Ravenworthe

by Ginny Hartman

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright © 2019 by Ginny Hartman

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Ginny Hartman

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Ginny Hartman

  Book design by Ginny Hartman

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First printing: November 2019

  ISBN: 9781711016443

  For all those who suffer from mental illness;

  there is hope, and you matter.

  With a gift for detective work, born from his tragic past, Colin Ravenworthe has made a name for himself among London's elite. His success has afforded him a life of comfort and intrigue, so much so, he hardly notices anything is missing. That is, until Bridget stumbles into his life, turning his feelings and his world upside down.

  The daughter of a merchant, Bridget Godwin doesn't fit in with the ton, though her father's vast wealth opens doors to her that would otherwise be closed. When tragedy strikes, her lackluster world turns into a confusing mess of suspicion, false accusations, and a desperate need to seek the truth, no matter the cost.

  Hanging her hopes on the one person she can trust, Bridget hires Detective Ravenworthe, and the pair soon discovers their family tragedies are intertwined in ways neither could ever suspect.

  Intense, all-consuming fear overcame Colin as he thrashed back and forth in his canopied bed. The thick, velvet drapes were pulled closed, concealing him in pitch black. It wasn't the actual darkness of the night that was threatening to undo him; it was the vivid recurring nightmare that wouldn't stop replaying in his head, no matter how much he tried to will himself awake so the presentation would cease.

  Tiny beads of sweat formed on his creased forehead as he attempted to cry out, but the weight of the terror in his mind pressed so heavily on his chest he felt like he was going to suffocate.

  His erratic pulse began drumming in his ears, an uneven cadence that was oddly soothing; it was when it became rhythmic and even that he panicked the most. Calling on every ounce of willpower he possessed, Colin fought to block out the images that were flashing in his mind, memories that had haunted him persistently for the last two decades.

  “One, two, three,” he began, lost somewhere in his subconscious. He attempted to count each deafening heartbeat to distract him from the images of his mother and sister's dead bodies. “Four, five, six,” he continued, trying to remain as calm and steady as he could.

  His skin was crawling, and he felt like he was about to retch, when somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that his frantic heartbeat had become louder, yet had slowed to an even rhythm, pulsing in perfect harmony with the large grandfather clock down the hall.

  The crescendo of his beating heart caused excessive saliva to rapidly accumulate in his mouth, as his stomach clenched in repulsion, threatening to cast up its accounts. He quickly halted his counting, knowing it was now futile and swallowed hard. Colin winced as his Adam's apple scraped painfully against the congested emotion in his throat, causing it to ache terribly.

  It was the distraction his mind was waiting for, and it quickly pounced, casting the grisly scene of his mother's body hanging from the rafters in the attic, her limp head lolling to her left, her pale face lifeless, her glassy eyes staring right at him yet not looking at him at all.

  Just like he'd done in real life when he'd seen her, Colin yelled, a high pitched shriek that made his blood run cold. His heartbeat finally stilled, and before he knew it, the shrill of his seven-year-old self that was naught but a memory was replaced by a much deeper sound, a painful cry coming from his own aching throat that snatched him directly from his nightmare and threw him immediately into the present.

  Colin's chest heaved as he forced himself to stop yelling. He inhaled a much-needed breath of air, a breath that did nothing to settle his frayed nerves, but proved only to benefit him by prolonging his life another moment, a thought that actually quite disappointed him.

  Colin hastily removed himself from his bed, most anxious to distance himself from any reminder of what had just happened. His breathing came in shallow, ragged puffs that echoed in the silence as he hurried to the window on the western side of his bedchamber. He wasted no time in drawing the brocade curtains to the side, praying the moon would be bright enough to dispel the evil darkness surrounding him.

  The silver crescent of light hanging high in the sky, as slender as his thumbnail, failed him. With a sigh of disgust, Colin turned from the window, unwilling to entertain all the disappointments in his life that were clamoring inside his mind for attention. He'd refused over and over again to allow the tragic circumstances of his childhood to render him permanently bitter. Unlike his father had done, he thought tragically as he traipsed across the cool wood floor in search of light.

  Retrieving a half-burned candle from the mantle, he bent before the hearth and lit it on the dying embers inside. The small light that emanated from the wick was enough to dispel a portion of the gloom, and he latched onto the blessing at once, quickly making his way from his bedchamber down the long, empty hall of his modest townhouse towards his study.

  Once inside, Colin quickly used his candle to light the four candles held in sconces around the room, bringing it to a satisfactory brightness. With a sigh of relief, he slumped down in the leather wing-backed chair behind his cherry desk and ran his still shaking hands through his thick, brown hair.

  He thought it pathetic how a nightmare could reduce a grown man to such a mess. If he were the drinking type, he'd reach for a measure or two of brandy right now. But alas, his profession had taught him that it was foolish to ever compromise a clear mind, even for the tempting exchange of oblivion enough liquor was sure to provide. Correction, Alistair Wellington had taught him that. In fact, all knowledge he possessed of any value at all had been acquired at the feet of his mentor.

  Colin's hands, of their own accord, reached inside the top drawer of his desk and retrieved a yellowed piece of parchment along with a miniature of the dear man, painted four years prior, the year before his death. In the portrait, Alistair was sitting in his office, his white hair and mustache standing out in stark contrast to the drab papered walls in the background. Colin inhaled deeply, as his memory brought to mind the sweet smell of tobacco that always permeated Alistair's being. The corner of his mouth twitched ever-so-slightly as if Colin might dare to smile at the memory before quickly recalling the disturbing nightmare he'd just endured and promptly letting his lips fall back into a straight line, all amusement gone.

  Laying the portrait aside, Colin reverently picked up the parchment and allowed his eyes to scan the missive before pausing to read every line though he knew it all
by heart. It was the last correspondence he had with Alistair before he passed.

  Dear Colin,

  My time is drawing near; I can feel it in my soul. My hunches have been warning me for years that the end is drawing nigh, and as you well know, my suspicions are never amiss. I'd be remiss if I didn't take this opportunity to bare my soul to you. You're like a son to me, Colin, but even better. My own son, though hailed as a hero of the war for dying while in defense of The Crown, never contained even a quarter of the character you possess. I often ask myself how I failed to instill such morals into my own offspring while you seemed to glean every ounce of goodness from the world despite your unfortunate parentage.

  Now, before you get all defensive, you must remember that our memories don't serve us well. They have this dreadful habit of throwing out all the bad and clutching only to the good when someone has passed on. If your memory were truly your friend, it would allow you to recall things as they really are, not some fantasy of what you wanted them to be. If you genuinely wish to be the best detective, adept at discerning what others cannot, you must first start with being honest with yourself and allow yourself to see the world, what has passed and what is presently before you, as it truly is. This is not a pleasurable sensation, but it is a skill I've been trying to teach you as I've mentored you these past five years.

  Colin, to my credit, you know I don't wish to be harsh, only realistic. You must lay aside all notions that people are all good or all bad if you want to see the truth. People are neither; each of us is made up of a combination of both. Those who are humane try to foster the good, so it outweighs the bad, in hopes of eliminating it one day, but we both know not all of humankind is so noble.

  I believe in you, dear son. If I did not, I would not have invested my final years on your behalf. You have the potential to be even greater than I, much greater than I. My only regret is I won't be alive to watch you flourish.

  All my love, for I do love you,

  Alistair

  Though he'd read it a thousand times, Alistair's words still had the power to create a tumult of emotions in Colin's breast; indignation at his assumption that his parent's, most notably his mother, weren't perfect, confusion at why he'd offered the advice he had, pride at his praise, and most of all love. For Colin truly loved Alistair. He'd done for him what no one else had—looked beyond the scandal that was created by his mother's suicide, past the scared child who feared for the future, and into the depths of his soul where potential waited to be discovered and harvested.

  Colin credited Alistair for not only finding that potential within him, but for tending to it like one patiently tends to a garden; waiting for the seeds to sprout, then develop roots sufficient to withstand the brutality of mother nature so the tiny seedling can not only thrive, but flourish and produce fruit.

  “Am I producing fruit?” Colin quietly asked himself, pondering on his life since Alistair left him.

  The last four years had brought a lot of success for Colin on the professional front. Though not a titled gentleman, he now found himself accepted and revered by the ton, though it wasn't for his wealth or familial connections. His acceptance hadn't been handed to him like those of genteel birth; he'd worked hard to earn the people's trust and overcome the blight of his past. But with his hard work and his mentor's excellent education, he'd become one of the most notable, and successful detectives in London, flawlessly filling the position Alistair used to hold in society.

  Colin's chest puffed with pride as he thought of all the good he'd done, of all the crimes he'd solved and of the justice he'd helped inflict upon London's unrecognized criminals, but his puffed out chest felt empty. He balled his hand into a fist and pounded on it twice like his mother had taught him to do to the melons at the market. The flat sound, indicative of hollowness, reverberated through the study, leaving Colin feeling bereft.

  What was wrong with him? How could a man achieve everything he'd hoped to and still remain lacking? The disturbing thoughts ate at him like crows devouring the rotting carcass of a beast, greedy and relentless. The horrific nature of his dreams had been swallowed up by the sudden distressing thoughts, and he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again, not this night, and perhaps not the next either.

  “Miss Godwin?”

  Bridget turned at the sound of her name, pouring like sweet cream from the mouth of a man she didn't recall seeing before. Her luminous eyes squinted in skepticism as she quickly appraised the man. He was tall and thin, though not lacking in substance. He was dressed modestly, but tastefully and his chiseled face was a bit plain, but that didn't deter her as she continued to assess him. She sensed he withheld a smile as he waited for her response, one she wasn't willing to give until she was entirely done with her appraisal.

  When she looked into his eyes, she nearly gasped. They were the exact same color of his chestnut hair, except they were flecked with gold. Indeed, the vibrant gold flecks were intriguing, but that wasn't the reason she'd gasped. No, when she had finally looked into his eyes, she had the discomfiting sensation that he already knew her, and not just her name, which was apparent but knew her in an intimate way that unnerved her. His gaze reached deep into her soul, retrieving things she wasn't ready to put on display.

  Bridget flinched and averted her eyes. Hiding behind her open fan, she muttered, “Yes, I am Miss Godwin. Have we been introduced?”

  “I'm wounded, miss,” the man intoned in a hurt voice, full of mocking. “I thought our introduction had left an impression on you.”

  Bridget looked intently at the man once more, trying to recall the supposed introduction. “I'm afraid I have no memory of such an occasion.”

  In the far corner of the room, the hired orchestra struck up a waltz, and before she knew what was happening, the stranger had gathered Bridget into his arms, whispering, “May I?” before twirling her onto the floor without waiting for her response.

  She was stiff in his arms, angry at his boldness as he fluidly led her in the waltz as if he was used to dancing with an unwilling partner. Her abandoned fan hung loosely from her wrist, occasionally hitting him in the side as they danced.

  “At least be so polite as to remind me of your name,” she hissed through pressed lips.

  His magnificent gold-flecked eyes caught hers as the first smile she'd seen on his lips appeared, causing a deep indention on one side of his face. He looked boyish and charming, and she felt her guard slipping slightly.

  “Mr. Colin Ravenworthe. Remember me now?” he asked with hopeful amusement lacing his words.

  “No, I do not,” she said in clipped, agitated tones.

  “Then perhaps you can simply trust that we've met and allow yourself a moment of pleasure as you enjoy a rare dance.”

  Though his words held no malice, she tensed nonetheless. The fact that she rarely got asked to dance was not lost on her, and it appeared it was not lost on him either. Feeling stung by the reminder, she tried to withdraw from him. She watched the sinews in his hands tighten along with his grip as he pulled her even closer, refusing to allow her to flee from the dance floor and embarrass them both.

  “I have a strong distaste for dancing,” she muttered beneath her breath, a mixture of anger and embarrassment filling her being. She felt her cheeks flood with heat, and she was sure they were flaming with color as well.

  “'Tis a pity, really, seeing as you are so very skilled at it.”

  Bridget nearly cried, feeling as if he were once more mocking her until she looked into his face and realized he was being serious. She faltered slightly but avoided stepping on his toes before quickly righting herself. Clearing her throat, she whispered, “Thank you.”

  It was a rare thing to find herself on the receiving end of a compliment, especially from a gentleman. She tried to enjoy it, but the truth was, it made her feel rather uncomfortable.

  The dance strung out in painful agony while Bridget tried valiantly to ignore the warmth she felt emanating from Mr. Ravenworthe's body
and the subtle musk that assaulted her nose in an attempt to convince her to give him her attention. It was alluring and dangerous. She avoided looking into his eyes at all costs, hating the way they made her feel exposed.

  When the waltz finally ended, Bridget retreated from the handsome stranger faster than a cat from a bath. She was winded by the time she located her mother, dutifully returning to her side, hoping to blend into the background as she always did

  “You danced,” her mother whispered quietly, in an accusatory tone that filled Bridget with bewilderment.

  “That is the point of attending a ball.”

  Her mother scoffed. “The point of attending a ball is to make a match. Lud, child, you could have at least danced with someone of your caliber.”

  Bridget wasn't sure if she'd just been insulted or if Mr. Ravenworthe had. “What do you mean?” she asked, not knowing it was a mistake to do so until her mother grasped her arm tightly, painfully, and pulled her from the room.

  The hall was a bustle of activity as several guests milled about, coming or going or simply in search of the retiring room. Her arm ached as her mother's bruising grip pulled her further into the recesses of the hall until they were completely alone.

  “Mr. Ravenworthe is a detective,” she hissed, seething in a way that made Bridget's skin crawl. She detested when her mother got into one of her moods, which was actually quite frequent.

  “And what bearing does that have on me?”

  “People like him are constantly prying into others’ affairs, seeking out any deplorable act they may have committed in their life. Of certainty, any interest he expressed in you was solely for gain. Don't be flattered by his attention.”

  Bewildered, Bridget went on the defense. “Mr. Ravenworthe did no such prying.” She refused to argue his interest in her, for she truly believed there was none. “Besides, we've nothing deplorable to hide.”