Rule's Bride (24 page)

“So you think he paid her for the key.”

“That's the way it looks to me.”

“Do you think the scarred man is the murderer?”

Morgan leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he is merely in the murderer's employ. Either way, there's little question he's involved.”

“We need to find him.”

“I'm working on it.” The investigator rubbed a hand over his lean, hard jaw. “So far no one seems to know who he is or where to find him.”

“The scarred man may be the key. If we find him, this could all come to an end.”

“It's possible. But in my experience, murder is rarely that simple.”

V
iolet walked toward the sound of men's voices in the entry. Spotting them grouped around Hatfield, she recognized the rough-complexioned, auburn-haired policeman who had interrogated Rule at the station, and her heart began to pound.

“I told them his lordship was not at home, my lady,” the butler informed her as she approached.

“Thank you, Hat. I'll speak to Constable McGregor.” She turned to the policeman. “If you will please follow me.”

Leading the three men into a drawing room where they would not be overheard, she waited while Hatfield closed the door.

“I'm sorry, Constable McGregor, but as our butler told you, my husband is not at home.”

“When do you expect his return?”

Violet took a breath. She didn't want to lie, but neither did she want them putting Rule under arrest. “What do you want with him?”

“We need him to come down to the station and answer a few more questions.”

She pasted on what she hoped looked like a smile. “Perhaps I can be of help.”

“Not unless you can tell us about the argument your husband had with Charles Whitney the night before the murder.”

Her stomach knotted. Rule had mentioned the incident. He was afraid if the police found out, they would use it as more evidence against him.

“I'm afraid I can't help you. I was otherwise occupied at the time.”

“So you admit the two men quarreled.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“And you won't tell us when your husband will be returning.”

“As far as I know, it could be anytime. He went to work this morning. I know he had errands to run on his way home. Perhaps if you come back tomorrow…”

A noise sounded in the hallway. She could just make out the murmur of Hatfield's voice, speaking in low, muffled tones. An instant later, the doors slid open and Rule strode into the drawing room.

“What is going on here?”

The constable drew himself up several inches. He was not a tall man, but was formidable just the same and clearly confident in his job. “As I was telling your wife, we are here to escort you down to the police station. There are a few more questions we'd like to ask.”

Rule exchanged a glance with Violet. “Why don't we sit down right here and you can ask your questions now?”

The constable frowned, drawing his heavy auburn eyebrows together. Clearly this was not what he had in mind.

“I suppose that will do…for the present.”

The other two policemen sat down. Violet sat next to Rule on the sofa.

Constable McGregor remained standing. “What were you and Charles Whitney arguing about the night before the murder?”

“We were discussing the final terms of the sale. His purchase of the company was about to close and there were a few details left to iron out.”

“Whitney believed you wanted out of the sale altogether, isn't that right?”

“He thought that. I assured him he was wrong.”

“But you
had
received a higher offer?”

“That is true, but the amount of money wasn't the only consideration. Both Violet and I wanted someone we believed would do a good job running the business. We thought Whitney would be the best man for the job.”

“I see.” McGregor paced back and forth in front of the sofa. “On the other hand, if you failed to meet the terms already agreed upon, Whitney could have sued you for breach of contract.”

“I suppose he could have.”

“But if he was dead, the contract was invalid and you would be able to accept more money.”

Violet leaped to her feet. “That isn't the way it was. We wanted Mr. Whitney to buy the plant. We wanted to be certain the weapons that Griffin makes would not be sold to the American states in the South.”

McGregor eyed her with speculation. “I gather you hail from Boston, my lady.”

“That's right.”

“You must be a very patriotic person to give up a large chunk of money in favor of your principles.” He glanced
over at Rule. “Perhaps your husband, being British, is less of a patriot than you.”

Violet bit back a reply. The man had his mind made up. There would be no changing it until they found Whitney's killer.

“Have you looked into the possibility that someone else might have wanted Whitney dead?” Rule asked. “His business partner, Peter Austin, for one. Or perhaps his brother, Martin?”

The constable set his jaw. “We know Austin made threats, and we know Martin and Charles had an occasional disagreement. We're looking into it.”

“Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Not at the moment.”

McGregor motioned to his men, who rose from their seats in the drawing room. Silently they headed for the door. McGregor stopped and turned, fixing Rule with a drilling stare. “I'll be in touch.”

As the men filed out of the room, Violet stood up next to Rule. Without a word, she turned and went into his arms.

 

Jeffrey welcomed J. P. Montgomery and a third man—older, silver-haired and dignified—into his suite at the Parkland Hotel.

“Jeffrey, this here is Marcus Wrigby,” Montgomery said in his thick Southern drawl. “He's agreed to come in as a partner in the acquisition of Griffin.”

Jeffrey made a slight bow. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wrigby.”

“You, as well,” the older man replied in crisp, upper-class British tones that both Jeffrey and J.P. hoped would help them make the deal.

“With the war comin',” said Montgomery, “ownin' a
percentage of Griffin is going to make you rich. “That is, richer than you are already.”

“I take great care in choosing my investments.” Wrigby accepted the glass of whiskey Jeffrey handed him. “As you say, Griffin has tremendous potential for growth.”

“Speaking of Griffin,” Montgomery added, accepting a glass, as well, “have ya seen the latest
Times?
”

Jeffery glanced at the newspaper lying on the table. “I saw it.”

“Looks like Dewar's a prime suspect in the murder. Police wouldn't confirm, but that's what the paper's sayin'.”

And, Jeffrey thought, if Dewar was arrested and convicted of murder, he would likely be sentenced to hang. Violet would end up a widow. She would be lonely and in need of his protection. With Dewar out of the way, the two of them could be happy, the way they had been before.

“You think he did it?” Montgomery asked.

“The paper said he was the man who found the body,” Jeffrey said. “His hand was covered in blood and he was leaning over the murder weapon. They think he wanted Whitney out of the way so he could accept a higher offer for the company.”

“Perhaps after thinking on it,” the Englishman put in, “he wished to make a larger profit by taking your offer instead.”

“I suppose it's possible.” But Jeffrey thought that once Dewar had made up his mind, he wouldn't have sold to a Southerner no matter how high the price.

“Make our lives easier, if it turns out he's guilty,” Montgomery drawled.

If that happened, they would be dealing with Violet. She would need his comfort and friendship. She had listened to his counsel before; he believed she would do so again.

Or if things progressed as he wished, they might even take up where they had left off. They might even marry.

Jeffrey hoped so. As hard as he tried to forget the woman he had loved, Violet remained solidly in his thoughts.

“How long do you think we should wait before we approach Dewar?” Montgomery asked.

“Another week, maybe.” Jeffrey took a sip of his drink. “Time enough for them to start thinking of selling again.”

“Then a week from now,” Wrigby said, “I shall go in with a very fine offer. With my credentials, there is no reason for them not to accept it.”

“Long as you keep us out of it,” J.P. drawled, “you'll do just fine.”

And in the meantime, they would wait to see if Dewar was arrested. See if he was tried, convicted and hanged.

Jeffrey would quietly wait to find out what the future held in store for him.

 

Rule went to his club in search of a drink and a few hands of cards, anything to divert his morbid thoughts from visions of hanging. He had seen today's
Times
. The article hadn't said he was guilty of murder but the reporter's speculation certainly leaned in that direction.

Rule had no idea how the paper had discovered his involvement in Whitney's death, but after his trip to the police station and the visit from the constable at his home, he wasn't surprised.

Heading deeper into the elegant, unfettered interior of the club with its comfortable overstuffed chairs, polished mahogany tables and thick Persian carpets, he started toward the card room, then spotted Lucas Barclay lounging back in a chair off by himself, a drink in one hand, his dark eyes staring straight ahead.

Luke glanced up at Rule's approach. “I didn't expect to see you here…not after that article in the paper.”

“I figured this might be the one place I could come and not be looked at like a criminal.”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

Rule glanced round and saw that several members had spotted him and now stood whispering among themselves. Obviously, Luke was right.

He sighed and collapsed into the chair beside his friend. “Perhaps I should just toss myself off the top of a building and save the police the trouble of hanging me.”

Luke grunted and took a sip of his drink. “Perhaps I'll join you.”

For the first time Rule noticed that his friend was half-foxed. “What's the matter with you?” He held up a hand. “No, don't tell me—whatever it is has something to do with your wife.”

“My wife,” Luke growled. “I got more attention from my mistress.”

“Isn't that the reason men keep them?”

Luke whispered out a breath. “Somehow I thought with Carrie it would be different.”

“Oh, really? Why is that?”

“I guess because I love her.”

Rule cocked an eyebrow. “I thought we talked about that.”

“We did.”

“And?”

“Maybe you were right. I should have tried harder to control my feelings. Since the day we married, my wife seems determined to spend less and less time in my company.” He looked up. “Except in bed, of course. There she is the veriest hoyden. The woman is nearly as insatiable as I am.”

Rule chuckled. “Then stop grumbling. A man can't complain when he's getting satisfied at home.”

“Is that so? What about you?”

Rule found himself smiling for the first time in days. “Violet is a passionate little creature. I have no complaints.”

“Passion isn't everything.”

“As far as I'm concerned, it is.”

“That's all you want from Violet, then? Just the use of her body and her response to you in bed.”

“I told you before, Luke. The last thing I want is to fall in love.”

Luke just grunted and took another long sip of his drink.

When a waiter arrived, Rule ordered a brandy. He had come to the club to escape his troubles. Now, as he looked at the men he'd called friends and read the wariness in their expressions, he understood there was no escape.

Of a sudden, he wished he had stayed home with Violet.

“Anything new on the murder?” Luke asked. “Aside from what I read in the paper.”

“Not enough.”

“Something I can do to help?”

“Looks like you have enough trouble of your own, but I'll let you know if I think of anything.”

Luke sipped his drink, his gaze turning morose again. Setting his glass down a little too hard on the table, he rose from his chair.

“I'm going home. Caroline might not love me but she wants me. I might as well give her what she wants.”

Rule made no reply. As the waiter arrived with his drink, he set it aside and headed for the door, thinking for once, Luke had a good idea.

 

Luke hadn't realized quite how drunk he was until he tried to negotiate the stairs up to his bedroom. He hit the
banister once before he reached the top, and even before he reached his door, began to toss off his clothes.

Half-undressed by the time he arrived at the door between their rooms, he didn't bother to knock, just turned the knob and walked in.

In the dim glow of the lamp next to the bed, his gaze shot to Caroline as if she held an invisible chain, which in a way, she did. Wearing the skimpy little French silk nightgown he had bought her, obviously anticipating his arrival, Caroline sat up in bed. “Luke…”

“You were expecting someone else?”

“Of course not.” Her delicate blond eyebrows drew together. “You're drunk.”

“A little. Do you really care?” He dragged his shirt off over his head, leaving his chest bare, slid his trousers down over his shoeless feet and kicked the garment away, then dragged off his small clothes.

Caroline stared at the heavy arousal riding against his belly. “Well…?” he challenged.

She moistened her lips, which made his erection leap. “No, I don't care if you're a little drunk.”

As usual, she wanted satisfaction. The sad truth was, that was all she wanted from him. He strode to the bedside, caught her lovely face between his hands and captured her lips in a rough, burning kiss.

For an instant, he thought she would push him away. Then her arms slid up around his neck and she kissed him back. Luke ravished her mouth, breathing her in, taking her deeply with his tongue, then he turned his attention to her breasts.

They were round and plump, with hard little rose-colored crests he ministered to until they turned diamond hard. She was trembling when he came up over her on the bed and kissed her deeply again. She barely noticed when
he eased her onto her stomach, grabbed one of the pillows and stuffed it beneath her hips.