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.