"Several females of that age were admitted in the second to last week of October," he finally said. "What was your late cousin's name?"

Nell stared at him blankly.

"She's not certain what name her uncle might have entered the child under," Harry explained.

"He wanted to hide the scandal," Nell finally got control of her voice. "Her name is Victoria Elizabeth."

The man raised his brows. "Two given names," he said. "I see." He consulted the record and shook his head. "No infant of that name listed."

"What names do you have?" Harry asked.

"I'm afraid I cannot reveal that."

Nell clutched Harry's hand tightly. "Try Freymore."

The man looked through the ledger. "No."

"Denton."

Again that agonizing wait but, "No."

"Firmin."

"No."

"Smith, Jones, Brown."

The man didn't even bother. But his eyes were compassionate, and he rang a small bell. A woman in dark bombazine entered. "Matron, could you please show this lady and her husband the tokens from October of this year? There might be something she recognizes."

"Tokens?" Nell wondered what he meant. She glanced at Harry but he shook his head.

"Come this way, madam," the woman said and bustled out. The stiff material rustled with every step. She took them to a small room with a table and a large cupboard. She gestured for Nell and Harry to be seated, then opened the cupboard. It contained row upon row of small boxes, each bearing a label. She took one down labeled October 1817 and placed it in front of Nell.

"See if there's anything here that rings a bell, madam." She retired to a corner of the room and waited.

Mystified, Nell opened the box. At first glance it looked like a pile of rubbish, odds and ends with no seeming relationship or purpose; a key, a small wooden heart with initials carved into it, an enameled locket, a roll of paper tied with a grimy bit of ribbon, a piece of rag twisted around a pin, a button, a broken sixpence, a white silk heart, exquisitely embroidered, a lead fish of the sort fishermen use, a plaited ring of what looked like human hair. Each item carried a label, tied to it with string.

Curious, Nell picked up the carved heart to read the label. It bore a number and an inscription: Jimmy Dare his pa carved this for us both. Her heart turned over.

"Most of the mothers leave something, a little love token for their baby," the matron explained. "I write some of the notes. Many of these poor girls can't read or write."

Nell picked up another numbered tag. God bless and keep my daughter safe. Her mouth quivered. With trembling fingers she turned over each label, faster and faster, praying to find something with Papa's writing on it.

Your da ws a sailor and I lovd im well.

One simply said, Forgive me.

The button said, Tommy Jones from his mam.

She picked up the embroidered white silk heart. The card was written in a beautiful copperplate script. From your mother who fell from Grace and lost the most precious Gift God gave her. Nell's eyes filled with tears.

She examined each and every token and label, hoping desperately there would be one written in her father's hand.

Finally there remained just the little scroll of paper. With shaking fingers she untied the worn piece of ribbon. She stared at the paper but the harder she stared, the more the writing blurred. All she could see was that it wasn't Papa's writing. And that it was some kind of verse.

"Is it in his hand?" Harry asked.

She shook her head. "But I want to read it anyway."

"Give it here, then." Harry took the paper from her and read in a deep voice:

I leave you here my poor wee babe

With tears I do Farewell thee

Though Motherless through life ye'll be

I never will Forget ye.

Harry carefully tied it up again with the bit of ribbon and Nell wept to see the big hands so gentle with the tiny scrap.

"We use these so mothers can identify their children if need be," the matron said. "Do none of these mean anything to you, madam?"

"No, there's nothing," Nell said in a choked voice. "Nothing." She mopped her eyes with the handkerchief Harry gave her. Had she known Torie was to be taken from her, she would have left something to identify her.

"Not every mother leaves a token," the matron said.

Nell looked up, hopeful. "Can I just see the babies?" she asked. She would recognize Torie, she was sure, even if it was six weeks and one day since she'd seen her.

"Oh, there's no babies here, madam," the woman said. "We send them to wet nurses in the country for the first four or five years, then they come back here to be trained and educated."

"So, where are these wet nurses?" she asked eagerly.

"The director has the details, madam, but without proper identification, he will give you no information, I'm afraid."

"Oh, but-"

"I'll speak to the director," Harry said to Nell. "You stay here."

He emerged from the director's office a short time later with a wintry expression. He tucked her hand into his arm and strode from the building. Nell had to run to keep up with him.

"Well?" she asked breathlessly.

"I have a list of all the wet nurses who were sent a baby girl." He swung her into the curricle. "There are six, but the director does not believe that any of them is Torie."

"But can we check anyway?"

He said in a grim voice, "We can check."

Darkness was falling as they made their way back to London. Nell was glad Harry wasn't much of a talker. She was too tired to make conversation. She was exhausted and dispirited.

They'd visited every wet nurse on the list from the foundling hospital. All of them were in the country, in villages three or four miles out of London. The country was reputed to be healthier for tiny babes than the fog-ridden city with the evil miasma that rose at night from the river, bringing disease with it.

As they'd pulled up at each cottage, Nell had been tense and keyed up. Would this baby be her daughter? Would she drive away from this house with Torie in her arms?

Each time Harry had swung her down from the curricle, he hadn't released her hand. She'd come to depend on that firm silent support. She'd needed it so much.

Because each time her hopes had been crushed.

"It's just the first day," he said abruptly. "There are dozens of workhouses and institutions in London."

"I know."

The light carriage hit a particularly bad pothole and she bounced. In an instant Harry transferred the reins to one hand and pulled her close to him on the seat. He made no move to take his arm away and truth to tell, Nell was glad of it, not just for the added security, but for the warm comfort it gave. He was so big and solid and somehow reassuring.

Nell had never met a man like him before. In the whole of her life, she'd only known talkers. Liars. Dreamers. Takers.

Harry Morant wasn't a talker; he was a doer. A giver.

They'd covered as much territory today as she had in a week on foot. If she'd had the money to hire a curricle or a gig before, she might have found Torie weeks ago. But she had nothing.

Part of her, the angry, desperate, guilty part, kept telling her that if she'd only kept on in those first weeks she would have found Torie.

The other part, the quieter part, reminded her of how helpless she'd felt collapsing in the street, surrounded by strangers. And how terrifying it had been to come to consciousness with strangers pawing through her clothes, touching her body.

That last day she'd collapsed and woken up wet and freezing, her fingers blue with cold. She must have lain unconscious for some time. Her gloves and hat, even her handkerchief was gone. She was lucky the thieves hadn't taken her dress and petticoat. She might have frozen to death, had Freckles not snuggled up along her body, keeping her warm. Nell hadn't been able to stand at first, she was so very weak. She'd realized that night that she could very easily die right there, in the London streets . . . unmissed, unregarded.

She was right to get herself home, to Firmin Court, to get money and help to search properly. She hadn't known everything was gone, and that she'd be just as helpless as before.

She hated being helpless.

If she'd come to London with Mrs. Beasley, she would have had no hope of searching these outer villages. She wouldn't even have known to do it.

Before, nobody had told her that all foundling and orphan babies brought to London workhouses were sent to the country. They'd simply told her they had no babies. And foolish Nell had taken their word for it.

Why hadn't they told her the babies were sent away? She wanted to scream with helpless rage. The time that omission had caused her to waste, tramping from workhouse to workhouse, time she couldn't afford, time Torie couldn't afford.

If only she'd known Harry Morant back then. Harry wasn't the sort of man people ignored. Harry pressed for more information, and when necessary, bribed or intimidated the information out of them.

They swayed, turning a bend, and Nell leaned in against him grateful for whatever miracle had brought her to this man. He didn't talk about what he might do, or would have done, or could do: he simply did what needed to be done. Without fuss.

They reached the London road and stopped to light the carriage lamps. But a mile or so down the road he turned off in a different direction.

"There's a workhouse at Islington," he explained. "It's not far off the London road, so your father might conceivably have gone there. We'll find out where they send their babies and start searching again first thing in the morning."

She nodded.

He looked down at her and gave her a small squeeze. "Tired?"

"A little."

He was silent a moment. "I'd like your permission to take my friends Rafe and Luke into our confidence. We were in the army together and they're good fellows. They could visit the various workhouses and find out where the babies have been sent, and you and I will go there. It's a more efficient way of searching."

"That's a wonderful idea," she said. Two ex-officers wouldn't let themselves be fobbed off. If there was news, they'd get it. As for them knowing, if it was a matter of her reputation or her daughter's recovery, there was no contest.

"I don't mind you telling them at all. I don't care what they think of me, as long as I find my daughter."

He gave her a sharp look. "They'll have nothing but respect for you."

The gas lamps lit the quiet streets of Mayfair. It was late. As they pulled up in Mount Street, Harry descended first, then lifted her down. He paid the groom and they went inside.