Rule's Bride (25 page)

“Luke, what are you…?”

“Just relax.” She was wet and ready, he discovered as he positioned himself on his knees behind her, found the entrance to her passage and buried himself to the hilt.

Caroline moaned.

Luke set his jaw and began to move, taking her with deep, heavy strokes that had her arching her hips to accept him even more fully. She cried his name as she reached her peak, and he followed a few moments later.

On a shuddering breath, he withdrew, eased her onto her back and kissed her one last time. Then he left her alone in the bed.

She frowned as he started walking away. “Aren't you staying?”

“You got what you needed from me. From now on that's all you're going to get.” Striding toward his room, he walked through the door and slammed it loudly behind him.

If Caroline didn't need his love, he didn't need hers.

Rule was right. All he needed was the use of her luscious little body and her passionate response in bed.

In time he would come to accept the loneliness he had felt before he'd met her, and his life would return to the way it was.

T
ime was ticking away. Rule needed to speak to the countess and the urgency of doing so was building. This morning he had sent the lady a message requesting a meeting and asking if he might stop by her house that night.

Lady Fremont had agreed.

Hoping to avoid any further arguments with Violet, he didn't mention where he was going when he left the house, just said he needed a little fresh air and that he would probably stop by his club before he returned. Though after his last visit, he wasn't so sure it was a good idea.

As his carriage rolled toward Fremont House, Rule went over the questions he wished to ask and hoped the lady would be willing to answer them. He gazed out the window as he drew near. Located on a slight rise overlooking Hyde Park, the mansion was a lavish, showy residence that looked more like a castle than a home.

Departing the coach beneath a wide portico out front, he made his way up a stone walkway to the arched, heavy wooden door. A light knock and the butler pulled it open.

“Lord Rule Dewar,” he said to the butler. “The countess is expecting me.”

“Yes, my lord. If you will please follow me.”

The stately black-haired man led him down the hall into a magnificent drawing room. As he walked inside, Juliana Markham, Lady Fremont, rose from her spot on a blue velvet sofa, and the butler closed the tall paneled doors.

Rule strode toward her. “Lady Fremont.” He bowed over her hand. “Thank you for seeing me.”

She looked as beautiful as he remembered, her hair as raven as his own, her eyes a lighter, softer shade of blue.

“I've been expecting you. I heard the dreadful news that you were under suspicion for Charles's murder—not that I believe you could possibly be guilty. I presumed it wouldn't take long before you found the connection between Charles and me.”

“You, Charles and Martin, was it not?”

She strolled over to the silver tray sitting on an ornate sideboard, her elegant blue silk skirts floating out around her. “Would you care for a drink? Brandy, perhaps?”

He didn't want a drink, but he wanted her cooperation and he didn't want to offend her. “Thank you, that would be nice.”

She poured him a brandy, and a sherry for herself, walked over and pressed the crystal snifter into his hand. “Why don't we sit down?”

Nodding his consent, he let her lead him over to the sofa and both of them took a seat.

The countess smiled. “Now, what exactly has brought you here to see me?”

“I'll be frank, my lady. I am in need of your help.”

“Please…we are friends, are we not? I would rather you call me Juliana.”

He managed to smile. “All right…Juliana. As I said, I need your help. I realize my questions are of an intimate nature, but I need to know about your relationship with Charles and Martin Whitney.”

One of her sleek dark eyebrows went up, but he didn't think she was truly surprised. “Very well. Charles and I, we were…friends. Close friends…even before my husband died.”

“I see.”

“I hope you won't judge me. My husband was nearly thirty years my senior and ill a great deal of the time. Charles was a widower, older than I, but so incredibly charming. He was the most vital man I've ever known.”

“I liked him very much. And I can hardly judge you, Juliana, when I've had a number of women friends myself.”

“Yes, so I've heard.”

“So you and Charles were close. What about Martin?”

“I had met Martin several times over the years. But it wasn't until I came to London that he became interested in me.”

“And were you also interested in him?”

“No.” She delicately sipped her sherry. “Oh, I was polite to him. By then, Charles and I were ready to go our separate ways. My husband had died nearly three years earlier. Once I was out of mourning, I was finally free to explore my options. Charles was the sort of man who understood.”

“But not Martin.”

“Martin was an arrogant fool. I told him I wasn't interested in him in any way but he wouldn't listen. He was jealous of Charles, though I told him repeatedly it was over.”

“Do you think Martin would have gone so far as to kill his brother?”

“I don't know. I don't know Martin well enough to say. As I told you, I was polite to him, mostly because of my fondness for his brother, but I had no interest in him beyond that.”

Rule set his unfinished brandy down on the table and rose from the sofa. “Thank you, Juliana, for your honesty. And for your belief in my innocence.”

She set her sherry glass aside and stood up, as well, so close he could smell her sweet perfume. She flattened her palms on the lapels of his coat. “I am not interested in Martin Whitney. I am extremely interested in you, Rule.”

Alarm bells went off in his head. He caught her delicate wrists as she slid them up around his neck and very carefully removed them. “You are free, Juliana. I am not. Under different circumstances, I assure you I would return your interest.”

Those circumstances being the woman to whom he was wed, the lady who at present had captured his wholehearted attention.

Juliana's hands fell to her sides. “Are you certain this is the way you want it?”

Oddly, as lovely as she was, he was extremely certain. “I am.”

She stepped back from him and a confident smile curved her lips. “You are yet newly married. In time, perhaps things will change.”

It probably would. Surely it would happen as it had with the women he had known before. A strange sense of melancholy settled over him at the thought.

“Thank you again.” He made her a last polite bow.

Turning, he found his way to the door, stepped outside and inhaled a breath of the clean night air, glad the task he had set himself was over.

 

Leaning back in the seat of her carriage, Violet thought of the house that looked like a castle and closed her eyes against the image of Rule walking inside.

She knew she shouldn't have followed him. No self-respecting wife would lower herself to sneaking about, trying to discover what her husband was doing after he left home.

But Rule was generally forthright in his endeavors and she could tell by his actions this evening he wasn't being forthright tonight. She knew he planned to interview Lady Fremont. She had resigned herself to that. What bothered her was that he had refused to tell her he was going.

The carriage rolled toward their house in Portman Square. She had left Lady Fremont's before he had come out. She was only willing to stoop so low. If he was being intimate with the beautiful countess, she certainly couldn't stop him.

And she still held out hope.

Perhaps he would tell her the truth when he got home, explain that he hadn't wanted to upset her or whatever might have been the reason for his deceit. She prayed that he would.

Once she reached the house, she told herself she should retire upstairs to bed, but instead sat in the drawing room, a book lying open in her lap, an ear cocked toward the entry for the sound of her husband's footfalls.

When she heard his voice in the entry, relief hit her so hard she felt dizzy. He had returned earlier than she had imagined. Rule didn't do anything by half, and Violet believed that if he made love to the beautiful brunette, he wouldn't be interested in some hasty coupling, but would do so well and thoroughly.

The thought made her stomach tighten.

She looked down, tried to concentrate on the book lying open in front of her, to pretend that she was reading, but the
words on the pages all ran together. She set the book aside when he spoke to her from the open drawing room door.

“Violet…I thought you would already be in bed.”

She rose as he approached, so tall and handsome her insides softened. “I—I wasn't sleepy. I didn't expect you home so soon.”

He smiled. “I discovered I would rather be home with my wife than playing cards with my friends.”

Her heart kicked up. Perhaps he had gone to the club for a few minutes after his visit. “Did you?”

“I did.” He bent his head and kissed her very softly on the lips.

“So that is where you spent the evening. You went to the club but decided not to stay?” She held her breath, praying he would tell her the truth.

Instead, he glanced away, faint color rising beneath the bones in his cheeks. “As I said, I just needed a little fresh air.”

A lump formed in her throat. “Yes…that is what you said.”

“Shall we go upstairs?”

She couldn't make love to him, not tonight. Not after he had lied about seeing the countess. “If you don't mind, I am feeling a bit under the weather. I thought that I would stay down here and read for a while. I shall be up a little later.”

His expression turned to worry. “If you are ill, perhaps you should be in bed.”

Just the word
bed
on his beautiful lips stirred her pulse.
Not tonight,
she told herself. Not tonight.

“I would rather stay here. It's a… It is merely a bit of woman trouble. You needn't bother yourself about it.”

“I see. All right, if you are certain.”

“I'll be fine.”

He left her there in the drawing room and headed for the stairs.

Violet sank back down on the sofa.

She didn't bother to pick up her book.

She knew she couldn't read with her eyes so full of tears.

 

Violet pled illness the following day, staying home from work and away from Rule. On the morning of the next day, she paid a call on Caroline. She didn't intend to tell her cousin about Rule's visit to Lady Fremont or that he had lied about going.

Just seeing her best friend always made her feel better.

Except that when she arrived at the newlyweds' town house, she found her friend in tears.

“Oh, dear,” Caroline said from where she curled up in a velvet settee in her bedroom, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes. “I didn't mean for anyone to see me like this.”

“The housekeeper said you weren't feeling well. I insisted she let me come up.” Violet sat down next to her cousin and put an arm around her. “What is it, dearest? You are crying as if your heart is breaking.”

Caroline sobbed. “It is.” She sniffed and dabbed her handkerchief against the wetness in her eyes.

“Tell me what is wrong.”

Caroline straightened a little. She dragged in a shuddering breath. “It's Luke. He's changing, Violet. He was so sweet and caring and now…now he wants nothing to do with me. The only time I see him is at night when he comes to my bed.”

Violet frowned. “Did you ask him what is wrong?”

“I know what is wrong.”

“Tell me.”

“Luke thinks I don't love him.”

Several seconds passed. “I thought that was the way you wanted it.”

She swallowed. “That's what I told myself. I tried so hard, but…”

“So you
do
love him.”

Caroline looked up, her pale blue eyes magnified by a film of tears. “Of course I love him. I've always loved him. That is the reason I decided to go back to Boston. I was in love with him even then.”

Violet felt a sweep of relief. Her cousin deserved to be happy. Perhaps now she would have the chance. “Then I don't see a problem. All you have to do is tell Luke how you feel.”

Caroline shook her head. “I couldn't possibly do that.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because I'm afraid of what he'll do if he knows the truth. Men are only interested in making the conquest. Once they know they have you in their power, they aren't interested in you anymore.”

It was a difficult point to argue. Even now Violet worried that Rule had grown weary of her, that he was turning his attentions to the beautiful countess.

“Maybe Luke will be different.”

“And if he isn't?”

“You are miserable now, are you not?”

Caroline wiped away her tears and nodded. “He looks at me as if I'm someone he barely knows and I feel like I am dying.”

Violet reached over and took Caroline's hand. “Tell him, dearest. You fell in love with Luke because he was different from other men. Perhaps in this he will be different, as well.”

Caroline looked up and a tear rolled down her cheek. “I don't know…” She shook her head. “I'll give it some thought. Perhaps if the time seems right…”

Violet didn't press her. After all, she had never told Rule the way she felt.

She simply wasn't that brave.

S
till 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.”