He moved with her, alongside her, as she glided to the window overlooking the street; she halted before it.
“By the time I dressed and got downstairs, the butler—he’s an officious little scourge by the name of Mellon—had taken it upon himself to summon the authorities, who assigned an investigator from Bow Street—a weasely, narrow-minded man whose only concern is to close the case as soon as possible regardless of the truth.”
She fell silent, but before he could frame his next question, she volunteered, “One other thing my dresser babbled—she was in a complete tizz—was that this morning the door to the study was locked, with the key on the floor some way inside. Mellon and the footmen tried to force the door but couldn’t.” They both turned to consider the door, a heavy, inches-thick oak panel with a lock of similar ilk. “Luckily, someone in the household can pick locks. That was how they got in…and found him.”
Quitting her side, he prowled toward the door; his senses remained distracted, but his intellect was engaged. “How far inside? Guess from what she babbled.”
“A few yards, not more. That’s what it sounded like.”
He was standing staring at the floor, absorbing the implications of the key being in that spot, when a girl appeared in the doorway. Looking up, he met her eyes, then glanced up at her hair and smiled. “Hermione.”
“Lord Dearne.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I didn’t know if you would remember me.”
He let his smile turn charming, as if he hadn’t forgotten the scrap who’d been all of four when he’d last seen her. Luckily, her hair was a telling feature; in common with, as far as he’d ever heard, all those born to the house of Vaux, she possessed luxuriant dark locks that, despite their darkness, could never be described as anything other than red. With that, combined with the evidence of her features, a softer, milder version of Letitia’s, placing her hadn’t been difficult.
Her attention shifting to her older sister, Hermione advanced into the room. Christian noted she didn’t look at the bloodstain; her focus was Letitia.
He glanced at Letitia; she was looking down, mind elsewhere. She was patently undisturbed by Hermione joining them.
Glancing at him, Letitia continued, “That’s really all I know of my own knowledge. What I gathered from the investigator—”
“No.” He held up a staying hand. “Don’t tell me. I want to hear it from him, direct.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Without my interpretations?”
He suppressed a grin. “Without your appellations.”
She humphed, a sound Vaux females had down to an art, then looked at Hermione. “Are you all right?”
Hermione blinked. “Of course. I was wondering about you.”
Letitia shrugged. “Once Justin turns up, and the fools who call themselves the authorities admit it wasn’t him and start looking for the real murderer, I’ll be fine.”
Christian inwardly blinked. No sarcasm ran beneath her words—with a Vaux, one never needed to guess—yet she’d just lost a husband of eight years in shocking circumstances….
He studied her; she was looking at Hermione, but there was nothing in either woman’s attitude beyond sisterly comfort. While Hermione was presently a less intense version of Letitia, she’d no doubt grow into her dramatic powers in time. Both sisters seemed at ease with each other, the only real difference being in age, and the suggestion of care, of viewing Hermione as a person she needed to protect and watch over, that colored Letitia’s eyes.
He recognized the emotion. Realized he knew it all too well. He stirred. “If you’ll summon the butler—Mellon, was it?—I’d like to speak with him.”
Interrogate him. He needed to focus on the matter at hand, rather than let his Jezebel play on his sympathies, however unconsciously.
Letitia crossed to the bellpull and tugged; the alacrity with which the summons was answered had her smiling cynically—and exchanging a look with Christian. Obviously Randall’s staff found his presence noteworthy, enough to hover close.
Despite that, Mellon dutifully fixed his gaze on her, ignoring Christian. “You rang, ma’am?”
“Indeed, Mellon. Lord Dearne”—she waved at Christian—“has some questions he’d like to ask you. Please answer as best you can.”
Mellon reluctantly turned to Christian, who smiled easily, charming as ever.
She could have warned him; Mellon turned rigidly frosty.
Christian saw, but chose to ignore the man’s reaction. “You’ve been Mr. Randall’s butler for…how long?”
“Twelve years, my lord.”
Long before Letitia’s marriage to Randall; Christian glanced at her, but all he could detect in her face, her stance, was a species of resigned indifference toward Mellon. She didn’t like the man, but had let him remain as head of her household staff; he had to wonder why. He returned his gaze to the butler. “How did you get on with your late master?”
Mellon puffed out his chest. “It’s a—” He broke off, blinked, then his chin firmed. “It’s been a pleasure working for Mr. Randall, my lord.”