Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery)

by Linsey Lanier

  Parker got to his feet and stretched. She caught the sight of his delicious, well-formed body in the mirror and was starting to think twice about ditching that dinner party.

  He had other ideas. “Do you want the bathroom first?” No cozy shower together for them. At least not yet.

  With a sigh, she turned back to the wardrobe, digging for the dress he said he’d brought for her. “No, I want to try this on first.”

  “All right. I won’t be long.” He grabbed his shaving kit off the dresser and headed for the adjacent room.

  It took a while to paw around in the roomy wooden container, but the smell of cedar and lavender from a cachet inside it was nice. At last her fingers landed on something.

  Here it was. She pulled out the hanger and held the dress up to herself. It was a satiny thing in ocean blue she remembered Parker had said brought out the color of her eyes. It had a twisty bodice and waist and a sheer neckline embedded with jewels.

  Fancy, but she guess she’d fit in wearing it tonight. More than if she sashayed in with her jeans and a T-shirt, which would have been her first choice.

  While the sound of running water came from the bathroom, she pulled off her slacks and blouse, tossed them onto the foot of the bed and slipped the delicate outfit on.

  After zipping it up, she turned to look at herself in the mirror.

  Bummer. It looked okay, but she’d lost weight since she’d last worn it. Since her long hospital stay and rehabilitation.

  What was she going to do? It was the only dress she had. She reached behind her and pulled the fabric together. Quickie alteration? Maybe Sir Neville had a tailor stashed away somewhere in this castle.

  She spun on her heel and headed into the bathroom. She gave the door a quick knock. “Parker? I don’t—”

  The bathroom was round and lined in big gray stone blocks, like a mediaeval tower. Surrounded by stained glass windows, Parker was lying back in an old-fashioned tub, his arms and torso glistening, his dark hair plastered on his muscled chest.

  She couldn’t help grinning as her libido spiked. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

  He turned his head and eyed her with a mixture of annoyance and lust. “There doesn’t seem to be a shower. Not unusual in a home of this age.”

  “Guess not.” She sauntered over to the tub, pulled up a wicker hassock and sat down, hiding a snicker as she greedily took in his naked body under the water. She didn’t know what he’d put in the water, but he sure smelled delicious.

  He raised a dark, wary brow. “I thought we had agreed to attend the party.”

  Playfully she splashed her fingers in the water, just over a man’s most cherished part, and made a little wave. Cleopatra wending her barge up the Nile in search of Marc Antony.

  “Miranda,” he warned.

  She pursed her lips. “I’m rethinking blowing it off.”

  He took her hand in his wet one, turned it over and gently kissed her palm. “As much as you’re tempting me, we can’t leave Neville alone tonight. We promised we’d be there.”

  She sighed and leaned back. Yeah, they did. “You just can’t say no to the old guy, can you?”

  The lines around his eyes creased as he took on a faraway look. “I was thirteen when my father brought me to London to meet his friend Neville Ravensdale. He thought it would be a good, cultural experience for me.”

  “Mr. P took you to Eaton House?”

  “Neville was living in London at the time. He was simply Mr. Ravensdale then. I believe Lady Davinia’s first husband was still alive. But Neville was acquainted socially with both of them and we came here for some outdoor party or some such.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sir Neville said Davinia was married to the Earl of…someplace.”

  “Eaton. As in Eaton House. Her son inherited the estate, but she has use of it for her lifetime, as I understand it. And she’s Lady Davinia. Sir Neville isn’t a peer.”

  “A what?”

  “A peer. Peerage is the system of hereditary titles in the United Kingdom. Our host is addressed by ‘Sir’ because he’s been knighted by the Queen. Lady Davinia is a daughter of a peer as well as the widow of one. She has her own title.”

  She waved her hands in the air and got to her feet. “Forget I asked.”

  The designations of English lords and ladies wasn’t something she wanted to know about. Her world had always been mere survival. Getting through a tough day laying brick, and an even tougher night of bad dreams and longing for her daughter.

  That made her think of Mackenzie and her request yesterday. Surely the girl had forgotten about that by now.

  Parker wasn’t finished. He reached for her hand. “Miranda, when my mother died, Neville came to Atlanta to be with me and my father for a time. We had some long talks. He was very comforting.”

  Parker had lost his mother at sixteen, and Miranda knew it had put a strain on his relationship with his father at the time. No wonder Sir Neville meant so much to him.

  “Okay, I get it.” She sat back down. “So what about this case, Parker? I hate to say it, but it looks to me like George Eames is in pretty hot water.” She dangled her fingers in the bath to emphasize the point.

  Parker drew in a frustrated breath, his brow creasing.

  She dangled her hand in the bath water again and went on. “Eames admits he was the only one to see the dagger. He was the one who set the security system in the storeroom. There’s no video to prove otherwise. All the evidence points to him.”

  “It does. But we both know it’s circumstantial. It doesn’t prove conclusively he did it.”

  That was true. But it was also true Parker didn’t want Sir Neville’s friend to be guilty. “So how do we disprove it? What’s our next move?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I thought you were in charge here.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “I want to hear your thoughts.”

  Was he really picking her brain or just testing her? But maybe she should come at it from a different angle. “Eames had opportunity and means, but if you believe what he says about his loyalty, he doesn’t seem to have motive. Other than money.”

  “A man who lives in a museum working with precious artifacts doesn’t seem to be the type to steal for money.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe he’s gotten tired of that. Maybe being around all those priceless things finally got to him.”

  “Is that what your gut tells you?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “No.” Her gut said the man was innocent, but she liked Sir Neville, too. Maybe they were both too biased for this case. She gave the water another splash. “And so the only thing we can do is hunt around for someone who does have motive.”

  Parker’s face turned determined. “And that’s what we’ll do at this party.”

  “It’s a start, I guess.” She eyed the water.

  “All we have for now.” Parker took her hand and lifted it out of the tub. “And we’d better get ready if we’re going to make it on time.”

  With a sigh of longing, she got to her feet and dried her fingers on a nearby towel. “Oh, you made me forget why I came in here. This dress doesn’t fit anymore.”

  “It doesn’t?” He eyed her with concern.

  “The waist is too loose. See?” She put her hands on either side of the garment and shifted it back and forth.

  Parker scowled. “You haven’t been eating enough.”

  She rolled her eyes. He had to get bossy, didn’t he? “I could eat a horse tonight if I had something to wear to dinner.”

  He thought a moment. “Call down and see if Lady Davinia has a needle and thread.”

  She dropped her arms at her side. “And what will I do with that?”

  “I’ll sew the dress.”

  She let out a laugh. “You can sew?” Parker was handy, but he was used to having a staff to perform a lot of menial tasks for him.

  He looked offended. “I’ve sewn my own wounds at times. It shouldn’t be that mu
ch different.”

  “Okey-dokey.” She had to see this. Suddenly feeling more awake, she turned and stepped back into the bedroom.

  There was no phone in the chamber, so Miranda decided to go downstairs herself and find her hostess or maybe a servant.

  She found her way through the maze of halls to the big stone staircase, recognizing the dude in armor on horseback and hurried down the steps. At the bottom, she wasn’t sure which way to go, so she headed across the huge space and into the halls on the other side. After following a path this way and that, she was wishing she’d dropped breadcrumbs behind her when she spotted a door that was ajar.

  It was imposing in the darkened hallway. Twice her own height and made of thick paneled oak. But light was streaming through the opening, so there had to be somebody in there.

  Miranda put her hand on the elaborate brass knob and was about to push the door open all the way in when she heard a voice.

  “What on earth were you thinking, Neville.” It was Lady Davinia.

  She heard Sir Neville mumble something back but couldn’t make out the words.

  “You couldn’t pick up your mobile and call me?”

  Miranda blinked in surprise. The woman’s accusatory tone was biting. She was really mad.

  There was a creaking sound and a slam. “I was rather preoccupied, Davinia. Didn’t you hear what happened? The dagger—”

  “Of course I heard. It’s all over the news. I would think you’d want to come home straight away after such an embarrassment.”

  “I’m sorry if I couldn’t save face for you.” There was another slamming sound.

  Wow. She’d almost walked into a hornet’s nest. Maybe she should go, but her investigator’s nose kept her where she was. They were supposed to find out more about the people around Sir Neville, after all.

  “What are you looking for?” Davinia snapped.

  “Your grandfather’s Cornish whiskey. I need a drink.”

  “We used it up at New Year’s. All the guests had some and there was nothing left after midnight.”

  Sir Neville’s weary sigh was audible.

  “You haven’t told me why you didn’t come home.” Now Lady Davinia’s voice was a plea.

  The sound of it made Miranda feel as sorry for the woman as she did for her husband. She must be lonely way out here in the country while her husband was getting accolades for his work in London. Though he sure didn’t get any yesterday.

  “What could I do?” Sir Neville said, irritation bubbling in his voice. “The police were at the museum all night. They’ve arrested George Eames.”

  “George? No.” Her tone went from pleading to concerned.

  “I’m glad at least you can see that he’s innocent.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Of course, he is.”

  “Scotland Yard doesn’t think so.”

  There was a long pause. Then Davinia spoke again. This time with tenderness. “How dreadful. What are you going to do, Neville?”

  “I don’t know. My only hope is that Wade Parker and Miranda Steele can help.”

  Uh oh.

  The next few words were muffled then the door opened. Instinct had Miranda stepping behind one of the nearby pillars before she could be seen.

  Davinia appeared in the doorway, dressed in the same rosy outfit she’d worn earlier, her face looking pale and shocked. Holding a lacy handkerchief at her mouth, she took off down the hall in the opposite direction. Miranda decided not to bother her.

  She’d find her way back upstairs and use safety pins for her dress.

  Chapter Eleven

  They were late.

  By the time Miranda got out of the tub, fluffed up her unruly hair that the weather had made even more of a mess, and managed to get her dress together with some pins, it was almost a quarter after.

  Making the best of it, she waltzed down the stairs on Parker’s arm, both of them all decked out in evening finery, her head high and Parker looking his debonair self.

  They found the other guests had already arrived and were chitchatting away in the great hall, their British accents echoing to the tapestry and arches above. There were plenty of couches and chairs, but everyone was standing in the middle of the antique carpet and they all turned to stare as Miranda and Parker stepped through the doorway.

  For an instant, Miranda wondered how this party would go with the host and hostess at each other’s throats half an hour ago, but Lady Davinia floated over to them with her game face on—or maybe it was her aristocrat face—to act the role of gracious hostess.

  Taking Miranda’s arm, she introduced them, tactfully presenting Parker as the son of Sir Neville’s old friend and Miranda simply as his wife. So despite its being a top news story, the theft of the Marc Antony dagger would be off limits as a conversation topic.

  “So much for our plans,” she murmured to Parker under her breath, meaning the plan to find someone other than George Eames with a motive for taking the artifact.

  “We’ll have to use the circuitous route,” he replied so low only she could hear him. She was better with the direct approach.

  Miranda said her how-d’ye-dos to Lord and Lady Lovelace and their young daughter, Eunice. They lived in Hindhead, wherever that was, and were tall, thin and had matching receding chins. Next in line was Her Grace, the Duchess of Oxham who was dressed all in lavender and silver brocade, her dark gray hair piled atop her head and accented with a demure tiara, no doubt the woman’s interpretation of “loungewear.”

  She curled her nose at Miranda as if she were a dead animal as she gingerly shook her hand. But the grand lady claimed she was delighted to meet her.

  Last but not least was Lady Gabrielle Eaton, Davinia’s daughter-in-law, a young woman maybe in her mid-twenties with big shimmering green baby-doll eyes and a laugh like sparkling champagne. She had a head of hair thick with short red-gold curls artfully styled to frame her sweetheart face and she wore a deep red, low-cut cocktail dress with lots of shiny bling around the neck.

  She was married to Lady Davinia’s son, Lionel, Lord Eaton, a nice-looking young man who seemed to be in his early thirties. He had dark coloring and a closely trimmed Van Dyke beard, which made him look exceptionally British with his navy blazer and slacks.

  They were about to head for the dining room when the butler brought in a late arrival.

  “I’m so sorry to be late,” a deep voice bellowed.

  Sir Neville spun toward the door and started. “Trenton! I—I had no idea you were coming tonight.”

  “Nor did I.” Lady Davinia’s polite tone hid her sudden distress.

  An imposing figure stood beside the butler, towering a head over him, with a girth twice as large. Trenton? Trenton Jewell? Was that the third young man in the photo in George Eames rooms? If he was, like Eames, he’d aged a good bit since then.

  He was dressed all in black. His iron-colored hair was combed to the side of his large head and slicked down in an old-fashioned style. A foreboding crease, probably earned from endless hours of peering into law books, divided his brow in two. Along with his large, sharp nose it gave him the look of a hawk about to seize its prey.

  Appropriate for an attorney.

  With a frivolous laugh, Lady Gabrielle daintily scampered across the carpet and took the man’s hand. “Hello, Trenton. So good of you to come.” She turned back. “I invited him, Mother. Mr. Jewell is an old friend of the family.” She gave him a wink as she let out another giggle. “He’s gotten me off all those silly citations I got in the city. You know, after I had imbibed a little too much?”

  Recovering from the surprise guest, Lady Davinia straightened her shoulders and crossed to Jewell, hand extended. “It seems like ages since you’ve been to Eaton House, Trenton.”

  “And so it has.” Jewell shook the hand in a delicate gesture that made Miranda wonder what his past relationship with Davinia had been.

  Davinia gave her daughter-in-law a scolding scowl whether for not consulting her or the comme
nt about the drinking, Miranda couldn’t tell. Then she turned to the butler. “Tell the cook we’ll be eleven.”

  “Very good, m’um,” he nodded and disappeared into the hall.

  From her corner, the Duchess of Oxham nodded. “Good to see you, Trenton.”

  “And you, madam. The duchess is also a client of my firm,” he explained to the room.

  Sir Neville took his old friend’s arm and led him toward one of the sofas. “Trenton, how good to see you. It’s been ages.”

  “Hasn’t it though, Neville. Or Sir Neville, I should say.”

  “Nonsense. Old friends shouldn’t hold with formalities.” As they passed by, Miranda heard him whisper, “Any progress?”

  The crease in his forehead growing deeper, Jewell shook his head. “I’m afraid not yet.”

  After a few more minutes of meaningless social chatter, a servant came and whispered something in Lady Davinia’s ear. She put on a broad smile. “Everyone, it seems we’re ready now. Shall we go in?”

  They formed a sort of processional, with Jewell escorting the duchess at the lead and Lady Davinia and Sir Neville taking up the rear, they marched down a winding hall and into the dining room, as if putting on their own little parade.

  After navigating through another maze of arches, Miranda and the group stepped into a rectangular shaped room with a long oak table in the middle with high-backed, elaborately carved chairs. It was set with fine china and glassware and dotted with long candles in silver holders and crystal vases of fragrant blue flowers. Three small chandeliers hung from the ceiling, which was lower than the halls but still way up there.

  Needed to be, Miranda thought, to make room for the huge paintings along the walls. Images of ladies in fancy silk and lace gowns and bearded gentlemen in brocade on horseback in darkened backgrounds. People who must have lived centuries ago, some of them perhaps Eaton ancestors.

  They sat at the places marked for them in a boy-girl-boy-girl pattern with Lady Davinia at one end and Sir Neville at the other. Miranda found herself nearer Davinia’s end sandwiched between Lord Eaton and Lord Lovelace. Parker wound up near the other end.

  She didn’t care for that. Not that she couldn’t hold her own with the upper crust. She’d had plenty of practice doing that since she’d met Parker. But he was always so much more at ease in ritzy social situations.