by Aria Norton
Thomas shook his head. He was sure that Bellingham had acted alone, but it would be foolhardy not to investigate further. There was talk of an inquest being held the following morning, at the Cat and Bagpipes Public House.
If his inclinations were correct, the man responsible for the Prime Minister's death would soon hang. Better to be sure that he had acted of his own volition, without aid, than to risk more unrest by not catching others involved. Still, it was not his decision to make.
Thomas said nothing, preferring to listen to the arguments than give forth his own input. The liquor flowed freely, and a card game soon started. Although he did not indulge in strong drink as heavily as some of the other patrons, Thomas joined in the gaiety. Sitting down with a few of his friends and colleagues, they started a game of poker. All was going well until a man Thomas detested decided to interrupt and insert himself into the game.
"Good evening, old chap," Harold Withesby greeted Thomas. Thomas gave a cursory nod and went back to studying his cards. "You don't mind if I join, do you?"
Thomas did mind but said nothing.
"Of course not; please sit down," one of the other gentlemen replied, scooting his chair over slightly so that Harold could participate.
Harold wore a strange expression as if he knew something that Thomas did not. Trying to ignore the hateful man, he turned to his good friend, Frederic Bauer.
"How are the improvements coming on your new abode, Fred?"
"They are coming along quite nicely, now that we have had a break in the weather. I only hope it will hold..."
"Have you heard the latest about this new chap, what's his name? Sir Ezra Filmore?" Harold asked loudly, interrupting Thomas and Fredric's conversation. Thomas did his best not to roll his eyes and huff. Harold was a shameless gossip, his tongue lacerating his enemies and leaving them in humiliating heaps for all to see.
Moving in circles with the nobility and the commoner, Harold had a way of charming secrets out of people. His stories gained more venom at each retelling until the information hardly resembled the original facts. This did not matter when it came to the London gossip mill, though. Harold seemed to gather a sick enjoyment from other people's misery and downfall.
As for the gentleman in question, Thomas had not heard much about him. Although he had met him once at the gaming club, they had not spoken in depth. Sir Ezra Filmore was new to the capital. Like so many of the men sitting around the table, he was trying to distinguish himself through a political career. And it seemed that he was winning over the people very quickly.
"No, what is it you've heard, Harold?" Charles Chancellor asked. He was a funny little man whose face was contorted into a constant squint even though he wore glasses. It gave him the look of a weasel. In reality, he was a man who held no opinions of his own, merely going along with whatever anyone else was saying so as not to rock the boat. Charles and Harold were inseparable, with Harold acting as a host and Charles a parasite in the relationship.
Thomas did not like either of the gentlemen. Harold was a vain, greedy little man, with pudge that flowed over his trousers like a cake overflowing its tin as it baked. Charles was his complete opposite, standing tall and thin like a beanpole, blown about by every changing opinion. Herald smiled at Thomas wickedly and continued.
"I saw a certain lady coming out of Sir Ezra Filmore's home the other day. She was quite flustered when I made myself known. Quite a guilty look about her, if you ask me." Herald placed his cards on the table, revealing a straight flush. "Hah! I think I've taken that hand, chaps!"
Thomas laid his cards on the table, having collected nothing of worth throughout the game.
His heart beat wildly in his chest. Why was Harold pointing the gossip towards him? A terrible suspicion dogged his mind. Could the lady have been his fiancé, Lady Sarah Thorne? Sarah had danced with Sir Filmore at the opening ball of the season a month prior. But he did not know of any further correspondence between them.
"Who was the woman?" one of the other gentlemen asked testily. Harold had a way of drawing out news for effect, so much so that Thomas was sure it would make a nun swear.
He met Thomas' gaze and smiled. "It was Lady Sarah Thorne. I'm sure she was making a regular house call on the gentleman's mother or sister. But of course, that would not account for her nervousness, would it?"
"Ezra Filmore has no family," Frederic replied through clenched teeth. He, too, had not taken a liking to Harold.
"I did not know that." Harold feigned innocence to the fact that Ezra lived alone. Thomas saw right through his game. He was a terrible liar, although he guessed he was making no real effort to conceal his knowledge. He was enjoying this, all the while twisting the knife into Thomas' heart.
"You're a liar and a cad, Harold Withesby." Thomas stood, shaking slightly. He would not allow his anger to come to blows with the odious man, which was precisely what Harold wanted. Banning him from the club was his main goal, no doubt.
"What reason would I have to lie about this? I would think that if I was marrying a young lady and she had been unfaithful even before the wedding night, I would want my friends to tell me."
Thomas's face went pale. "Excuse me." Turning his back on the gentlemen at the table, he started to walk away.
"I feel for you, Lord Brampton. And with your wedding only a few weeks away." He tsked and sighed. Harold's lips dripped with honey, but his words came with a poisonous bite. "I am sorry if I have spoken out of turn, Lord Brampton."
Thomas turned, his furry all too apparent. However, before he could say something that he would regret, Frederic stood and grabbed his arm. "Good evening, gentlemen. Harold," Frederic spat. Harold lifted his chin with the pointed insult and huffed as Frederic led Thomas out of the meeting room table.
"Don't believe a word he says, Tom. I'm sure he was just trying to goad you."
"No. He knows something. He would never say that unless he had actually seen Sarah with Sir Filmore."
Frederic pulled him into one of the vacant gaming rooms. The shadows cast odd shapes on their faces as they talked in hushed tones. His emotions were swirling, making him feel like he was stuck in a whirlpool. Which way was up? He couldn't catch his breath.
"He never said he saw her with the man. He said he saw her coming out of his house…" Frederic tried to reason the situation out, thinking that there had to be a logical explanation for her behavior.
"Yes! And what am I to make of that?" Thomas exploded, raking his hands through his dark blonde hair. Pacing in front of the fireplace, he tried to get his emotions under control.
Frederic drew back slightly. "I apologise, my friend. I am not trying to make light of the situation. But when have you ever trusted a word that Harold Withesby said?" Frederic came to stand by his side, his face filled with compassion.
Thomas shook his head and met his gaze. "I have never trusted anything he says. But I have to be sure." Staring into the flames for a moment, he let out a breath. A part of him wanted to rush to her house and see if it were true. Another part wanted to stall as long as possible, just in case it was. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."
Frederic gave a weak smile. "Don't worry about it, old friend. Is there anything I can do?"
"No, thank you. I don't think there's anything either of us can do. Not until I know the truth."
"Well, I'm here if you find you do need anything. Hopefully Harold is just running his mouth as usual, making a mountain out of a molehill."
Thomas tried to smile and put his friend at ease, wishing that his unease was not so apparent. He trusted Sarah, although she was a bit naive to the ways of the world.
"Come on, let's call for some drinks and we'll talk it over." Frederic stuck his head out of the room and summoned one of the waiters. "Scotch and two glasses please."
Thomas was retreating within himself. He had built up so many hopes for his future with Sarah. What if it was all crumbling around him?
When the drinks came, they sat down in the chairs be
fore the hearth. Thomas was aware that Frederic was studying him closely. Usually a laid back, pleasant fellow, it was not like Thomas to be sullen and introspective when in company.
"Is there any foundation in Harold's rumors?" Frederic asked, trying to draw Thomas out of his dour contemplation.
Thomas swirled his glass in a circular motion, watching the amber liquid slosh gently around the bottom. "They have met. He asked her to dance at the opening ball of the season. It's possible that she has been seeing him behind my back, I suppose. I've been so busy with meetings at the House."
"Sarah doesn't strike me as someone who would do that, though."
Thomas would never have thought her capable of betraying him until Harold had placed the seed of doubt in his mind. Sarah was the most beautiful lady in London. However, she was very impressionable as well, prone to trusting anyone who petted her vanity.
"I don't know. I just don't know anymore..." Thomas tipped his head and drained the rest of his drink. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"I'll walk home with you," Frederic offered, placing both their empty glasses on the side table for the waiter to collect later.
"No. Thank you, Fred, but no. I want to be alone for a while."
He walked out of the gaming club, angry with himself for allowing Harold to get a rise out of him. A ball of fear settled in the pit of his stomach. He had to be sure that Sarah was alright and that there was no foundation for Withesby's lies.
Chapter 2
Abigail stared out of the window at the busy street below her bedroom window. Sighing, she allowed her maid to tighten her stays and then climbed into her dress to go down to dinner. Her gowns were not lavish by any means, but they were pretty nonetheless. She smoothed the satin fabric of her skirts down and turned in the full-length mirror once more.
Knowing she was not a classic beauty, she sighed with disappointment at her reflection. Her hair hung in dark, semi-straight stands down her back, tied back with a simple ribbon. They could not afford expensive silver combs or other such luxuries. Her jaw was square and strong, like her father's. Her brown eyes were nothing special, in her opinion. Her one crowning beauty was her full lips and unblemished complexion.
The bloom of youth was still apparent on her cheeks, enhanced by her high cheekbones. Her father had always called her plain. Joshua had encouraged her that there was more to life than being beautiful, remaining true to men's insensitive and unwitting ways of putting their feet in their mouths.
Although she was pretty, she would never have classified herself as beautiful. Even so, her brother's attempts to help encourage her had stung. No young lady wanted to be told she only had her intelligence to recommend her. Her mother had often told her in her letters that she was getting old and needed to hurry and find a husband if she was to have any hope of security. It did not help that her dowry was small. She would be lucky if a young farmer took pity on her and asked for her hand.
Oh no. She would rather die an old maid than live in the country. A woman of refined taste and aspirations, she longed for a life of adventure in the political arena. It was too bad that she had been born a woman, she thought, and not for the first time. Why was it that boys were allowed to go off to war, vote, own land, and a plethora of other things that women were not allowed to do? The injustice of it all turned her stomach.
Several times during the year following her father's death, her mother had pleaded for her to come and live with her at the cottage. She was a mild hypochondriac and railed on and on about the unhealthy conditions of London. The air was terrible, the smells were enough to drive one to delirium, and the food was too rich. Abigail tried to allay her mother's fears as best she could, glad that she was many miles away from her mother's nagging voice and her aunt's woes. Thankfully, her aunt indulged her mother's every whim, and her mother listened to her aunt's endless prattle. They were the perfect pair.
Her mother's last letter had been particularly hurtful, although it had been unconsciously so. I beg that you would put forth an effort, my dear, and settle down. Tending to one's family is the greatest joy a woman can find. I would remind you of the promise you made to your father to marry well and save the family. It is up to you now, as I doubt Joshua's political career will amount to anything...
Abigail had not shown the letter to Joshua. He was already insecure about his campaign to be elected to a place in the House of Commons. He did not need the added pressure of his mother's lack of faith in him.
It was in her brother's weaknesses that she had found her place to thrive. She had identified her calling; to help her brother with his campaign and see him elected to the House of Commons. He had not the political bent for the post for which he was running. Joshua was too docile, too bent on pleasing everyone, and frightened out of his mind that he would offend people. As a politician, he would need to grow thicker skin and trade in his soft-spoken nature for a more commanding presence and speech.
Abigail liked to think she had helped him to that end over the last year. Although he had not been elected the previous year, she hoped that this year's campaign would change that. His biggest problem was staying in tune with the people he hoped to represent.
She was jolted out of her reverie when she heard a hackney carriage pull up in front of the house. Glancing out of the window once more, she saw her brother climbing down from the small carriage. He held an umbrella over his head as he made a dash for the front door. The rain had begun in earnest as the sun descended behind the westward buildings on the opposite side of the street.
Abigail went downstairs to meet her brother. Handing the umbrella to the maid, he shook the water off his light jacket. The maid, Mazzie, placed the umbrella in the stand near the door to dry and waited for Joshua to hand his coat to her. Joshua huffed, handing over the coat with a frown.
"Abominable weather!" he panted, and slammed the door before Mazzie could do so. She stepped back in surprise and lowered her head.
Abigail recognised her brother's foul temper and met him at the door with a smile. She linked her arm through his and led him away before he could take out his frustration on Mazzie. "It is not a cold rain is it? It is mid-May after all." Abigail looked over his brother's shoulder to Mazzie. "A towel for Master Staton, please, Mazzie."
Mazzie disappeared down the hall and came back with a towel for Joshua to dry his face and hair. "No it is not too cold, but being drenched on the way into the house has put me in an even worse temper than I was before."
"Are you in a temper, brother? Whatever for?" Abigail led him into the parlor where a cheery fire was blazing, and had him sit down to warm himself. "Mazzie, please bring tea and refreshments for us," she instructed the maid, who hurried off to do as she was bid.
"It was a terrible day at the House. No doubt you’ve heard of the Prime Minister’s assassination? And never mind, Mazzie! Bring the bottle of Scotch and a glass."
Mazzie glanced at her mistress as if to confirm that this was alright. Abigail nodded, and the girl went to the study to retrieve what her brother had requested. She placed a hand on his arm and tried to calm him. The last thing he needed was to drink himself into oblivion. He had a debate the next day. "Tell me what happened."
Joshua stood and edged closer to the hearth, holding his hands palm out to soak up the warmth. "It's that darned Sir Filmore. He has a way with the people that I will never have."
"Don't say that. From what I hear, Filmore is a cad and drunkard. You are twice the man he is."
"That may be so, but he charms his voters with fancy speeches and gifts. He's bested me for the third time in a debate. And I'm sure he'll take the next one tomorrow."
Mazzie appeared with the Scotch and set the bottle and glass down on the side table for him. She quickly left the room, feeling the tension bristling in the air. Joshua was not unkind by nature, but the last few months had put such a strain on him. He was becoming more sullen as of late, lashing out at the servants and even at her at times. Abigail gave Mazzie an apol
ogetic glance before she disappeared from the parlor.