To the man she knew him to be.

One who had never been able to refuse her anything. Not even his heart.

She’d held his gaze steadily. Now she simply asked, in her low, raspy-seductive-voice, “Will you help?”

He looked into her eyes, and realized she didn’t, in fact, know how he would answer. Didn’t know how deeply in thrall to her he still was. Which meant…

He arched a brow. “How much is my help worth to you?”

She blinked, then searched his face, his eyes; hers narrowed. After a pregnant pause during which she assessed and considered his true meaning, she replied, “You know perfectly well I’ll do anything-anything-to clear Justin’s name.”

Absolute decision, total commitment, rang in her tone.

He inclined his head. “Very well.”

He heard himself urbanely agree; he hadn’t known he would, certainly hadn’t thought what he might ask of her in return. Wasn’t even sure of his motives in pressing such a bargain on her, but “anything” gave him a wide field.

Revenge of a sort for all the years of hurt might yet be his.

At the thought, he stirred, whether in discomfort or anticipation not even he could say. “Tell me what happened-the sequence of events leading to Randall’s death as you know it.”

Letitia hesitated, then gathered the black reticule that had sat throughout in her lap. “Come to the house.” Rising, she reached up and flipped down her veil. “It’ll be easier to explain there.”

She’d thought it would be easier-having places and things to point out to distract him-but having him by her side again kept her nerves in a state of perpetual reactiveness. Ready to respond to any touch, however slight, to luxuriate in the steady warmth that radiated from his large body, luring her closer.

Gritting mental teeth, she pointed to the spot on the study floor of the house in South Audley Street where she’d been informed her late husband had lain. “You can see the bloodstain.”

The spot in question lay between the fireplace and the large desk.

She wasn’t particularly squeamish, but the sight of the reddish-brown stain had her gorge rising. No matter what she’d felt for Randall, no man should die as he had, brutally bashed to death with the poker from his own fireplace.

Christian shifted closer, looking down at the stain. “Which way was he facing-toward the fire or the desk?”

He felt like a flame down one side of her body. She frowned. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. And they wouldn’t let me in here to see-they said it was too…gory.”

She raised her head, fought to concentrate on what they were discussing-struggled not to close her eyes and let her other senses stretch. She’d forgotten how tall he was, how large-forgotten he was one of the few men in the ton who towered over her, who could make her feel enclosed, shielded…protected. That wasn’t why she’d turned to him, but at that moment she could not but be grateful for his size, his nearness, for the reminder of virile life in the presence of stark death.

“They’ve taken away the poker.” Drawing in a tight breath, she turned and waved at the table by one of the armchairs flanking the hearth. “And they’ve cleared the table-there were two glasses on it, so I’ve been told. Brandy in both.”

“Tell me what you know. When last did you see him?”

The question gave her something to focus on. “Last night. I went to dinner at the Martindales’, then on to a soiree at Cumberland House. I returned rather late. Randall had stayed in-he sometimes did when he had business to attend to. He waylaid me in the hall and asked me in here. He wanted to discuss…” She paused, then continued, knowing her voice, hardening, would give away her temper. “…a family matter.”

She and Randall had been married for eight years, but there’d been no children. With any luck, Christian would imagine that had been the subject of their discussion, the subject she’d so delicately refrained from mentioning.

His gaze on her face, Christian knew-just knew-that she was hoping to lead him up some garden path. Declining to follow, he made a mental note to return to the subject of her late night discussion with her husband at some later point. For now…“Discussion?” With a Vaux involved, “discussion” could encompass verbal warfare.

“We had a row.” Face darkening, she continued, “I don’t know how long it went for, but I eventually swept out”-a gesture indicated the force of her sweeping, something Christian could imagine with ease-“and left him here.”

“So you argued. Loudly.”

She nodded.

He let his gaze travel the room, then looked back at her. “No broken vases? Ornaments flung about?”

She folded her arms beneath her breasts, haughtily lifted her chin. “It wasn’t that sort of argument.”

A cold argument, then, one without heat or passion. For her, with her husband, that struck him as odd.

He looked away, again scanning the room. In reality looking away from her so he wouldn’t focus on her breasts. Breasts he knew-or had, at one time, known well. Hauling his mind from salacious images from the past-all the more potent for being memory rather than imagination-took more effort than he cared to contemplate. He shifted. “So you left Randall here, hale and whole, and then what? What next did you know of this?”

“Nothing at all until my dresser came rushing in this morning to tell me about the body.” She turned away from the bloodstain.

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.