Still feigning illness, Violet stayed home from work the next day then spent all afternoon trying to work up the courage to confront Rule about his meeting with the countess. Before he had left for the office that morning, he had insisted that if she weren’t feeling better by the time he got home, he was calling a physician.
It was time to stop pretending, time to discover the truth, but the thought of what he might say tied a hard knot in her stomach.
Violet sighed as she stood at the window in the drawing room. The weather seemed to mirror her dismal mood. A storm had blown in, a torrential downpour that had started late in the afternoon and hadn’t let up. Through the rain-spotted panes, she saw Rule’s carriage arrive out front, saw him step from the coach into the downpour, his clothes drenched by the time he reached the porch though a footman hovered over him with an umbrella.
She was standing in the hall when he shed his caped overcoat and hat in the entry and handed them to Hatfield. “Have you seen my wife or is she still upstairs in her room?”
She started toward him. Apparently his concern for her had not lessened. Violet felt only a trace of guilt for the deception.
“I am here, my lord.”
He turned at the sound of her voice and smiled. “So you are up and about. I hope you are feeling better.”
“Much better, thank you. I told you it was nothing to worry about.”
She could see the relief in his eyes and it eased some of her fear. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps his meeting with Lady Fremont had not been the beginning of an affair.
“I could use a cup of tea,” he said to Hat.
“I’ll see to it, my lord.” Hat disappeared and Rule turned a warm smile in her direction.
“Why don’t you join me, sweetheart? A nice hot cup of tea would probably do you good.” He hadn’t used the endearment lately and her heart lifted a fraction more. It was time, she decided. There was no point in waiting any longer.
She managed to smile. “Tea sounds lovely.”
They had just begun to settle themselves in the drawing room when a commotion in the entry put them on alert. Both of them rose as Hatfield appeared in the doorway.
“I am sorry, my lord, but Constable McGregor wishes to speak to you.”
Violet didn’t miss the tension that seeped into Rule’s shoulders. “Bring him in. We’ll speak in here.”
“I’m afraid that’s no longer acceptable.” The stocky, auburn-haired policeman sauntered past Hat into the drawing room, followed by two other policemen. “I’m here to arrest you in the Queen’s name for the murder of Charles Whitney.”
“Dear God.” Violet shot to her feet, fighting not to tremble.
“You may come quietly, my lord, or we can force you to come. The choice is yours.”
“I’ll go to your brother,” Violet promised. “I’ll tell him what has happened. The duke will know what to do.”
Rule stiffly nodded. “I’ll come with you,” he said to McGregor. “I would like to know, however, why you have decided of a sudden to take this step.”
“A man was found dead. You might recall him, a fellow with a jagged scar that ran along the side of his neck.”
Rule’s face paled.
“He was found in an alley not far from Tooley Street. Not far, my lord, from your place of business.”
Rule’s jaw firmed. “What does that have to do with me?”
“We spoke to a chambermaid named Molly Deavers. Miss Deavers admitted to selling the key to Charles Whitney’s room to a man with a scar on his neck. Whitney is dead and now the man who could have linked you to the murder is also dead—just blocks from where you work.”
“You think I killed him? What about Peter Austin or Martin Whitney? Either of them could have murdered Whitney.”
“Austin was in Portsmouth at the time of the murder. Martin Whitney was with friends at his club. Several patrons will attest to that.”
“Perhaps one of them paid the man with the scar to do it.”
The constable ignored him. He gave a nod and the two policemen moved behind Rule in warning. “Time to go.”
One of Rule’s hands fisted but he didn’t resist. Allowing the men to guide him down the hall and out the front door, he stepped into the driving rain.
“I’ll bring Royal!” Violet called after him, desperation ringing in her voice. “He’ll straighten all of this out.”
Rule made no reply, just let them lead him to the door of the police wagon, ducked his head and disappeared inside.
Violet’s heart squeezed. Dear God, they hadn’t even given him time to get his overcoat.
She whirled toward the butler. “I’ll need the carriage readied immediately.”
“I have already sent for it, my lady. Mr. Bellows will be out front any moment.”
Violet felt the sting of tears. “What would we do without you, Hat?”
The old man’s thin cheeks colored. He hurried off to retrieve her cloak and a dry coat for Rule and returned with the items a few minutes later.
“You’ll need these.” He handed her Rule’s coat and draped her woolen cloak around her shoulders.
“Thank you.”
The carriage arrived out front in record time. Hurriedly descending the steps, her cloak flapping in the wind as a footman held an umbrella over her head, Violet climbed aboard. An instant later, the conveyance lurched into motion, the wheels rolling over the slick cobbled streets, the horses pounding along at the fastest pace possible in the weather and the traffic.
It seemed to take forever to reach the duke’s mansion, though it wasn’t that far away. Royal will know what to do, she told herself as she stepped down into the rain, repeating the phrase like a mantra.
Violet prayed that it was true.
Neither Royal nor the fancy barrister Mr. Pinkard insisted Rule hire were able to get him released. Late that night he was taken to Newgate and placed in a barren cell on the master’s side of the prison, a private accommodation arranged for by Mr. Pinkard.
Violet had heard that the prison had been remodeled four years earlier to make it more modern, but it remained a cold, drafty, inhumane place not fit to house the rats who lived inside the gray stone walls.
“I don’t want you to come down here, Violet,” Rule said to her when Royal and Mr. Pinkard stepped out of the cell to give them a few moments alone. “If things go badly, this is not the way I want you to remember me.”
“Oh, dear God!” She hurled herself into his arms and clung to him, aching for him, trembling. “Don’t even think such a thing. We’ll find a solution. We’ll find the real killer.”
Rule took a shaky breath. “Royal is going to take you home. I want you to stay there, Violet. Better yet, tomorrow I want you to go to the office. Keep yourself busy. Let Morgan and the others do their job.” He bent his head and kissed her, softly at first, then fiercely.
“I love you, Rule,” she said, unable to stop the words, wishing with all her heart he would say those words to her.
Instead, he kissed her one last time. “Pray for me,” was all he said.
The clank of the heavy cell door marked Violet’s departure. The sound made Rule’s chest squeeze. She had gone to his brother as she had promised, pled with the constable for his freedom, braved the ugliness of Newgate to come to him, to try to give him hope.
She was unlike any woman he had ever known, smarter, sweeter, more courageous. More determined.
And she had said that she loved him.
For an instant, he’d felt light-headed, as if those simple words had thrown him completely off balance. She had said them and he could see that she meant them.
His heart beat dully as he recalled the moment. What man wouldn’t want the love of a woman like that?
And yet, Rule did not.
He knew that Violet’s love came with a price. That she would want, perhaps even require, his love in return.
But Rule didn’t have that sort of love to give. He loved his brothers, his family, but it wasn’t the same. Violet craved a man’s love, a husband’s love, the deep abiding affection of a sort he didn’t understand. He had never felt that kind of love and probably never would.
He thought of her sweet face and prayed she could be happy with the depth of his caring, his deep concern for her welfare. He prayed she would be content with his affection and his passions.
A noise in the corridor outside his cell drew his attention, the weeping of a prisoner in another damp enclosure in a different part of the prison. The dismal sound reminded him he was in Newgate. That perhaps his worries about the future wouldn’t matter.
Perhaps he would never be able to prove his innocence and he would hang.
If that happened, Violet would be free of him, free to find a man who loved her the way she deserved.
The thought made him sick to his stomach.
Violet couldn’t stand another moment of pacing, of wandering through the empty house, a place that echoed with her loneliness and fear. Rule had pressed her to return to work and now as her desperation continued to build, she realized he was right.
Forcing aside her exhaustion from another sleepless night, early the following morning she fashioned her hair in a tight chignon at the nape of her neck, dressed in a sturdy gown of russet wool against the continuing stormy weather, and traveled to her office at Griffin.
Looking pale and shaken, Terence Smythe greeted her at the door as she walked in. “I only just heard, my lady. We are all of us just so angry. How can they believe Lord Rule would murder someone? He is simply not that sort.”
She managed a smile. “No, he isn’t, Terry. We can only hope and pray that the real killer will be found.” Before it’s too late, she silently added. But in England, prosecutions moved swiftly. Mr. Pinkard had been able to convince the magistrates to give him a little more time to mount a defense, but it wouldn’t be long.
Moving down the hallway, she went into the office that belonged to Rule to see what matters of importance might be stacked upon his desk. She picked up the item on top of the stack and saw that it was a formal offer to purchase the company.
The offer had come from Burton Stanfield.
Fury engulfed her. How dare he! With her husband in prison, Stanfield had the temerity to believe she would be forced to accept his offer. Perhaps he was convinced Rule would be convicted of the crime and would no longer pose an obstacle to his acquisition of the business.
Violet held up the several sheets of paper, tore them neatly in two and discarded them in the waste bin.
She looked up as Terry appeared in the open doorway. “Would you like me to bring you the weekly ledgers, my lady?”
“Yes. I’ll start on them as soon as I go through his lordship’s correspondence.”
Terry disappeared then reappeared with the heavy leather-bound volumes, which he placed on a corner of the desk.
“Thank you, Terry.”
As the young man left, quietly closing the door, Violet glanced around the office that belonged to her husband, and a thick lump swelled in her throat. Everything in the office reminded her of Rule. His framed diploma from Oxford, a trophy he had won during his university boxing days, the crystal decanter on the sideboard that held his favorite aged brandy.
There was a portrait of his mother and father, and one of him and his two brothers, painted in the countryside around Bransford Castle when they were little boys. Her eyes misted at what a beautiful child he was. She moved one of the papers on his desk and caught a whiff of his cologne.
Dear God, she was so afraid for him!
And she loved him so much.
She recalled the moment she had finally said the words, no longer able to keep them locked inside. Rule had simply ignored them and her heart had clenched with longing. She told herself it didn’t matter. That whatever his feelings for her, nothing could change what she felt for him.
Violet drew in a calming breath, determined not to dwell on what she could not change. Keeping the company running smoothly was what Rule would want.
Turning her attention to the task at hand, she replied to several letters he had received, made decisions on a number of other business matters, then began on the ledgers. But no matter how hard she worked, every so often her mind would wander back to Rule and his dismal cell and her eyes would fill with tears.
Loving someone, she discovered, could be a very painful proposition.
The afternoon began to wane. Outside the window, the rain had stopped but the sky remained overcast and dull. A stiff wind rattled the branches on the trees and they scraped eerily against the panes. She glanced at the clock on the wall, determined to leave in time to stop by the prison before it got dark. She knew Rule wouldn’t like it but she simply had to see him, be certain he was all right.
A soft knock sounded, drawing her from her thoughts as she began to straighten the desk. She expected to find Terry but it was the boy she remembered seeing outside the White Bull Tavern who walked in and closed the door.
“Me name’s Danny Tuttle, milady. I gotta talk to you. It’s important.”
She managed to smile. “My husband told me he gave you a job. How can I help you, Danny?”
“I heard about ’is lordship…about ’im gettin’ tossed into prison and all. I know ’e didn’t kill that man like they say.”
Her pulse leaped. She forced herself to remain calm for fear she might frighten him into silence. “Go on, Danny.”
“Your ’usband…’e were good to me. I don’t want to see ’im hang—not for somethin’ ’e didn’t do.”
Her heart was beating, pounding away inside her chest. “What are you saying, Danny?”
“I lied to ’im, milady, that day outside the White Bull. ’E asked me about the man what paid me to deliver the note. ’E wanted to know what the man looked like. I figured it wouldn’t matter so I told ’im about the scar. But I said I didn’t know ’im.”
“Go on, Danny, please.”
“’Is name is Michael Dunnigan. Quick Mike, they call ’im. ’E runs the li’l goes—the lotteries for Benny Bates.”
“Bates? That’s the man you used to work for?”
“That’s ’im.”
“The man with the scar—Michael Dunnigan—I’m afraid he is dead. They found him in an alley just a few blocks away.”
“I heard.”
“What…what do you think happened to him?”
“Bates paid Quick Mike to get the key to one of the rooms at the Albert. Mike sent me to deliver the note to your ’usband. I think whoever ’ired Benny to ’elp ’im set up the murder kilt Mike to keep ’im quiet. Mike were always spoutin’ off, ya see, the boastin’ sort, ’e was. I think the man kilt ’im and hauled ’is body down ’ere to make it look like your ’usband done it.”
Violet moistened her trembling lips, fighting to stay calm. “You don’t think Bates did it?”
“Nah. Mike was Benny’s friend. Ain’t likely ’e woulda kilt ’im. But I think ’e knows who did.”
“Thank you, Danny. So very much.” Violet hurried out of the office, stopping only long enough to have Terry retrieve her carriage. She had to talk to Chase Morgan, tell him what she had discovered. If anyone could get Bates to talk, it was the hard-edged investigator.
She knew his office was in Threadneedle Street. She had gone there once with Rule. Fortunately, when she arrived unannounced, Morgan was still there, though it appeared he was about to leave.
He opened the door, hat in hand, then paused when he saw her. “My lady, please come in.” Stepping back to let her pass, he hung his hat back on the rack, led her out of the waiting area into his private office and quietly closed the door.
“I wish I had something new to report,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t. The duke stopped by yesterday to tell me the police had found the body of the man with the scar and that they had arrested your husband. They haven’t been able to discover the man’s identity. I’ve been doing my best to find out, but so far—”
“His name is Michael Dunnigan. He worked for Benny Bates.”
Morgan lifted a dark brown eyebrow. “How did you find that out?”
“The boy Danny Tuttle. Rule gave him a job and apparently he felt grateful. He came to see me. He gave me Dunnigan’s name but said he didn’t think Bates killed him. He thinks Bates was hired by someone to set up the murder and that person killed Dunnigan to ensure his silence.”
“Then hauled the body down to Tooley Street to convince the authorities your husband killed him to keep him quiet.”
“Yes.”
Morgan took her arm and started guiding her toward the door, grabbing his hat off the rack as he passed. “It’s getting dark. Will you be able to get home all right?”
“Of course.”
He escorted her out to the carriage and helped her inside, obviously eager to be on his way. “Assuming I can find him, I’ll talk to Bates tonight. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Thank you.” She watched as he walked away, his strides long and filled with purpose.
“Home, my lady?” Bellows asked through the small trapdoor that opened to the interior of the coach.
“Newgate Prison, Mr. Bellows. I need to speak to my husband.”
Bellows grumbled something she couldn’t quite hear. “Aye, milady,” he said on a sigh.
It was dangerous to go there this time of night. She wasn’t even certain she could get inside. Still, knowing he couldn’t dissuade her, Bellows slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps and the carriage rolled off down the street.