Page 27 of A Lady of Conscience

James bid his mother good night.

She was right.

Rising from his chair, he summoned his valet.

Chapter Eight

Hannah fastened her pink cashmere pelisse over her day dress. In the normal course of events, she would leave her letters in the hall to be collected by the postman. But the morning post had already come by the time she’d finished her cat article, and she was too impatient for Mattie to read it to wait until tomorrow.

“I shall take it to the post office myself,” she informed her maid as she drew on her gloves. “Evangeline and Tippo will enjoy the walk.”

Ernsby greeted this news with tightly compressed lips. She didn’t approve of Hannah drawing attention to herself with her motley assortment of canines. “Perhaps if you had a handsome little spaniel or a prettily clipped poodle,” the lady’s maid had remarked on more than one occasion. “Then, you could parade them down the high street as much as you please. But this pair… they do you no credit, miss.”

She nevertheless trudged dutifully behind Hannah and her two dogs, away from Camden Place toward the post office in Broad Street.

Hannah had become more familiar with the city over the past week as she’d diligently applied herself to the business of her first season. Every day had been taken up with concerts, dinners, dances, and formal calls. What time she’d had left had been devoted to her animal interests. There had been precious few hours remaining to pine over icy blond viscounts.

Just as her father had predicted, the ache in Hannah’s heart had gradually receded. In James’s absence, there was nothing to remind her of what had caused it.

Neither was there any more favorable emotion to take its place.

None of the gentlemen Hannah had met since rejecting James’s proposal had inspired any degree of interest in her.

But, as she often reminded herself, these were early days yet. There were many more weeks of entertainments to come. In the meanwhile, Hannah had plenty to keep her busy, both socially and intellectually.

She continued toward the post office with a purposeful step. It was less than a mile away. An easy enough distance for a country girl accustomed to tramping over the rolling hills of her parents’ estate. Evangeline and Tippo trotted gamely at her side, sniffing at the air with interest as they passed horse riders and strolling pedestrians.

The population of the city was growing by the week, with newcomers arriving to take part in the season. Hannah felt the curious glances of some of them as she walked past. She doubtless provided quite a spectacle with her mismatched eyes and her three-legged dog. Even Tippo inspired a second look or two. He was an ancient pug, grizzled and bleary-eyed, though still quite happy to be out for a stroll.

They hadn’t gone far down Broad Street when Hannah spied a costermonger’s cart stopped ahead. There was a small donkey in its traces, its head hung low as the costermonger unloaded his wares.

Hannah cast a sympathetic look at the poor creature as she passed.

And then she looked again.

She came to a startled halt. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed under her breath. “That donkey has one white ear!”

“Indeed, miss,” Ernsby acknowledged indifferently.

Hannah drew her maid aside as the balding costermonger continued unloading his crates of produce. Evangeline and Tippo milled restlessly around their skirts. “Sweet William, the missing donkey pictured in the Animal Advocate, had one white ear as well,” she whispered. “And a white back fetlock too.”

Ernsby’s thin brows lifted. “Did he?”

Hannah peered at the donkey’s muddy hooves. It was impossible to tell the color of his fetlocks. Not from this vantage point. Coming to an abrupt decision, she handed the dogs’ leads to Ernsby. “Hold them a moment, if you please.”

Before Ernsby could object, Hannah stepped down into the street. She walked around the donkey, examining it closely.

The costermonger paused in the middle of hefting another crate onto his shoulder. He was a rough-looking fellow in a course cloth coat, with a decided sneer about his mouth. “You looking for something, miss?”

A glimmer of white peeped above the mud on the donkey’s back hoof.

Hannah stopped in triumph. “That,” she said, pointing. “This donkey has a white back fetlock.”

“What of it?” the costermonger asked.

“He matches the description of a donkey who was stolen from a farm in Bidbury last autumn.”

The costermonger’s already surly face darkened with anger. Letting his crate fall to the ground, he took a menacing step toward Hannah. “Are you calling me a thief?”