“Of course,” Mordecai said. “Walter, my tailcoat.”
He shrugged into the coat and went down the stairs with Letitia Reid, and he didn’t think about his legs or his head, didn’t think about anything except Sophia Wrotham. Please let this be a mistake, he prayed silently. But he didn’t think it was a mistake. Letitia Reid wasn’t the sort of woman to make mistakes of this magnitude.
Eleanor Wrotham was seated at the writing desk. She looked up as they entered and stood hastily. “Letty!” she said with a smile, and then the smile faded and she said, a little uncertainly, “Mordecai. How are you?”
“Fine,” he said. “Nell . . .” He floundered to a halt. Should he say anything? He glanced at Letitia Reid.
“Is something wrong?” Eleanor asked.
“We’ve found Lizzie Wellsford,” Letitia Reid said. “Bu
