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.”