The hold his mind had on the key she had mentioned seemed to slip as he gazed on Bridget's lovely face, temptation coming in the form of her parted lips and probing gaze. The fire in the grate made the room perfectly cozy as he leaned over and took a steadying breath before diving in without abandon.
Though he didn't partake of spirits, Colin was certain Bridget's kisses were far more intoxicating and found himself utterly addicted. Her body trembled against his as she wound her hands in the neck of his shirtsleeves and twirled her fingers in the dark hair that was exposed beneath his collarbone.
Going against every fiber of his being that shouted out at him to continue loving her, Colin forced himself to stop. He breathed raggedly as he insisted, “Tell me about this key. Has your father always required one to access his money?”
Though she looked distracted by his question, Bridget straightened her dress and replied, “Never. I've only ever had to appear and ask for money, and it has always been given to me. Mr. Baring knows me well.”
“Strange.”
“Strange indeed,” she agreed.
“Perhaps this is just another piece to the puzzle.” Colin paced back and forth across the room as he thought. Finally, an idea came to him, causing him to stop abruptly. “Would you oblige me with a trip to the bank? I have an idea.”
“Now?”
“Right this very moment.”
“Let me grab my pelisse and bid Beatrice goodbye first.”
Colin nodded then went to ready himself by grabbing the daggers and slipping them into a satchel, donning his greatcoat and beaver hat, and instructing the carriage to be brought up front. Bridget was actually waiting for him by the time he joined her in the foyer.
Offering her his arm, he escorted her to the carriage, explaining to her his suspicions as they did so. “Do you think it could be?” she asked hopefully.
“We will find out soon enough.”
Bridget felt anxious as Colin escorted her into Baring Brothers & Co. She politely asked for a meeting with Henry Baring, and just like yesterday, was told to wait. It seemed to take longer today for Mr. Baring to appear, which only added to her unease.
Finally, he appeared and escorted them to his office. Colin helped her to her seat before taking the chair next to her.
“Miss Godwin, is there a problem?” he asked, naturally curious as to why she'd be back so soon.
Bridget inclined her head towards Colin. “Mr. Baring, you mentioned the need of a key to access my father's accounts. We don't have a key, precisely, but are wondering if this is what you meant.”
Next to her, Colin reached into his satchel and retrieved the authentic dagger and slid it across the desk towards Mr. Baring. His eyes widened as he reached up and began twisting the tip of his mustache around his finger. “Have you the will as well?”
To her surprise, Colin retrieved a piece of folded parchment and slid it to him. “I found it with the dagger,” he quietly explained to her, noticing her questioning gaze.
She nodded, then watched as Mr. Baring inspected both the dagger and will with great scrutiny. After a pregnant pause, he looked up at her and said, “How much would you like to withdraw?”
A thrill of excitement shot through her. “Let's start with enough to cover the loan you gave me yesterday.”
Mr. Baring stood while Colin quipped, “And she'd like her necklace back while you're at it.”
“Certainly.”
When Mr. Baring left the room, he took the dagger and will with him. Bridget turned to Colin with a wide smile and said, “You're a genius.”
“Hardly,” he laughed, “though I thank you for the compliment.”
A short time later, Mr. Baring returned with her necklace, the dagger, and the will. They settled her loan, and then he returned the items, including her necklace, and asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Colin cleared his throat while pulling the fake replica from his satchel. Holding it up before his face, he said, “It appears someone must have known that Mr. Godwin required the dagger to access his money because they went to great lengths to have this impostor made. Do you know anything about that?”
Mr. Baring's face showed no emotion. “May I inspect it?” he asked, reaching for the dagger.
Colin handed it over while he and Bridget watched Mr. Baring turn it over in his hands, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Where did you find this?”
Bridget flinched and looked to Colin for an answer. “By the dead body of Mr. Elias.”
It was Mr. Baring's turn to cringe. He cursed beneath his breath as he handed it back to Colin as if it were cursed. “About a month ago, a man came in attempting to withdraw a large sum of money from Mr. Godwin's accounts. I asked for the key, and he gave me the dagger. I thought nothing of it at first, until upon further inspection, I discovered the dagger was a fake.”
“How could you tell?” Bridget asked. “It's a very convincing duplicate.”
“Of a surety, except for one thing. Can I see the genuine dagger once more?”
Colin gave it to him, and they both watched in awe as he placed one thumb firmly on the largest ruby on the hilt while the other thumb was placed on the smallest one. With a hefty tug, the hilt slid apart, revealing a small silver key hidden inside. Mr. Baring turned the dagger over and poured it into his hand. Holding it up, he said, “See, a literal key. It goes to Mr. Elias's personal safe here at the bank.”
Bridget covered her mouth with her gloved hands. “How clever.”
“Who was the person who came in with the impostor?” Colin asked, excitedly.
Bridget waited with bated breath for Mr. Baring to answer.
“Said his name was Phineas Bonaparte.”
Her eyebrows shot up on her forehead, “A relation to Napoleon?”
“I believe it was a tasteless moniker,” Mr. Baring said dryly. “I regret the fact I cannot tell you his real name.”
“What did he look like? Was he a large man with thinning hair and a bushy mustache below a bulbous nose?” Bridget asked.
“Oh no, it wasn't Jasper,” Mr. Baring assured her with a dry laugh. She was surprised he knew to whom she was referring. “The man was young and quite tall. He had unfortunate cowlicks over his entire head, causing his sandy hair to stick out in every direction.”
Bridget and Colin gasped in unison as they looked at each other with wide eyes. “Mr. Townsend,” she exclaimed in horror as Colin nodded his head.
Anger filled Bridget as she thought about the man. “Do you think he's killed Mother and Uncle Jasper too?”
“I'm uncertain though I'm determined to find out. But first, I must discover where he's gone.”
“He's from Kent,” Bridget offered. “Perhaps he's returned home.”
“I think it's worth investigating. Mr. Baring, you've been most helpful. Thank you.”
Mr. Baring smiled, reminding Bridget strangely of a large, fat cat. “My pleasure.”
An excited energy filled the carriage as they pulled away from the bank. “What are you going to do now?” Bridget asked Colin.
“I'm going to enlist Walter and Nash to go with me to Kent to track down Mr. Townsend. Then I will turn him over to the authorities for the murder of your father.”
Bridget nibbled her lower lip, worried lines marring her brow. “Will you be safe?”
“Of course,” he promised her, reaching for her hand. “Afterall, I have someone of great importance to come home to, and a future that's prospects delight me greatly.”
The warmth from his larger hand seeped through her gloves, offering her comfort. “Then, I will eagerly await your return and pray for your success and safety.”
Colin placed a tender kiss to the back of her hand. “Then I'm certain all will be well.”
But Bridget couldn't help the dark clouds of foreboding from rolling over her heart like an English rainstorm, causing her to doubt his words. She held his hand tighter, hoping her concern was just the natural byproduct o
f the love she felt growing in her heart for him. Perhaps she was just being a peagoose, she reasoned, hoping desperately that were simply the case.
The taste of Bridget's lips was fresh on his mouth as Colin left his townhouse and stepped into the pouring rain. His greatcoat was damp by the time he got into the waiting carriage, and he silently cursed the weather, knowing it could make their travel difficult.
Awaiting him inside were Walter and Nash.
“Have you discovered where Mr. Townsend's residence is?” he asked hopefully. The last time they'd talked, they were in the process of discovering the precise location of his home in Kent.
“Of course,” Walter said with a smug grin.
Between talking about the case and speculating how everything would be once reaching Kent, Colin had plenty of time to daydream about Bridget. Leaving her had been agony, but she assured him he was a hero for bringing justice to her father and would welcome him as such once he returned. The promise of that reunion made his body thrum with anticipation.
It took the trio two and a half days to travel to Kent, having been delayed by half a day because of muddy roads. Colin refused to think about what would happen if they arrived to find Mr. Townsend not in residence, for he wasn't certain where else to look for him and the missing Godwin family.
His head was propped against the side of the carriage, his beaver hat in his lap as he slipped in and out of sleep. The mattress at the inn they'd stayed at was lumpy and hard and had caused a horrible night's sleep, so Colin was trying to make up for it now.
His body jerked to the side as the carriage slowed and then turned onto the drive leading to Mr. Townsend's house. Colin rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then leaned towards the window and drew the curtain back, and gasped. In the distance loomed a Georgian style red brick house, perfectly symmetric with curved walls on either side of the main door. Ivy clung to the sides, sprawling upwards towards the second floor.
Unable to believe what he was seeing, he focused on the black iron gate they were about to approach and inhaled sharply as he gazed upon the familiar letter R ensconced in the middle of each gate, surrounded by metal leaves that made a wreath around each initial.
“Ravenworthe Manor,” he shuddered beneath his breath. He couldn't force himself to look to his left, to the pond that he knew was in the distance. The horror of it sucked the breath from his body, rendering him speechless.
“Are you well, Colin?” Nash asked, noting his complexion had gone wan.
“Why are we here?” he asked, accusation clear in his voice.
“To retrieve Mr. Townsend,” Nash quipped as if Colin were daft.
“I'm quite certain you've gotten the wrong address. This is my childhood home,” he tried to explain, but knew he only sounded like a babbling idiot.
“The Manor is owned by Mr. Townsend; I checked the records. I'm certain we're at the correct place.”
Colin clenched his clammy palms as the carriage pulled through the gates and along the drive leading to the house. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he felt as if he were in a vortex of emotions, horror, and sickness being at the forefront.
After his mother had died, his father wasted no time in removing them from Ravenworthe Manor. They relocated to London, away from any reminder of what had happened. As far as Colin was aware, the house had been sold, and neither one of them had given it another thought, except when his nightmares would haunt him with the memories of all that had transpired there.
The house seemed hollow as the three men approached. Colin couldn't help noticing the lack of care it had received, noting it was falling into disrepair. The steps to the door were crumbling, and the brass knocker and doorknob were tarnished.
Ignoring Colin's near panic at being there, Nash reached up and used the brass knocker to bang loudly on the door then took a step back to wait for an answer. Colin tapped his boot nervously against the ground, hoping there would be none. He felt the desire to turn around and run from the property but knew Walter and Nash would never understand why he had gone mad.
Several minutes passed when Nash reached for the knocker once more. Colin felt his heart pound in unison with each heavy thud. “Perhaps we've got this wrong,” he whispered with hopeful desperation.
“We're going inside,” Nash insisted firmly, showing no emotion.
Without much effort, Nash forced the heavy wood door open and stepped inside, Walter soon following. Colin remained on the porch for several seconds before inhaling a deep, fortifying breath then proceeding.
The house smelled musty, and dust particles could be seen swirling in the air where faint streams of sunshine shined through the window panes. Colin observed the familiar yet different surroundings while trying to tamper the memories that were threatening to overtake him. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear Lily's sweet voice, and when he opened them, he half expected to see both her and his mother walking towards him, hand in hand.
Disappointment like a knife to the heart twisted internally when his eyes snapped open, and all that was before him were Walter and Nash.
The men began inspecting the rooms, which, Colin noted, still contained the original furnishings, though they were threadbare and faded. “If they're not here, where could they be?” Walter asked in a hushed voice.
“Let's not get forlorn until we finish our inspection,” Nash said sensibly.
They finished inspecting the entire first floor. When they reached the breakfast room, they saw the first sign of life in the form of two abandoned plates of food, half-eaten, with the daily paper folded up between them.
Walter leaned over the table and stuck his pinky in one of the teacups. “It's tepid but not cold,” he announced with a grin. “He's in here somewhere.”
When it came time to advance upstairs, Colin hesitated to descend the staircase. His hand settled on the familiar wood banister, intricately carved with clusters of grapes and vines. Images of sliding down it as a young lad infiltrated his mind, and it shocked him that a good memory would appear instead of one of the horrifying ones.
Walter and Nash were halfway up the stairs when Nash turned to him and asked, “What is wrong, Ravenworthe? You're acting queer.”
He knew he couldn't explain the unease and horror he was experiencing at being there, a place he'd never imagined returning, so instead, he lied, “The porridge at the inn this morning must not be sitting well with me.”
Nash raised a brow curiously before asking, “Can you handle yourself?”
The question, though laced with the barest of concern, made Colin furious, but not at Nash. He was furious with himself for allowing his emotions to be so transparent and to divert him from his goal. He quickly willed Bridget's face to come to his mind and knew he had
to think of her. He was here to help her, to help Beatrice, and that had to be his primary concern, not haunted memories of his past.
Swallowing loudly, he proclaimed, “Yes, I can. Proceed.”
His hands were clammy as they advanced upstairs where the bedchambers were located. In his impatience, Walter called out, “We know you're in here, so you may as well let your presence be known.”
“They're clearly hiding from us,” Colin grumbled. “Do you expect your entreaty will make them magically appear?”
After a thorough search of the entire second floor, Nash huffed and asked, “Do you think he's left the premises?”
Walter advanced to the window at the end of the hall and looked out on the gardens. “There are not many places for them to hide unless he's in the dilapidated stable,” he said, pointing to the building that's roof was falling in on itself.
“Shall we go check?” Nash asked.
“Wait, there's the attic still to inspect,” Colin pointed out, hating the thought terribly.
“Yes, the attic. Let us go.”
Colin led the way. He paused at the bottom of the very narrow staircase leading up to his worst nightmare and shuddered. He felt beads of perspiration gather on his for
ehead and quickly wiped them on his handkerchief.
Every creaky step upward caused more unease to settle upon Colin. He realistically knew he wouldn't find his mother there, but there was a small part of him that feared he'd be confronted with the same grisly scene of his childhood, the scene that haunted his dreams.
As soon as they entered the attic, Colin could sense they weren't alone, though it took some time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He cursed inwardly, wishing they'd had the foresight to bring some candles with them.
“Who's there?” Nash called out as a creak echoed from the corner of the room, followed by a loud thud.
The men raced towards the noise and gasped in unison as their eyes, finally adjusted, settled on the horrific scene before them. Jasper was hanging from the rafters, the chair having been kicked out from beneath him. His pudgy hands were clawing at the noose around his neck as his face turned purple. He was gasping for breath, his eyes bulging in panic.
Colin quickly snatched the fallen chair and righted it. Jumping on it, he removed the dagger from inside his greatcoat and began sawing at the thick rope in an attempt to save Jasper's life.
After what seemed to take ages, the dagger finally cut through the rope, and Jasper fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Colin knelt beside the man and worked to deftly remove the rope from his neck, freeing him to breathe. Jasper coughed and gasped as he rubbed at the abrasions that marred his skin.
“Whoever was here has escaped,” Walter huffed in frustration as he and Nash came to stand next to Jasper.
“Did somebody do this to you?” Colin asked.
“I bloody well wouldn't have done it to myself,” Jasper choked out.
“Then who did it?” Nash asked indignantly.
Jasper glanced behind the men, his eyes widening with horror. He made a valiant effort to retreat, but his girth prevented him from getting far. “It was them,” he whispered in horror as he pointed a shaky finger in front of him.
Ravenworthe Page 11
