Rule's Bride (20 page)

Rule flicked a glance at the policeman with the thin mustache who appeared to be Pettigru and wondered if the informant was somehow involved in the murder. The timing was certainly good. The police had arrived just minutes after Rule had reached the room, leaving them to assume he was the one who had committed the crime.

As the trio of uniformed men ushered him out of the hotel room, Rule clamped his jaw. As soon as they reached the station, he would send word to Royal. A duke carried a lot of weight. Royal would vouch for his innocence and the mistake would be corrected.

He hoped.

They made their way out through the lobby amid the whispers and stares of several hotel guests. As he was led down the carpeted steps to the street, he spotted Bellows standing next to the carriage looking stunned.

Rule had no time to talk to him as the door to the police wagon opened and he was shoved roughly inside. The wagon jolted into motion and he fell back against the hard wooden seat.

“Take it easy, guv'nor,” Pettigru said to him. “We'll get ye there safe and sound and ye can tell yer story to the constable.”

Rule leaned back against the scarred wooden seat, hoping the constable was a better listener than the other policemen had been.

 

Violet lifted her simple gray woolen skirt and hurriedly climbed the steps leading up to police headquarters at 26 Old Jewry. Rule's beefy coachman, Mr. Bellows, moved along close behind.

The station bustled with activity. A surly young man was being charged as a pickpocket and a woman cried in the corner as she received the news her father had been arrested. Trying not to think what sort of news she might receive, Violet approached the long oak counter in the waiting room.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said to an overweight man in a dark blue uniform seated at his desk. “Could you please tell me where I might find Lord Rule Dewar? I'm his wife. His coachman says the police wagon brought him here about an hour ago.”

Thank God Mr. Bellows had the good sense to follow the wagon when he had seen Rule being dragged from the hotel. Unfortunately, he had no idea why Rule had been brought to the station.

Aside from her concern for her husband's safety, Violet couldn't help wondering if he had gone to the hotel for a rendezvous with Lady Fremont, though why that should result in his arrest she couldn't begin to know.

“I believe your husband is just down the hall, milady. If you'll wait, I'll tell Constable McGregor you're here.” The rotund policeman walked off down the corridor, disappeared behind one of the doors and returned a few minutes later.

“The constable says he'd like to see you. If you'll please follow me…”

She flicked a glance at Bellows, who wore a worried expression and stood with his legs splayed and his big hands clasped in front of him. Following the policeman down the hall, she waited while he opened the door, then walked past him into a barren room furnished with only a wooden table and four rickety wooden chairs.

Rule sat in one of them. He shot to his feet the moment he saw her.

“Violet!”

“Sit down, Dewar.” The man across from him—stocky build, auburn hair and a rough complexion—rose to face her. “I'm Constable McGregor, my lady. Why don't you have a seat?”

She would rather have remained standing, but she didn't want to aggravate the man before she even found out why Rule was there.

She sat down in the chair he offered and flicked a glance at Rule, whose expression was grim, his black hair mussed and hanging over his forehead. “Why have you brought my husband here?”

Rule shot up once more. “They think I'm a murderer.”

Violet's heart jerked and began a rapid pounding.

“I told you to sit down,” said McGregor.

Rule slowly complied and the constable turned his attention to her. “I'm afraid there's been a murder. A man named Charles Whitney. Are you familiar with the name?”

Her gaze flew to Rule. Charles Whitney was dead? It seemed impossible. “Why…why, yes, I know him. He is…he was planning to buy the company my husband and I own.”

McGregor studied the notes he had written. “Griffin Manufacturing?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband was found in Mr. Whitney's room just minutes after the shooting. He was kneeling over the body. There was a gun on the floor at his feet and his hand was covered in blood.”

“I didn't kill him,” Rule said defensively. “I was trying to help him.” There was something in his face… Dear God, he was afraid she wouldn't believe him!

She stiffened her spine. “There, you heard what he said. Mr. Whitney had been shot. My husband was trying to help him.”

Rule hadn't done it, she was sure. He simply wasn't the kind of man to commit murder.

“Perhaps. But our investigation has only begun. There is every chance we'll turn up more evidence. When that happens—”

A hard knock interrupted the rest of the constable's words. The door swung open before the policeman had granted permission and Royal Dewar strode into the barren chamber.

“What's going on here?” he demanded. “I'm the Duke of Bransford. I demand to know why my brother is being held against his will.”

McGregor rose from his chair. “Your brother was found at the scene of a murder, Your Grace.”

Royal's gaze didn't waver. “So his note informed me.” He was a good four inches taller than the constable, his manner utterly forbidding. “What possible reason would my brother have to kill the man who was about to buy his company?”

“We don't know why Whitney was murdered—not yet. But we will, I assure you.”

Another man walked into the room just then, light blue eyes and a leonine mane of silver hair. “I'm Edward Pinkard. I represent the Dewar family. If you do not have sufficient evidence to file formal charges against his lordship, I would advise you to release him.”

McGregor's jaw tightened. Clearly he wasn't ready to let Rule leave. He turned to the duke. “Are you willing to be responsible for this man's conduct until the matter is resolved?”

The duke gave a firm nod of his head. “I am.”

McGregor's gaze went to Rule. “All right, you can go. We have no more questions at this time, but I warn you not to leave the city.”

“I'll be right here,” Rule said darkly. Turning, he made
his way to where Violet stood trembling. He settled a hand at her waist. “Everything is going to be all right. Let's go.”

She only nodded. Worry made it hard to speak. Clearly the constable believed Rule was guilty of Charles Whitney's murder.

The small group made its way out to the waiting area. Bellows cast a concerned look at Rule then hurried off to fetch the carriage.

“Thank you for coming,” Rule said to his brother.

The duke's jaw looked hard. “I'll follow you back to your house and you can tell me what this is about.”

Rule turned to the silver-haired attorney. “I appreciate your help, Edward. If I need anything more, I'll let you know.”

Pinkard cast a glance back down the hall. “Let us hope this is the end of it.”

Violet's stomach tightened. As they walked out of the police station, she thought of the determined look on Constable McGregor's harsh, ruddy face, and had a very bad feeling this was only the beginning.

R
ule sat with his brother and Violet in front of the hearth in his study. Every time he looked at his wife, he felt sick to his stomach.

In the past half hour, he had explained in detail everything that had happened: receiving the note from Whitney, finding the door to his room open, walking inside, spotting the man's still-warm body on the floor. He told them how he had knelt and felt for a pulse but found none, how the police had arrived at that very moment.

His brother had believed him, of course. Royal hadn't the slightest doubt of his innocence. But Violet…

Violet didn't know him the way Royal did. There was every chance she would believe the worst of him.

He raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “They are going to find out the pistol was made by Griffin. It won't take them long.”

She slid closer to him on the sofa, her skirt brushing his leg. “You didn't do it. In time, they are certain to discover that, as well.”

“I wish it were that simple.” He looked over at Royal.
“Whitney and I had an argument in the billiard room at your house last night. It wasn't much, but people noticed. It'll be one more thing for the police to look at.”

“Their attention is focused on you,” Royal said. “They believe you did it and they're going to do their best to prove it.”

Violet's face went a little bit pale. Rule watched as she visibly collected herself. “If that is the case, then there is only one thing to do.”

“What's that?” Rule grumbled.

“Find the man who killed Mr. Whitney.”

For several long moments, he and Royal just sat there staring.

“She's right,” Royal finally said. “We have to find the killer ourselves. That's the only way we'll have absolute proof of your innocence.”

“For God's sake, how the bloody hell am I going to find a murderer?”

“We need to start our own investigation,” Violet said. “We can begin by finding out if anyone at the hotel saw someone going into Mr. Whitney's room just before the shooting.”

“And the note,” Rule said, his mind finally coming out of its daze and beginning to focus. “We need to find out if Whitney actually sent it or if someone wanted me in that room at exactly that time.”

“Whitney's handwriting must be on some of the documents involved in the sale,” Royal said. “We can compare the handwriting on the note—”

“We could—if I hadn't tossed it into the fire.”

Royal frowned, drawing his dark blond eyebrows together.

“But the message must have come from Mr. Whitney,” Violet said. “Why would anyone wish to blame his murder on you?”

“I wish I knew,” Rule said darkly.

“If someone did set you up as the villain,” Royal said, “he wasn't working alone. He would have needed someone watching the house to be sure you were going to the meeting. That man would have followed you to the hotel. Whoever did it would need to know exactly when you would be arriving at the Albert.”

Violet worked her fingers over a fold in her skirt. “On the other hand, your arrival might have been pure coincidence. Perhaps Whitney had enemies, someone who might have wanted him dead.”

“True enough,” Royal agreed, flicking Rule a glance. “His death may have had nothing at all to do with you.”

“We need help with this,” Violet said. “Is there someone we could hire, someone who could assist us in looking into the matter?”

Royal got up from his chair and paced over to the fire. “I know someone…an investigator named Chase Morgan. He's extremely capable. I've used him and so has Reese. I'll send word to his office, tell him you wish to set up a meeting.”

Rule nodded. “Thank you.”

“In the meantime, I'll talk to Sherry and the rest of the Oarsmen, ask them to dig around, see if they can find out if Whitney had enemies who might have wanted him dead.”

“The Oarsmen?” Violet asked.

“My brother's friends from Oxford,” Rule explained. “As young men, they rowed together on the Oxford sculling team. They've been friends ever since.”

“Sculling? Is that the name for those long, skinny boats?”

“For rowing them, yes,” Royal answered. “The boats themselves are called sculls.”

“They were champions in their day,” Rule added with the slightest hint of a smile.

“Well, I feel better already,” Violet said. Some of the color, Rule noticed, had returned to her cheeks. “With everyone helping, it won't be long until this awful affair is over.”

Rule looked at his pretty wife, read the determination on her face, and relief filtered through him. She believed he was telling the truth, believed in his innocence.

Until that very moment, he hadn't known how important that was.

 

The following day Violet joined Rule in his study for a meeting that had been arranged with Chase Morgan. The investigator Royal had recommended was a hard, dark man with angular features. Lean and solid, his appearance made him somewhat menacing.

“Let's go over the facts again,” Morgan said. He had commandeered the chair behind Rule's desk, where he took notes with his newly sharpened pencil. “I need to be clear on every detail, starting with the argument you had at the ball at your brother's house the night before.”

For a second time, Rule told the investigator what had transpired, down to the smallest detail.

“Where was Whitney's valet when you walked into the hotel room?” Morgan asked. “Shouldn't he have been somewhere about?”

“I would think so,” Rule said. “He certainly wasn't there when I got there.”

“You said you received a note from Whitney. What happened to it?”

Rule shook his head. “I had no idea it might be important. I tossed it into the fire.”

Morgan asked a couple more questions and finally seemed satisfied. Shoving his notes into the leather satchel he had brought with him, he rose from behind Rule's desk.
“This is going to take some time. I'll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

“All right.” Rule walked the investigator to the front door then returned to the study. Violet was standing beneath one of the gilt-framed hunting scenes hanging on the wall.

“Hiring someone isn't enough,” she said. “I don't care how capable he is. We need to continue our own investigation.”

Rule shook his head. “Morgan is a professional. My brother is doing everything he can. I'll be digging for information myself, but I don't want you involved.”

“What are you talking about? You're my husband. You are under suspicion of murder. I am already involved.”

Rule strode toward her, reached out and caught her shoulders. “This was a cold-blooded killing, Violet. Getting involved could be dangerous. I don't want my wife getting hurt.”

Violet bit her lip. If she was going to get hurt, odds were it would be Rule, not the killer, who did it. She thought about the countess. At least he hadn't been meeting her at the hotel. She shoved the image of them together far to the back of her mind.

First things first.
They needed to solve a murder.

Violet intended to do whatever she could to find the man who killed Charles Whitney and there was nothing Rule could do to stop her.

 

Violet left Rule in his study and headed down the hall. Remembering Morgan's question about the note had set her to thinking. The note had been destroyed but perhaps they could find the person who had delivered it.

She headed straight for Hat, whose head came up at her approach.

“Is there something you need, my lady?”

“Since there is very little that goes on in this house of which you are not aware, I imagine you have heard about the troubles his lordship is facing.”

Hat looked embarrassed. “I may have heard something about it.” His shoulders straightened. “His lordship would never commit such a villainous crime.”

“I am well aware of that, Mr. Hatfield. Unfortunately, the police are not convinced. Therefore we need to find the man who is guilty.”

“How may I be of help, my lady?”

“Do you recall the note that Lord Rule received a little before noon yesterday?”

“Why, yes, my lady.”

“Can you describe the man who brought it?”

“'Twas not a man, my lady, but a boy.”

“A boy?”

“Indeed. I recall him quite well. You see, two of his fingers were missing from his left hand. He was perhaps eleven or twelve, dressed in coarse brown trousers with a hole in the knee and a shirt that was smudged with soot.”

“And two of his fingers were missing.”

“That is correct. The way they were scarred, they appeared to have been burned. If I were to venture a guess, I would say he may work as a chimney sweep.”

Violet frowned. “Are there not laws to protect a child his age from working in that sort of business?”

“Quite so, my lady. A law was passed some years back making the age for indenture no less than twenty-one, but there are no penalties for breaking it. Most of the master sweeps ignore it.”

“I see. Well, I shall need to find the boy's master in order to find the boy.”

Hat nodded. “Why don't you ask Mrs. Digby? She is the one in charge of the cleaning and that sort of thing. Perhaps she can be of some assistance.”

“Thank you, Hat.” Lifting her skirts, she hurried off toward the butler's pantry, where she had last seen the housekeeper.

The broad-hipped woman turned at her approach. She smiled warmly. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Digby. I am hoping you can help me. I am looking for a boy. I believe he may work as a chimney sweep. Can you give me the name of the man you hire to keep our chimneys clean?” If he wasn't the right man, perhaps he could give her the name of another in the same business.

“The sweep I use is a fellow named Dick Whistler. But there are a couple of others who work in the neighborhood. There is a man named Simon Pratt, though I refuse to hire him. He uses young boys and I don't like the way he treats them.”

Violet's interest heightened. She had heard stories of master sweeps who apprenticed young boys and girls and sent them up chimneys that were too hot. Some had been badly burned, some even killed. If the delivery boy was missing two fingers, perhaps Simon Pratt was the man who had abused him.

“Do you know where I might find this Mr. Pratt?”

“I do, but you can't go there, my lady. The neighborhood is quite disreputable.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” Violet obtained the names and addresses of the two master sweeps who worked in the Mayfair area. Tomorrow, Rule planned to return to the office. Once he was gone, she would pay a call on the two men whose names she had obtained.

Perhaps she would get lucky.

Violet sighed. It seemed she was overdue for a little good luck.

 

Rule was up early and long gone to work. Violet ordered the carriage brought round, but when she told Mr. Bellows her destination, he insisted she shouldn't go.

“'Tisn't a respectable neighborhood fer a lady to be visitin' by herself.”

Violet hesitated. Mrs. Digby had also warned her against the journey and she wasn't a fool. “Perhaps you are right. We shall take Robbie Harkins along with us.” Robbie was one of the footmen. She should have thought of him from the start.

Bellows muttered something about how useless the young pup would be if they met trouble, but Violet ignored him. As Robbie walked out to join them, she returned her attention to the coachman.

“Now if you are satisfied, Mr. Bellows, may we proceed to the address I gave you?”

Bellows grumbled but made no more comment. He and the footman exchanged a glance, then he climbed up on the box. The footman helped her aboard the carriage and took his place at the rear.

Simon Pratt's address wasn't as far from Portman Square as she had imagined, just off Great Queen Street in St. Giles. Along the route, there were pockets here and there of impoverished Londoners forced to live with the criminal element. She gave a silent prayer of thanks that she had been born to better circumstances.

It took several stops before Robbie was able to locate the dilapidated two-story wooden building where Simon Pratt lived.

“Are ye sure about this, milady?” Bellows asked as the footman helped her down from the carriage.

“I won't be long. Mr. Harkins, you may come with me.”

“Yes, my lady.” The young blond footman fell in behind her. He was tall but gangly and pale and not particularly imposing. She stopped and turned. “On second thought, why don't you stay with the carriage? Mr. Bellows, if you would be so kind, perhaps you could come with me.”

The beefy driver beamed. “I'd be pleased ta go with ye, milady.”

And so it was settled and the two of them made their way up a wooden walkway where grass poked up between warped wooden boards to a door that tilted slightly on its hinges.

Bellows rapped firmly, then stepped back out of the way, and a few minutes later, the door swung open.

A boy, red-haired and no more than seven years old, stood in the opening. “What ye want?”

“I'm looking for Mr. Pratt. Is he here?”

“'E's workin'. 'E won't be home till late.”

She tried to see past the child into the house, but it was dark inside, the windows so dirty little sunlight passed through to illuminate the interior.

She smiled at the boy. “What's your name?”

“Me name's Billy Robin.”

She kept her smile in place, even as she noticed his ragged clothes and thin, emaciated face. “Is your mother home, Billy?”

“Don't 'ave a mother. No father, neither.”

“So Mr. Pratt takes care of you?”

He shrugged his bony shoulders. “I works for 'im.”

For the first time she noticed the dirty bandages on his hand and pity slipped through her. “You're injured.”