Colin watched with rapt attention as Lady Abigail, now stripped of her dark cape, threw herself into the arms of a man he couldn't make out because he was standing in the shadows. The pair, now entwined in a heated embrace, began kissing passionately, causing Colin to grow warm. His discomfort grew as he witnessed the amorous encounter progress to the point he now felt like a voyeur.
He was about to drop the curtain back into place when his gaze lost focus, and in his mind, he saw exactly how this would play out. It was a gift he'd had since his youth when he first started training under the competent hand of Alistair Wellington. At first, he wasn't sure what these visions meant or if they had any meaning, but the more he trained, the more they came until he frequently got glimpses into the cases he was investigating that helped him solve them with ease, every single time.
His head cleared, and he glanced back into the room in time to see Lady Abigail pull swiftly from the man's arms, her voluminous chest heaving and shuddering. The man, who he now could see clearly and recognized as Lord Thorne, the master of the house, reached for her.
Lady Abigail took a step back, avoiding his grasp. “Not so soon,” she warned sultrily.
Lord Thorne pouted, “Don't be a tease, Abby. You know you want this as badly as I do.”
“But you promised me the rubies,” she whined, but in a way that still managed to sound seductive.
“And you will get them,” he assured her as he pulled her to him so quickly she couldn't protest. His mouth found her neck and began kissing it sloppily.
Lady Abigail pushed him away. His expression turned angry, but she quickly and passionately kissed the scorn from his face. “Give them to me first; then you can have whatever you wish.”
“Whatever I wish?” he asked, completely under her spell.
She nodded, and Colin rolled his eyes in disgust. Couldn't Lord Thorne see he was being used?
Apparently not, for he quickly turned from her to do her bidding, disappearing into his changing room. While he was away, Colin watched as Lady Abigail wiped his kisses from her mouth in disgust. It was clear she was after one thing and one thing only.
Colin's mind was racing as Lord Thorne returned and handed Lady Abigail a velvet box. She quickly glanced inside, her eyes lighting with greed as she fingered the valuable jewels. “Put them on me,” she demanded as she pushed the box towards Lord Thorne, “then we'll finish.”
With the jewels safely around her neck, she quickly discarded the velvet box and wasted no time in picking up where she left off, rapidly progressing towards the luxurious canopied bed in the center of the room.
At this point, Colin let the drapes fall into place. He didn't need to witness anymore. He was putting together the pieces in his mind, both of the vision he'd had and what he'd just witnessed, until they formed the complete picture, while the grunting inside became too much for him to stomach.
He quickly, but quietly shut the door and slid back to the other balcony. Once inside the bedchamber, he continued making his case against Lady Abigail as he straightened his jacket and brushed his hair from his brow.
It would seem the valuable jewels weren't being stolen from notable members of the ton; they were being seduced away. He surmised that to avoid being found out, the master of the house would then report the jewels missing to keep his wife from discovering his perfidy. It made perfect sense because it was true; he was sure of it.
He smiled satisfactorily as he left the bedchamber. He'd report his findings tomorrow and allow those involved to do what they would with the information gleaned. In the meantime, he had a dance to claim.
Colin thought nothing could alter his good mood as he hastily returned to the ballroom. There was a deep sense of satisfaction whenever he solved a case. Not only would his clients be pleased and reward him handsomely, he knew he was making Alistair proud and therefore himself as well.
But he was wrong. His mood was quickly dashed when he realized Miss Godwin was nowhere to be found. He searched the halls with no success before deciding to inquire with the footman at the door.
“Excuse me, but have the Godwin's departed?”
“Ay, sir, just now,” the young man said as he pointed to a carriage rolling out of sight.
Colin sighed, disappointment replacing his earlier pleasure. Had she indeed been so determined to avoid him? “Then send for my carriage as well,” he instructed, knowing there was no longer any reason for him to stay.
Bridget seethed as their carriage made the short journey back to their townhouse on Mayfair square. Though her mother had made up the excuse that she was feeling faint so they could retire early, Bridget knew it was a complete sham. Her mother was determined she not interact with Mr. Ravenworthe at any cost.
“What have you against the man?” she wanted to scream, but she knew it wouldn't be wise. In her current state of anger, she'd just end up crying, and the thought mortified her.
Biting painfully down on her lip, she choked back the unshed tears and gave her parents the silent treatment instead. Tension hung thick between them as they alighted from the carriage and entered their townhouse.
Duncan, their butler, stood waiting for them, as always, but this time he was fidgeting his hands in an unusual display of nerves. “Mr. Godwin,” he said, addressing her father hesitantly. “A situation has arisen.”
“One that cannot wait till tomorrow?” he asked, clearly perturbed as he shrugged out of his greatcoat and hat, which Duncan quickly took.
“Unfortunately, no. You see, your brother has arrived along with...”
“My brother?” her father roared, cutting Duncan off mid-sentence.
“Yes.”
The tension Bridget felt earlier only magnified. While her father liked his brother just fine, he detested unexpected visitors.
“That's not all, sir,” Duncan added hesitantly. “He's brought Miss Beatrice with him.”
Her father and mother began yelling at once, a loud cacophony of voices that reverberated off the walls. Poor Duncan, though only the bearer of bad news, now faced the brunt of their wrath. Bridget couldn't even be excited that her sister was in London, for she knew what a taboo that subject was. Her insides coiled together at the thought of innocent Beatrice being scorned by society to her very face.
Sinking away from the scene in the foyer, Bridget went to find Beatrice but was intersected in the hall by her Uncle Jasper. Unknowingly, her expression turned into a scowl as she watched him waltz towards her with an arrogant confidence.
“What have you done,” she hissed angrily.
“It's a great pleasure to see you too, niece,” He said, ignoring her ire. Then, holding out his arms, he commanded, “Give your uncle a hug.”
Bridget stiffened at once. Her family was not the affectionate type, they were British after all, but her Uncle Jasper never seemed to care. He always demanded she hug him when he came to visit, and she detested it greatly.
Bridget shook her head curtly, but he ignored it and took her into his arms anyway. She stiffened in his embrace, though it was nothing but familial.
“By Jove, child, you're maturing splendidly! I'd venture to guess you are the belle of every ball in London.”
Bridget shook her head and pulled away from his embrace, her cheeks burning with discomfort. “You are incorrect, Uncle, no one notices my presence.”
“No one?” he asked, one thick brow arching high on his forehead.
Her mind instantly recalled Mr. Ravenworthe before being consumed by disappointment. “No one,” she reiterated firmly, hoping he'd pry no further.
“Well, I suppose that could be beneficial, seeing as how I brought a guest with me that might interest you.”
“Another uninvited guest?” her father mumbled under his breath as he and her mother joined them in the hall.
“It's our good friend, Daniel Townsend,” Uncle Jasper announced just as the mentioned man appeared from behind him, seemingly out of thin air.
Mr. Townsend was tall
and lean with ash blonde hair that stuck out in every direction. Bridget recalled meeting him a handful of times at their country home, Esplin Place, but never paid him much mind as his only interest seemed to be in groveling at her father's feet in an attempt to purchase a portion of his lucrative business, which her father always denied.
He smiled awkwardly at Bridget before extending his hand to her father. “It's a pleasure to see you again, sir.”
Her father watched the man shrewdly, before saying brusquely, “I left Esplin Place to get away from you, must you harass me in London as well?”
“I'm wounded,” Mr. Townsend said, one hand over his heart. “I only came to offer you another proposition, one you might find quite tempting.”
“Nevermind your business propositions,” her mother spat, her eyes narrowing on Uncle Jasper and completely ignoring Mr. Townsend. “What is the meaning of bringing Beatrice to London?”
Uncle Jasper smiled at them, oblivious that his actions had caused great distress. “The poor girl was missing her family terribly, and I thought only to remedy that.”
“She's only been away from us for a month, hardly long enough to miss us,” her mother remarked coolly.
Uncle Jasper shrugged his shoulders. “It broke my heart to see her distress. I figured a short visit to London wouldn't hurt anything.”
“You figured wrong, Jasper. Tell him, Elias, tell him how foolish his actions are.”
Her mother's stern eyes pled with her father for help, but Bridget saw her father softening. “Dear, perhaps a short visit will do no harm. Society need not know she is here. She can visit with us and see that we are well and return home before anyone is the wiser.” Turning to his brother, he asked, “You will take her home shortly, won't you?”
“Of course, of course,” he assured them smoothly, leaving Bridget to doubt his sincerity.
“Bridget, you're home!”
Bridget's head turned at the sound of her sister's voice. She'd barely laid eyes on her when Beatrice swarmed her, all of her lanky limbs entwining around her in an exuberant, sloppy hug. Bridget laughed as she felt her sister's embrace tighten almost painfully around her.
“Oh, how I missed you, Bea, but I can't breathe!”
Beatrice ignored her. “You're home, you're home, you're really home,” she cheered gleefully, making Bridget wonder how long she'd been waiting for her.
“Have you no hug to spare for me?” her father asked, watching both of his daughters with a smile on his face.
Beatrice paused, a look of annoyance briefly flitting across her face before peeling herself off of Bridget and turning to give her father a much more dignified hug.
“That's my girl. Have you been behaving while we've been away?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Very good, now come, let's get you to bed. We can discuss the details of your stay tomorrow.”
It didn't go without notice that their mother never acknowledged Beatrice's presence, nor Beatrice hers. Instead, the group retired down the hall, where Bridget eventually took Beatrice by the arm, saying, “I'll see her to my bedchamber. She can sleep with me tonight.”
Beatrice squealed with delight and began jumping up and down. Bridget wondered if she'd ever get any sleep.
“Don't ever leave me again, Bridget. Please, please, please?” Beatrice chanted over and over and over again as they made their way upstairs to the second floor.
“You know I always return home,” Bridget said, attempting to placate her. “If I had it my way, I'd never leave you, but Father and Mother say it's my duty to find a husband.”
They were at the door of Bridget's bedchamber now, a single candle in a sconce on the wall flicking in the dark. Bridget watched Beatrice's fine features twist into disgust as she stuck out her tongue. “I don't want you to get married; then you'll leave me forever.”
It was a conversation they'd had so many times in the past. Bridget was the only family member Beatrice really liked, so the thought of her someday leaving for good made her incredibly anxious and upset.
“Let's not worry about it tonight, dear sister. As of right now, there are no prospects, so you needn't worry.”
Letitia was waiting in the bedchamber. She had enough decency not to comment on Beatrice's surprise appearance or remark at the extra work her presence would require. Instead, she quietly went to work, helping both sisters ready for bed.
As soon as Letitia left, Bridget tucked Beatrice into one side of her bed before snuggling in on the other side. With the sheets pulled up beneath her chin, she waited for the onslaught of questions that were certain to pour from Beatrice's mouth. Her sister did not disappoint.
Beatrice wanted to know all about the gowns Bridget wore when attending balls and the gowns of every other person in attendance. Bridget spent nearly an hour describing in detail every gown she could recall, primarily focusing on the splendid fabrics and trimmings that adorned them.
When she could barely finish a sentence without yawing, she finally said, “Bea, we must get some sleep. I promise tomorrow I'll tell you more, but tonight I'm too tired.”
“Very well, Bridget, but you must not forget your promise.”
“Never.”
Sometime during the night, Bridget registered a shift in the mattress but was too tired to peel her eyes open and check on Beatrice. Instead, she called out, “Is everything alright?”
When she didn't get a response, she had the vague thought that she should worry, but sleep quickly reclaimed her, and thoughts of Beatrice were all too soon forgotten. It would be several hours before she awoke, and when she did, she'd quickly discover that her life would never, ever be the same.
Blood-curdling screams jarred Bridget from her slumber faster than a bucket of cold water could have. She sat up swiftly, reaching instinctively for Beatrice, panicking when her hand met with nothing but cold sheets.
Jumping from her bed, she quickly grabbed a dressing gown and threw it around her body as she hastened down the hall towards where the screaming was coming from. Her ears rang as she grew closer to the high-pitched shrieking coming from her parent's bedchamber.
With her heart racing frantically, Bridget stepped inside and was met by the most ghastly, gruesome scene. Her father was lying on his back on one side of his bed, covered in scarlet blood. Next to him stood Beatrice, her pale, trembling hands clutching onto a dagger with their father's blood staining her palms. Her mother was huddled into a corner across the room, staring at Beatrice with malice as both of them continued screaming uncontrollably.
Bridget, full of shock, advanced towards the bed, hoping and praying her father wasn't really dead. Her body trembled as she pushed Beatrice aside to get a closer look at her father. His portly face looked as if he were merely sleeping. Unwilling to believe what she was seeing, Bridget placed her hand on his chest to see if she could detect a heartbeat. Long seconds passed before she finally pulled her how blood-soaked hand from his body. Without a doubt, he was dead.
“What in tarnation is going on here?” Uncle Jasper yelled, loud enough to be heard above the screeching. “And stop that infernal screaming before I go mad.”
Her mother and Beatrice shut their mouths instantly as Uncle Jasper advanced into the room, gasping loudly when his eyes rested upon his dead brother. “What have you done?” he hissed, quickly shifting his gaze to Beatrice.
The full impact of what had happened finally settled on Bridget. Horror filled her as she glanced at Beatrice, still holding the knife that had killed their father. She gathered Beatrice into her arms and tried to gently remove the dagger from her grasp so as not to hurt either one of them.
“Bea, you didn't do this, did you?” she asked shakily, afraid of what her sister would say.
“Papa is dead,” Beatrice wailed as she continued to cry.
Bridget laid the knife on the nightstand then took Beatrice's shoulders in her hands and shook her gently. “But did you kill father?” she asked, her own heart momentarily stoppi
ng as she waited for her response.
Beatrice didn't answer, simply stood before her sobbing. Thoughts of Beatrice leaving her bedchamber last night quickly assaulted Bridget's memory as she imagined her sister wandering through the house in search of a weapon, then sneaking into their parent's bedchamber to kill their father.
“Did you kill Father?” she asked again, this time shaking Beatrice forcefully. Panic was slithering through her body like the ivy crawling up the side of the stone gatehouse at their country home. “Did you kill him?”
“Who else would've done it?” her mother lamented from across the room.
“Indeed, who else?” Uncle Jasper drawled as he came to them and snatched Beatrice from Bridget's embrace.
Bridget's eyes shifted between her mother and her uncle, unable to believe they could so easily think Beatrice a murderer. “She didn't do it,” she blurted with confidence.
Her uncle snorted. “It's obvious that she did. She was found hovering over your father's body, holding the dagger and covered in his blood. How much clearer could it be?”
From across the room, her mother began hollering once more, “You're just as much to blame for bringing her here, Jasper.” Her seething words dripped with venom.
“You're not thinking clearly, Margaret,” he said before turning towards the door where a crowd of servants had gathered, taking in the scene before them with utter horror. “Someone, go fetch some smelling salts before she faints.” A young chamber maid quickly turned to do his bidding, though the rest of them stood staring rudely.
Beatrice's weeping soon turned to loud, heart-wrenching sobs that couldn't be soothed. Bridget tried to go to her, to take her into her embrace, but Uncle Jasper refused to let her out of his grasp.
“She needs to be dealt with,” he hissed. “She is a murderer.”
“No!” Bridget seethed, unwilling to believe her kind, childlike sister was capable of such a thing. “If she were to kill anyone, it would've been you,” Bridget said, pointing across the room to their mother.
Ravenworthe Page 3
