Her mother's anger quickly dissipated, her thin face hardening into stone. “That's right, Bridget, we don't.”
Her mother had never lied to her, at least not that she was aware of, but the way her words slithered off her tongue gave Bridget chills and made her believe that her mother wasn't being truthful. She debated whether she should just let the conversation conclude, but couldn't help voicing the final thought that came to her mind.
“Are you referring to Beatrice?”
An image of her older sister filled Bridget's mind as well as a fierce protectiveness buoyed by love. Beatrice was special, at least that's what she always thought. Her sister's mind didn't work the way most peoples’ did, and even though Beatrice was older than Bridget by three years, she behaved as if she were decades younger. She had the body of a grown woman, but the simple and innocent mind of a child.
Her mother's eyes flashed with indignation before softening. Sighing, she admonished, “Don't speak of your sister here. We've left her in the country for a reason; London is no place for her. You know society isn't kind to those not like them.”
Of course, she did. Bridget, although of sound mind and body, always felt like an outcast among the ton. She was plain and withdrawn. Her dark hair and eyes were not en-vogue like the fair-haired lady's that were considered diamonds of the first water. She was not gregarious or advantageous, seeing as how she was simply the daughter of a wealthy merchant and held no title that would benefit her future husband.
While not outright rude, the gentry merely treated her with a cool disregard that left her feeling unworthy and unnoticed. She hated her time spent in London and couldn't wait to return to the country, to return home. She huffed, long and weary. It would be several months yet until that would happen.
“If it's not Beatrice you're trying to hide, then what is it?” she asked her mother, still perturbed by the conversation.
Her mother's brief softening evaporated, her lips pinching together into a thin line. “There is nothing to hide. I simply refuse to be fodder for the gossip-mongers. Stay away from that detective,” she warned sternly before turning on her heel and inclining her head towards the ballroom, indicating Bridget should follow her back to the party.
As per usual, the ball lasted long into the night. It was the wee hours of morning before Bridget, and her parents finally arrived back at their townhouse. Letitia, her maid, was waiting for her, as chipper as ever, despite the late hour. She quickly helped Bridget from her ballgown, chemise, and stays and deftly slid a white cotton nightdress over her head before reaching for a brush to comb her hair with.
Bridget stilled her hand mid-air. “I can do it myself tonight. You get some sleep.”
Letitia paused, unsure if she should argue with her mistress. “Go,” Bridget urged.
Without another word, Letitia silently slipped from her bedchamber.
With only the faint light from one small candle, Bridget began brushing her hair, customarily counting the strokes until her mind began to wander to gold-flecked eyes. Her mother's revelation that Mr. Ravenworthe was a detective had pierced something in her mind, but she hadn't had the time to reflect on it until just now.
Reaching far back into the recesses of her memory, Bridget finally recalled that she had met Mr. Ravenworthe before. She snorted in a very unladylike manner, surprised it had taken her this long to remember the occasion.
Their introduction had been several years prior at her coming-out ball. Her hands stilled as she lowered the brush softly to the table before her, allowing her mind to be swept away in memory.
The lavish affair was about to begin, and Bridget was nowhere to be found. Exasperated, her mother finally located her in the library, reading a gothic novel, her one guilty pleasure.
Snatching the book forcefully out of her hands, her mother looked down her nose at her and hissed, “They're waiting for you.”
She knew who they were—hundreds of members of the ton she hardly knew and could care less about. In defiance, she retorted, “I'm only going if there's a handsome detective to claim me for the dinner dance.”
Bridget wistfully returned her thoughts to the roguishly charming and intelligent Detective Fern in her novel, who was the object of the heroine's deep admiration.
“Don't be foolish, Bridget. If you don't put your book down and come now, I will be forced to enlist your father's aide.”
She'd fully expected her mother to reprimand her and threaten her with her father if she didn't comply. Her mother's predictable response disappointed her, but she decided it would be wise not to argue.
Discarding her novel at its climax, Bridget rose from the settee and allowed her mother to lead her from the library. “Do I have to do this?” She knew the answer but dared to ask one more time regardless.
“Yes,” her mother replied flatly.
“No one is going to seek my hand in marriage because they find me beautiful or intriguing. Their only interest will be in father's money.”
“You're plenty beautiful, Bridget.”
She rolled her eyes. “Perhaps passably so, but I fear father's wealth will be more tempting than I will be.”
“It doesn't matter why a gentleman marries you, Bridget, only that he does. Come, Letitia is waiting to finish your toilette.”
Bridget inwardly seethed. What kind of society did she live in where it mattered not if love or affection were a part of the marriage contract? She pledged then and there never to agree to marry without either, though she kept her vow secret.
The night continued in a total blur of faces and dances and conversations with people whose names and titles she couldn't keep straight. Every gentleman that danced with her, that vied for her attention, she secretly accused of ulterior motives. She knew it was her large dowry they were trying to woo, not her. She couldn't remember ever feeling so uncomfortable in a situation.
She finally found unexpected relief when Lord Sutherby stepped on the hem of her dress during a country dance, and she heard a rip. Politely excusing herself after the dance, she fled the ballroom intent on escape.
She kept her eyes downcast, avoiding people who might wish to converse with her until she bumped into someone and inhaled sharply.
“Pardon me, miss. I should have been more careful about where I was standing.”
“The fault is all mine,” she insisted without even looking at the stranger.
“May I escort you into the ballroom?” the velvety voice asked.
It was then that she looked at the man, horror etched on her face. “Oh no, that won't be necessary,” she clipped, realizing after she said it, she sounded quite rude.
“Not necessary, perhaps, but a privilege regardless.”
Bridget was taken back by his words. She took a moment to really look into the gentleman's face and was surprised to realize she found him quite handsome. His thick, brown hair matched his eyes in color, except they were flecked with brilliant gold.
With a measure of regret, and an immediate need to flee from his presence, Bridget made to shoulder past him while muttering, “I need to retrieve a button for my gown.” She flinched at the silly lie, glad he couldn't see her face any longer.
“Well, you're in luck, for I happen to have one right here.”
Surprised, she turned back to him slowly and watched as he pulled a small purse from inside his jacket. Retrieving a plain ivory button from the pouch, he held it out to her and said, “There, now you can return to the ball.”
Bridget actually laughed, feeling unusually gay. She held out her gloved hand and waited for him to drop the button inside before saying, “Thank you, sir, but it still needs to be sewn on.”
He shrugged. “I suppose I can't help you with that.”
“I suppose not, though your kindness will not be forgotten.”
“Can I be so bold as to expect a dance in exchange for my kind deed?”
She smiled shyly as she glanced down at her dance card hanging from her wrist.
; “I'm Mr. Colin Ravenworthe, by the way.”
She nodded before scrunching her brows together in concentration as she analyzed her card for an opening. “My apologies, Mr. Ravenworthe, it appears my card is already full.”
She looked once more into his face, noting with a measure of surprise that she was actually disappointed in turning him away.
His smile hid any disappointment on his part, which quickly made her heart fall. “It does not matter, perhaps another time.”
“Perhaps,” she whispered as she watched him turn and walk away.
That was the last time she had thought of or seen the handsome stranger, until tonight.
“Detective Ravenworthe,” she whispered reverently into the night while another thought occurred to her.
Pushing her brush aside, along with a few other baubles cluttering her dressing table, she reached for her jewelry box and quickly opened it. Taking out the top compartment, she quickly set it aside and began rummaging through the trinkets in the bottom until she found a long-ago discarded ivory button.
Holding it up to the light of the candle, she laughed, thinking it odd that she'd find it after all these years. Suddenly, she felt anticipation at seeing him again, for she couldn't wait to apologize to Mr. Ravenworthe for her rudeness and return his button from so long ago.
She never danced with anyone; he noticed in the way he noticed anything of importance. It had been a week since he'd claimed her for the awkward waltz, but Colin couldn't get Miss Godwin out of his mind. He thought back to her coming-out ball and remembered clearly how every eligible gentleman had vied for her hand. But as season after season passed, he noticed she danced less and less until she finally stopped dancing with anyone altogether, becoming a veritable wallflower. Why that bothered him, he wasn't sure, but it did.
She'd been standing near the food table next to her mother the entire night, never moving from her spot, even to collect some refreshment. How droll, he thought as he watched her, wondering how she could tolerate coming to such events if all she did was watch the merriment from the sidelines.
Shaking his head clear of the consuming thoughts, he peeled his eyes from the ebony-haired girl and scanned the ballroom once more in search of his prime suspects in the serial thefts that had been happening in London as of late. Valuable heirloom jewels had come up missing at every ball given in the past fortnight. Colin had been enlisted to discover the thief so that justice could be served, and the jewels returned.
He glanced at the far corner of the room where Lord Jefferson was talking to three young women, all enjoying their first season. The man was large and jovial and thought highly of himself, though it was evident by the annoyed looks on the women's faces that they didn't find him nearly as amusing as he found himself.
Lord Jefferson was suspect number one. He had been in attendance at every ball where jewels had gone missing and had the odd habit of disappearing before dinner every single time, only to return once the ball had resumed. Tonight, Colin planned on following him to see precisely where he went during dinner.
His next suspect, Lord Williams, was easy to spot, for he was by and far the tallest man in the room. Standing a head above even the largest built man, Lord Williams quite literally could be spotted from any location. He was lanky, with graying hair at his temples and a pinched face that made him look dour, though Colin knew from his observations he actually possessed a mild disposition, and most people found him to be quite affable.
The reason he was suspect number two was that his propensity for gambling was largely known as was his notorious bad luck. Though several men of the ton shared in his habit, few were as lousy at it as Lord Williams. Hardly a day went by that his name didn't appear in the gossip rags, detailing his latest losses. It was rumored that just last month, he'd gambled his country estate on a horse race and lost, yet he somehow managed to keep showing up at the gaming table despite having nothing left to his name to wager. Colin wondered if he were stealing the jewels and then selling them discreetly to continue to pay for his addiction.
Next, he scanned the crowds of people in search of his third suspect, Lady Abigail. She was an ace of spades, well past her prime, yet young enough to still be found alluring by gentlemen of all classes. He found Lady Abigail dancing on the arm of an affluent, yet married viscount, flirting shamelessly as she flaunted her vast expanse of bosom for all to see. Colin watched with disgust as the viscount ogled her, utterly oblivious of his wife shooting daggers at him from across the room.
When the dance ended, he watched as Lady Abigail curtsied, shamelessly exposing more of herself, then stood and turned into the arms of another eager gentleman waiting eagerly for her. He watched intently as she said something to the man then disappeared from his zealous embrace just as the orchestra began playing the next song.
Curious, Colin decided to follow her. He thought it odd that she chose to abandon a willing dance partner and was intent on figuring out why. Lady Abigail slipped through the far doors of the ballroom while Colin made his way past the food table. He peeled his eyes from her long enough to glance one last time at Lord's Williams and Jefferson, assuring they were still present, before feeling his shoulder nudge into someone he hadn't seen before him.
A small, feminine gasp escaped the woman's throat as Colin glanced down into the beautiful face of Miss Godwin and cringed. He'd just ran into her, causing her to stumble backward into another woman, who looked quite troubled by the whole ordeal.
Without thinking, he reached for her elbows and righted her before whispering, “My apologies, Miss. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going.”
Her voice, smooth and composed, responded, “I suppose it's only right that I hold no grudge, seeing as you were so gracious when I bumped into you all those years ago.”
A smile spread across Colin's face, causing him to forget his earlier mission. “You remember!” he exclaimed, a bit exuberantly.
Miss Godwin nodded her head, returning his smile. Lud, he felt like the wind had just been sucked from his chest. Her red lips parted, exposing even, white teeth and causing her blue eyes to dance with happiness. Her rare smile transformed her beautiful face into something ethereal, and he was confident he'd never seen anything so captivating.
“I do now,” she replied as one hand went to her neck to twine in the elegant strand of pearls hanging against her collarbone.
Colin's eyes traveled with her hand to the expanse of smooth skin exposed above her modest neckline. The nervous way she fiddled with the pearls made him certain she had not purposely drawn his eyes to her decolletage as Lady Abigail was wont to do.
“Lady Abigail,” he muttered beneath his breath with a curse before returning his gaze to Miss Godwin's eyes. “My apologies, I must be off.”
Colin was surprised and a bit pleased when Miss Godwin's eyes registered disappointment at his impending departure, so he quickly reached for the dance card hanging from her wrist. A brief scan confirmed what he already knew, that no one had claimed her for a single dance.
“Put me down for a dance of your choice,” he instructed with some urgency.
“But—” she started before glancing over her shoulder to her mother, who was scowling at the exchange.
Unable to waste another minute, Colin assured her he'd be back shortly before quickly taking his leave. He rushed through the doors he'd seen Lady Abigail leave through earlier and scanned the crowds of people for her, hoping to spot her prim blonde hair in the crowd. Inwardly he cursed, knowing his exchange with Miss Godwin, though brief, could prove disastrous to his mission.
He silently chastised himself as he ran one hand through his hair. He'd never let a woman distract him before, and wasn't entirely sure why he did so now. Lady Godwin wasn't the most alluring woman in the room, he pondered, but that didn't mean she had no effect on him. A shiver of delight coursed through him as he recalled her rare smile, directed at him alone. Why in tarnation didn't the woman smile more? If she did, he was confiden
t she'd have callers lining up at her door.
The thought filled him with envy, and he instantly scowled. He didn't want anyone lining up at her door but him, he mused irritably before once more realizing Miss Godwin was distracting him from his task. With a sharp flick of his head, he forced his mind to dispel all thoughts of the gel so he could focus on what he came here to do.
The crowds of people milling about thinned noticeably as he proceeded down the hall. He smiled knowingly when he caught a glimpse of white-blonde hair several yards ahead. He quickened his pace and nearly let out a victorious whoop when he caught sight of Lady Abigail's scarlet gown.
Sliding into the shadows, he continued to follow her until he saw her slip into a dark alcove. Pressing his back against the wall, he held his breath and waited, wondering what she was up to. He didn't have to wonder for long because only a moment later, he watched her slip from the alcove now wearing a black, hooded cape over her gown. She glanced surreptitiously down the hall before turning and running towards the back staircase.
Colin followed her, his footsteps light so she wouldn't hear him. She floated up two flights of stairs before scampering down the hall and slipping into a bedchamber. Colin heard the door lock behind her. He stealthily slipped into the adjacent bedchamber and tiptoed across the room and carefully parted the curtains to reveal a tiny balcony. He held his breath as he slid the door open, grateful the hinges had been well oiled.
Ignoring the cool breeze that met him, he was relieved to see the other bedchamber boasted its own balcony as well. He quickly determined his legs could breach the gap, and with beads of sweat on his brow, he slid his leg wide until he was straddling both balconies, his breeches threatening to rip if he weren't careful.
With a huff, Colin heaved his other leg over the rail so he was now standing squarely on the balcony of the bedchamber Lady Abigail occupied. He took a moment to allow his breathing to return to normal before placing his hand gently on the knob of the door. With a slow twist, he heard it click and quietly pulled it ajar, but only enough for his hand to reach inside and carefully peel the curtain back slightly so he could just barely see inside.
Ravenworthe Page 2
