A Merchant's Extraordinary Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Aria Norton

  She clutched the book to her chest. Her father had tried for years to make a politician out of his son. However, it was his daughter who had been given the passion for government and its many intricacies. "You should be the one running for office," her brother had stated on several occasions.

  Abigail exited the library, holding the precious volume at her side. If only women were allowed to compete in the political arena.

  A few days later, the house had been closed up and readied for the tenants that would arrive the following Saturday. Abigail took one last look at the home before climbing into the public coach. Her mother wept as they pulled away, their trunks weighing down the carriage.

  They traveled nearly non-stop until they reached their aunt's cottage near the Devonshire coast. The cliffs were breathtaking, and for a moment, Abigail felt at peace. Exhausted from having to oversee all the preparations for leaving the house, she fell into fitful snatches of sleep throughout the journey.

  "Oh, my dears! How good to see you all have arrived in one piece! My nerves have not given me a moment's peace since learning of your departure. As my dear, departed Francis used to say, one should avoid travel in the winter at all costs! I was afraid for your lives every minute!"

  Abigail's aunt met them at the coach's door and did not stop to take a breath until they had all reached the door of her cottage.

  "It is so good of you to allow Mother to stay with you, Aunt Beatrice," Abigail interjected during a slight pause.

  "Oh, my dear, think nothing of it. It will be good to have someone to pass the time of day with. Since dear Francis passed, I have been wanting the companionship of another fellow human being. My sister will be quite comfortable here, I am sure. Just like the old days when we were girls, won't it Caroline? Now, do come in before we all catch our deaths of cold…"

  Aunt Beatrice continued talking, rattling on about the improvements she had made to the cottage over the years. Joshua allayed Abigail at the door and rolled his eyes. "Are you sure we need to stay? Aunt Beatrice will make sure Mother settles in." It was no secret that Joshua did not care for their aunt.

  "Joshua, we cannot leave her now. We have promised to stay for a few days to see that she is settled. Besides, I am weary from the journey. And so are you. A few days at the coast will help bolster us before we continue on to London."

  "Very well," Joshua said tersely and followed her into the cottage.

  In time Joshua saw that she was right in breaking their journey to London. They spent most of their time walking along the cliffs just a mile from their aunt's cottage or ambling along the seashore.

  "Write to me often, my dears," their mother requested as they said their goodbyes. Three days was more than Joshua could take, and Abigail was eager to be on her way as well.

  "We will, Mother," Abigail promised for both of them. She gave her brother a sideways glance, and he stepped forward to give his mother a kiss on the cheek.

  "Goodbye Mother. Do let me know if you are in need of anything from London." She hugged him awkwardly and nodded.

  "Thank you, my boy." Her mother turned when their aunt came out onto the front stoop.

  "Really, Caroline, I cannot believe you are allowing your only daughter to go running off to London. It is improper for an unmarried woman."

  "She is going under my care and protection, Aunt. It could not be more proper for her to do so." Joshua turned as the public coach was seen coming down the road. He waved down the coachman, who slowed the carriage and came to a stop in front of the house.

  "Goodbye, Mother." Abigail hugged her mother one last time as the trunks were loaded onto the top of the coach. Joshua waited by the open door to help her in. She hugged her aunt, who kissed her on the cheek despite her disapproval.

  "Take care, my girl," Aunt Beatrice whispered. "As my dear, poor Francis used to say, where one door closes, God opens another."

  Nodding, she took a step back and took both of their hands. "We'll make you proud, Mother. I promise."

  She then turned and walked to the coach, tears threatening to stain her cheeks. Perhaps her aunt was right. Maybe this would be a whole new start for her. She imagined what it would be like to find a husband, to start a family of her own. She would not be cold and unfeeling towards her children, as her father had been towards her. All her life she had strived for his approval, to know that he loved her. How differently she would do things with a family of her own.

  Waving as the coach lurched forward and started down the road, Abigail wondered if she would ever be happy again.

  Chapter 1

  One year later

  Lord Thomas Brampton, Earl of Harborough, entered one of the private meeting rooms in the gaming house, finding a haze of pipe smoke hanging in the air. This is not how he had envisioned his day going. As one of the members in the House of Lords, he had been called into the hastily gathered meeting by his superiors.

  Prime Minister Spencer Perceval had been shot a few hours earlier as he entered the House of Commons. Thomas' political party heads had called an emergency meeting to discuss what was to be done. However, since the authorities had already taken the perpetrator into custody, Thomas did not see what else could be done. A merchant by trade, John Bellingham, had not tried to escape after shooting Perceval in the chest.

  "He says he acted alone. I do not think we need fear that a conspiracy is afoot. Perceval was not popular with the poor classes, with his unlimited spending to win the war against Napoleon. Even so, Bellingham swears that he acted alone, bringing retribution to the government." Lord Elinger puffed on his pipe nonchalantly, as if they were discussing the horse races' latest outcome rather than a man who had been murdered in the front hall of the House of Commons.

  "I agree. John Bellingham is a man redressing a grievance, or at least what he believes is a grievance. He says he was wrongly imprisoned in Russia and that the British government should compensate him. I hardly think him intelligent enough to lead a rebellion, though," another of the older gentlemen chimed in.

  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 ou
t 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 before 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.