishop. As well-meaning as Mr. Fossum was, his loss of hearing prevented him from doing all that was required of him as vicar. It was time that a curate be brought on to help with some of the ecclesiastical responsibilities in the parish. No one—least of all Mrs. Fossum—should be called upon to do what Alexander had done for Mrs. Stanley today. And if another woman in the parish chose to become a wet nurse for a Foundling Hospital baby, a young curate could surely be prevailed upon to be more aware of the circumstances within the home than Mr. Fossum had been.