Chapter Ten
July 17th, 1812
Hamptonshire
Mordecai leaned back in his corner of the coach. Salisbury was fifty miles behind them, Exeter fifty miles ahead. He stared out the window and pondered how best to find a godly woman who took in fallen women. Would it be quicker to ask at the churches or among the prostitutes? The prostitutes, he decided. He’d venture out this evening, find some whores, ask questions. By tomorrow, Miss Wrotham might be reunited with her sister.
The coach swung around a bend—and stopped so abruptly that Mordecai was almost thrown from his seat.
“Is it highwaymen?” Bessie cried.
Mordecai wrenched open the door and jumped out. Not highwaymen, but an accident. He took in the overturned phaeton at a glance. “Walter,” he snapped. “Run back and stop any carriages, el
