His voice quavered on the last words. Christian gave him a moment to compose himself.

He glanced at Letitia; her face was chalk white. “I realize this is distressing”-he addressed the comment more to her than Mellon, then returned his gaze to the butler-“but if you could describe how Randall was lying-on his back, or on his face?”

All color drained from Mellon’s countenance. “On his back, my lord.” His jaw worked. “There wasn’t much of his face left to speak of.”

Letitia made a small choked sound and turned away; hand at her throat, she stared out of the window. Hermione had paled but was less distressed.

Tamping down a disconcertingly strong urge to suspend the interview to spare Letitia, who would certainly not thank him, Christian forged on. “So it would seem Randall was facing the fire, and his attacker. I understand there were two glasses of brandy on the side table-had they been drunk?”

Mellon rallied at the change of subject. “Both had been sipped, but neither drained.”

“Where, exactly, was the key?”

Mellon looked toward the door, and pointed. “There, on the floor-by that knot in the wood.”

Hermione shifted. Christian glanced at her, and saw she was attending avidly. He glanced at Letitia; she was attending, too, but not with the same intensity. He looked again at Hermione. Her eyes were wide; she was definitely tense. Without looking at Mellon, he said, “Put your finger on the spot.”

Mellon obeyed. “The best I can recall, it was here.”

Hermione’s eyes hadn’t left Mellon, but as he straightened, she glanced at Christian expectantly.

Unsure what was going on, he looked at Mellon and asked the obvious question. “How do you imagine the key got there?”

“I can’t rightly say, my lord.”

“If you had to guess?”

“I think…that Lord Vaux locked the door behind him, then slipped the key back under the door.”

Christian nodded. That seemed the most likely explanation, except…“Why would Lord Vaux do that? If he’d just murdered your master in gruesome fashion, why go to the bother of locking the door and slipping the key back inside?”

Mellon frowned, unable to answer.

“To give himself time to scarper.”

The words drew all eyes to the door; they came from a whippet-thin individual who’d appeared in the hall. One glance at his ferrety features and Christian knew who he was.

Letitia had stiffened to a scarifying degree. In tones worthy of the haughtiest duchess, she said, “Dearne, permit me to introduce Mr. Barton. Of Bow Street.”

She didn’t need to say anything more; her tone effectively conveyed her contempt. Clearly Barton had already succeeded in thoroughly putting up her back.

Deliberately mild, Christian nodded to Barton. “Lady Randall has asked me to investigate the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death. Might I ask why you imagine Lord Justin Vaux has, to use your phrase, ‘scarpered’?”

Barton wasn’t at all sure how to act toward him; Christian left him to make up his own mind, which resulted in Barton opting for caution. He answered civilly. “In light of the circumstances, I’ve been around to his lordship’s lodgings. I was given to understand that her ladyship here”-Barton glanced at Letitia-“sent a message requesting his presence earlier, but had received no reply. Not surprising, as his lordship has disappeared.”

Letitia looked startled, and shocked. So did Hermione.

“Disappeared?” Letitia stared at Barton; Christian could all but see the wheels in her mind churning. Then she sniffed and looked away. “I daresay he’s gone to the country to visit with friends. It is August, after all. I suspect, Mr. Barton, that your ‘disappearance’ is nothing more than that.”

Barton looked pugnacious. “Would you say his lordship normally leaves for country parties in a tearing rush late at night? With his man, who hadn’t had any warning?” When Letitia said nothing, Barton went on, “Because that’s what happened according to his landlord who lives downstairs.”

After a moment Barton glanced down, drawing all attention to what he carried in one hand; it appeared to be a cloth garment, folded many times. “And then there’s this.”

He shook out the garment, revealing it to be a gentleman’s coat. “Would this be one of your brother’s, your ladyship? Do you recognize it?”

Letitia frowned. She walked closer, considering the coat’s cut. “It looks like one of Justin’s.” Halting before the coat Barton obligingly displayed at arm’s length, she raised her brows. “Is it from Shultz?” She reached for the left lapel.

Barton whisked the coat away. “You might want to be careful about touching it, your ladyship. There’s blood on it, see-most likely your husband’s.”

Every drop of blood drained from Letitia’s face.

Christian was at her side instantly, before he’d even thought. “Barton.” The single word resonated with menace, yet was nothing to what he felt. His hands had fisted; he battled an urge to strike the runner. His tongue itched to tear strips off the man, but…they needed to learn what he’d discovered. “Did the landlord have any idea where his lordship was headed?”

He’d barked out the question. Barton stiffened; he wanted to refuse to answer, but didn’t dare. “No.”

“Did he know how they left-in a hired carriage, or did Lord Vaux drive his curricle?” He glanced at Letitia as he asked; lips tight, she nodded. Justin did indeed keep a curricle in town.

Barton had noticed the interplay. Eyes dark with suspicion, he nevertheless grudgingly conceded, “His lordship drove off in his curricle.”

“Do you have any further light to shed on this matter? Any information at all?”

“No, my lord. The body’s been taken to the police surgeon. When he’s done with his examination, the corpse will be released to her ladyship for burial.” Barton used the word “corpse” deliberately, his gaze sliding to Letitia.

Christian battled an almost overpowering urge to throttle the man. “Very good.” His harsh tones had Barton looking his way again; he caught the man’s eye. “When that time comes, you-personally-will inform Mellon, and he will convey the information to me. Her ladyship is not to be disturbed with this matter again. Any query you may have, you may make through me.” He held Barton’s gaze. “I trust I make myself plain?”

His last words came out in a menacing purr, much like a lion anticipating his next meal. Letitia heard, not just the words but every nuance they conveyed, and could have kissed him.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t, not now, not ever again, but he clearly still cared, somewhere in his heart, for her. She’d spent all her life among men like him; she knew how to read their signs.

Under Christian’s hard gaze, Barton nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

Christian inclined his head. “Good.” He paused, then added, “Rest assured that any pertinent information we find that sheds light on Randall’s murder will be conveyed to you at the earliest opportunity.”

Letitia turned her head and stared at him. He was being conciliatory-to the enemy! That was an olive branch if she’d ever seen one. She was about to draw breath and unleash some of her suppressed feelings-on which of them, Christian or Barton, she hadn’t made up her mind-when Christian caught her eye.

Just a look-one pointed, intent glance-and, inwardly grumbling, she grudgingly shut her lips.

Folding her arms again, she fixed Barton with a chilly-icily furious-look.

He glanced her way, then returned his gaze to Christian and nodded. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He bobbed a general bow, then turned and left.

At a nod from Christian, Mellon followed, closing the door-the inches-thick oak door-behind him.

The instant it shut, Letitia let her temper loose. “How dare he!” She drew a huge breath. And raved on.

Christian glanced at Hermione. Although she remained silent, she clearly egged her sister on, agreeing with every dramatically and forcefully elucidated sentiment. Her enthusiastic “Hear, hear!” was clear in her eyes, in her whole being.

Resigned, he leaned back against the edge of the heavy desk and watched Letitia rant and pace, then rant some more. No one ranted like a Vaux-they had the activity down to a fine art. He was quietly amazed at how inventive she still was; colorful phrases and strikingly adverse comparisons-“addlepated, imbecilic moron with less wit than a dormouse”-tripped from her tongue with barely a pause for breath.

Better to let her get it out of her system. That was the Vaux’s folly, their foible; all that natural energy had to be released.

Eventually finishing her dissection of Barton, his progenitors, and potential offspring, she swung around.

And fixed him with a fiery glare. “And as for you-how could you? You slapped him down well enough to begin with-and I thank you for that-but after one agreement, one halfway reasonable comment, you patted him on the head and let him go! Worse-you all but promised to share whatever we find!” Halting a pace away, she glared into his eyes; with him propped against the desk, hers were level with his. “What the devil were you thinking?”

“That he might learn something we need to know.” Christian kept his voice mild; it reflected how he felt. He smiled, as always amused; he’d never been affected by Vaux histrionics, which was one point that always fascinated the Vaux. Almost without exception others got extremely nervous when they let their tempers loose; most tended to edge away, or escape if they could. Not him. He found their unbounded, unleashed energy refreshing. For all their apparent venom, they were never intentionally malicious; contrary to what many thought, they were neither dangerous nor insane.

Their temper tantrums were all fireworks; not in the least harmful if handled with care, and capable of being highly entertaining.

Especially as no Vaux had ever held his immunity against him. Certainly not Letitia.

His calm words had given her pause. She considered him through eyes in which the searing flame of her temper was slowly dying; he could almost feel the energy in the air around her fading.

“There’s an old but wise saying,” he offered. “‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’”

Something changed in her face; a coolness slid into her expression. “Well, as to that, you would surely know.”

There was a quality in her tone he neither recognized nor could place. She held his gaze for an instant, then turned away. Her gaze passed over the bloodstain on the floor, then she started for the door. “If you’ve finished here?”

He straightened, glanced around. “Yes.” He fell in in her wake, pausing to allow Hermione to proceed him through the doorway. “But I have more questions for you two.”

Without comment Letitia led him across the front hall into the room diagonally opposite the study. She gestured as she swung to face him. “The front parlor. I tend to sit here more than in the drawing room.”

To his left lay an archway leading deeper into the house; through it he saw ranks of bookshelves packed with books. He pointed. “The library?”

When she nodded, he headed that way. Letitia and Hermione followed.

The library was a good-sized room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering much of the walls; halting in the middle of the room, he surveyed the books filling them. “Randall?”

“Yes. Not that he ever read them.”

He glanced at Letitia. “He bought them, but didn’t read them?”

She shrugged. “He didn’t read. He could read, of course, but he never read a book, not that I saw.”

Christian glanced again at the shelves. Many of the Vaux were bibliophiles. Most read voraciously; even Letitia would occasionally be found with her nose in a book. The idea of a total nonreader marrying into the family seemed…odd. And while it wasn’t unheard of for a gentleman to set up a library just for show, there were a lot of books in that room.

As if sensing his thoughts, Letitia said, “Perhaps he saw them as an investment.”

Walking past him, she went to a wing chair by the fireplace. A book had been left open on the small table beside it. She picked it up, then softly snorted. “Justin. This is what he was doing while he waited for me to leave Randall.”

He’d followed her and looked over her shoulder. “Seneca-Letters from a Stoic.” His lips quirked. “Appropriate reading for a male Vaux.”

She laid the book aside and turned to face him. “What else did you want to know?”

He gestured to the wing chair; she sank into it as he waved Hermione to its mate. Once they were both seated, he looked down at them. “If we want to shift suspicion from Justin, we need to reconstruct the crime and demonstrate that someone else had the opportunity to kill Randall.”