Chapter Thirty-Five
August 5th, 1812
Coombe Regis, Devonshire
Felicity wasn’t in any of Exeter’s foundling homes. “We’ll have to hope the advertisements bear fruit,” Reid said, and they did, after a fashion. Six people came forward, each with a baby that they claimed was the missing infant. But according to Letitia Reid, all of them were lying.
So Mordecai took Eleanor Wrotham home to Coombe Regis.
It was nearly two weeks since he’d taken the blows to his head. He could read again, he no longer wanted to vomit whenever he rode in a hackney . . . but even so, Mordecai erred on the side of caution. He drove the twenty miles to Coombe Regis in his curricle with a groom beside him ready to take over if dizziness threatened, and the traveling chaise trundling sedately behind. But dizziness
