“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.”

“And the rest of the staff?”

“Feel the same, my lord. None of the staff had any problems with the master.” Mellon’s eyes shifted toward Letitia but stopped before he made contact.

The man’s antagonism was obvious; Christian wondered at its cause. The Letitia he knew was invariably kind to the lower orders; the impulse was bred into her, all but instinctive, not something she could readily change. There had to be some other reason behind Mellon’s patent dislike of her.

“Very well.” He let his voice relax. “If you could tell me what, to your certain knowledge, drawing solely from your own observations, happened last night. Start from the point where Lady Randall returned home.”

Mellon primmed his lips like an old woman, but was only too ready to oblige. “The mistress came in and the master asked to speak with her. Here, in the study. They closed the door, so I don’t know what was said, but there was a great to-do.” His gaze flashed to Letitia, then returned to a point beyond Christian’s right shoulder. “We could hear her ladyship ranting and raving, as she’s wont to do.”