Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery)

by Linsey Lanier

  How the great Sir Neville had fallen. Humiliated and disgraced before all.

  No, everything would work out. He’d figure out what had gone wrong. He’d fix it. He’d fix everything.

  Just now all he had to do was bide his time and keep quiet. Two things he was very good at.

  As he lay back on the narrow mattress a thin smile spread across his face. Yes, everything could be fixed. And after a time all would be well.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Miranda awoke to faint birdsong and shafts of light streaming in on either side of her through the narrow arched windows surrounding her bed.

  No rain. Too good to be true.

  She pulled Parker close and gave him a big healthy kiss on the mouth. “I feel a lot better now,” she grinned as she came up for air.

  “And so do I.” He kissed her back, hard and feral, turned her over and nestled between her legs.

  “Hmm.” Yielding to that wonderful mushy feeling, she arched her back to meet him and relished the delicious sensation of his warm skin against her body.

  His lips left her mouth and were just making their way down her neck, headed for nether regions when there was a sharp rap on the door.

  “Sir? Madam? Breakfast in fifteen minutes,” a servant informed them.

  “Damn.” Parker’s head sank against her shoulder.

  Not even time for a quickie. “Rain check,” she said, hoping the words wouldn’t jinx the good weather.

  Dutifully he rolled over and got to his feet.

  She pulled herself to the side of the bed and eyed his bare butt as she ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “So what’s the plan for the day? Are we going to this polo pony shindig?”

  His brow creased, his whole beautiful body in perfect investigator work mode, even though he was still stark naked. “If we do, we might be able to pick up some more information about the stepson.”

  “Maybe. But he’s riding in the match. We might not pick up anything.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  She raised her palms. “Go back to the museum and dig around some more? Talk to some of the staff?”

  He considered that a long moment then drew in a breath. She knew he was as frustrated as she was with this case. “Let’s see what Neville has in mind.”

  Breakfast was something of a repeat of last night’s dinner, except with bacon, sausage, eggs done several different ways, and strong tea. And everyone was dressed more casually.

  Miranda was surprised to learn that all the guests except Trenton Jewell had spent the night. She assumed the attorney wanted to be at Scotland Yard early this morning to get George Eames released.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to beg off the match today,” Sir Neville announced. “The museum’s reopening and I need to be there.”

  Lady Davinia set down her cup with a sour expression. “Oh, Neville. Can’t you ask someone else to do that? It’s Lionel’s big day.”

  Lionel had already left for the grounds so there was no chance to watch him close up in the light of day. At least not right now.

  “He often plays polo,” Sir Neville said. “I can catch him another time.”

  Davinia glared at him. She looked tired and worn out as if she hadn’t slept much. “It’s the summer tournament.”

  Sir Neville studied the muffin on his plate, looking very uncomfortable.

  Miranda’s heart went out to him. She wouldn’t say he was henpecked—a term she despised—it was more like Davinia was his jailor, constantly reminding him of the prison of his social obligations.

  The Duchess of Oxham took a tiny sip from her teacup and daintily set it back in its decorative saucer. “I understand today will be a match not to be missed. They’re playing New Zealand.”

  Davinia’s look turned to pleading. She was obviously using her social calendar to avoid dealing with her husband’s too public problem.

  Sir Neville sighed. “Very well.” He tossed his napkin and rose, giving Parker and Miranda an apologetic look. “I’ll give Emily a ring.” But before he left the room, he leaned over Parker’s shoulder and whispered. “We’ll break away at the first opportunity and head for the museum.”

  Trying to look as if she hadn’t heard anything, Miranda stared down into the bottom of her cup. She didn’t need tea leaves to tell her with the undercurrent of stress, the polo match was bound to be loads of fun.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The attire for the match was “smart casual,” which in this case meant summer dresses and flat shoes for the ladies and seersucker or blazers with no ties for the men.

  The women seemed to think hats were required, and since Miranda didn’t have one, Gabrielle loaned her one. A big, floppy brimmed thing with a deep red ribbon to match her red-and-white dress—another item Parker had snuck into her baggage.

  “Now you’ll look very smart,” Gabrielle giggled, as she fixed the hat atop Miranda’s head.

  And just as inconspicuous as any self-respecting investigator would want to be. Whoopie.

  It was late morning when they arrived at the polo ground a few kilometers north of London.

  Nestled among a deep green forest of trees that might have been there since King Arthur’s day, a huge playing field was sectioned off with narrow boards. Outside the perimeter cars were parked here and there, and people were setting up lawn chairs and blankets. There was a large scoreboard and two goal posts, as you might expect.

  On the opposite side, a wide, white building with a green roof dominated the sidelines. Colorful tents were pitched on either side of it. Spectators were gathering under them as well, their cheerful chatter filling the air.

  Davinia’s party, of course, had reservations under the porch roof of the clubhouse, and they all sat at a large round table, a light breeze cooling their skin, sipping drinks and munching from a fruit basket the hostess had brought along.

  Almost as soon as they’d sat down, Sir Neville excused himself, saying he needed a long walk. Poor man. Miranda related to his need to get away and be alone with his thoughts.

  She toyed with the peppermint concoction she’d ordered and wished she could escape herself. With a sigh she gazed across the big field with its emerald grass so green it must have come from Ireland. Horses with short manes and wrapped tails were being walked around the sidelines at the far end to warm them up.

  Beside her, Lady Gabrielle chatted away with all her animated zest. She had on a sleeveless safari print wrap-around with a cute little hat that matched the dress and made the color of her eyes a more exotic green.

  Wondering if she had her own dress designer, Miranda watched her dip a strawberry into her daiquiri and take a dainty nibble. “The object of the game is to hit the ball with the mallet until you get it through the goal posts,” she explained to Miranda, gesturing to either side of the field. “Each team has four players, numbered one through four. Lionel plays number three because he’s the best on his team.”

  Not at all as airheaded as she’d been last night, Miranda thought. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  She smiled almost shyly. “My father used to take me to the matches when I was little. It’s where I met Lionel.”

  “So he’s played a long time?”

  Her green eyes danced with enthusiasm. “Oh, he loves the game. He says it’s the most exhilarating thing in the world. Well, other than sex.”

  Davinia scowled at her daughter-in-law. “Gabrielle. Really.”

  Gabrielle only giggled. “Oh, Mother. What a prude you are.”

  Davinia looked away and suddenly seemed uncharacteristically rattled. She quickly recovered. “I need a walk,” she said. “Please excuse me.”

  She rose, as graceful as a ballet dancer. Under a discreet chiffon hat with a narrow brim, her dark hair had been fashioned into an elaborate knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore a pale blue print dress in a breezy fabric that complimented the refined lines of her body.

  She murmured an apology to her guests and strol
led off, head high.

  The woman was in a lot of pain. The air was thick with it even after she left. Maybe she’d find Sir Neville and they’d make up. Miranda hoped so.

  Music began to play over the loudspeaker and everyone rose to a rousing chorus of Rule Britannia! Then an announcer introduced the players, and the eight riders belonging to each team and two officials gathered in the middle of the field.

  Several pairs of binoculars had been placed on the table. Miranda snatched one up to watch.

  An official threw in the ball and they were off. Well, for a while they just batted the thing around among themselves. Someone broke loose. Then they were off. The ball came rolling out of the huddle, every horse and rider after it.

  Back and forth the players went, turning the ponies this way and that, mallets whipping through the air, hooves pounding.

  And so was Miranda’s heartbeat. She leaned forward, every muscle taut as she inhaled the game.

  “I’ve got to do that,” she murmured across the table to Parker. Apparently too loudly.

  Gabrielle gave her a nudge. “You like risk, Ms. Steele?”

  Miranda lowered her binoculars and turned to the young woman. “What do you mean?”

  Gabrielle grinned, her eyes sparkling, as if she knew all there was to know, not only about the game, but about her guest as well. “Polo is supposed to be one of the most dangerous sports in the world.”

  “Really?”

  “But I gather you have a taste for danger, being a private investigator and all.”

  So someone had told her who she and Parker really were. Probably Lionel. But might as well find out. Miranda blinked at her as if startled. “Who said I was a private investigator?”

  “Davinia, of course.” She rolled her eyes. “And she says we’re not to discuss it. But I think it’s exciting. Are you working on a case?” Her baby-doll eyes were round with innocence.

  If Davinia told her she and Parker were investigators, she told her why they were here. Not that it would be hard to guess. So why was she playing dumb?

  Miranda gave the young woman a big smile. “Can’t a PI go on vacation?”

  Gabrielle didn’t miss a beat as she sucked in an excited breath. “And you chose London? How honored we are.”

  Sure you are. And I’m the Queen of England. “Thanks,” Miranda said and turned back to the game.

  A horn blew and everyone stopped.

  “That’s the end of the first chukker,” Gabrielle said.

  “Chukker?”

  “Divisions of the game. There are six in all. And the riders have to change ponies so as not to wear them out.” Tapping the table, she glanced around nervously, then gave a little laugh. “Oh, there’s Mr. Jewell. I must go say hello.” She got to her feet and scampered off.

  Jewell was here? Miranda wondered if he’d made short work of getting the police to let George Eames go. Maybe he was looking for Sir Neville to tell him so.

  Miranda caught Parker’s gaze across the table. His steady look told her he was thinking the same thing she was. There was something weird going on here. She was determined to find out what it was.

  The next chukker started. Gabrielle wasn’t back yet. Neither was Davinia.

  Instead of watching the match this time, Miranda used her binoculars to scan the crowd. Along the far side of the field, groups of spectators were laughing and eating. Near a family seated on the grass, a little boy danced happily, holding up an ice cream bar.

  A little farther on, several well-dressed young men and women leaned against the hood of a car chatting to each other. She spotted Gabrielle talking to them. Friends of Lionel’s? Hard to say.

  In front of the group a white picket fence ran the length of the next section where some of the ponies were being walked. She watched them for a while trying to spot the stepson, then moved to the stretch along the goalpost.

  Bingo.

  There was Davinia. And she was with someone.

  Miranda adjusted her binoculars for a close up. A look of worry on her elegant face, Davinia seemed to be having a heartfelt conversation with the very good-looking young man beside her. Couldn’t have been much older than Lionel. Sharply dressed in a lightweight casual suit, his wavy blond hair blowing in the breeze, he exuded youthful confidence.

  Except for the crease between his brows.

  Miranda cleared her throat. “Duchess.”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “Do you know who that is with Lady Davinia?” she pointed in the general direction.

  The elderly woman raised a gloved hand to the brim of her hat and squinted hard for a long moment. “Oh,” she said at last. “That’s Sebastian Fairfax. He’s a good friend of Lionel’s. They went to school together. He owns an advertising firm in the city. Very nice chap. Used to ride before he got hurt last year.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  Maybe Davinia was concerned over his injury. Or something else.

  She moved her binoculars to the right, following the line of the picket fence in the opposite direction. Past more picnickers and vehicles, another tent, into the woods. Then she saw him. He might have just finished his stroll under the trees.

  Sir Neville leaned against the fence, his hand to his chest as if he were having a heart attack. His pale face was ghost white.

  And he was staring straight at the young man and Davinia.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Miranda slapped the binoculars down on the table and spun around to Parker.

  He’d been following her gaze and was already on his feet, making excuses and hurrying away to help. She did the same and they hurried through the crowd.

  The third chukker began and with all the commotion, it seemed to take forever until they reached the fence where he stood.

  Parker put a hand on the elderly gentleman’s arm to steady him. “Are you all right, Neville?”

  “What’s that?” His crystal blue eyes looking dazed, he blinked at Parker as if coming out of a dream. “Oh, I—” He cleared his throat and straightened himself, pulling out of Parker’s grasp. “I’m fine, Russell.” He lifted his chin, clearly trying to hide his embarrassment under the famous British stiff upper lip. “A spot of indigestion, I believe. Too much rich food last night. Really, I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Are you sure?” She was worried he wasn’t.

  “Of course, I’m sure. I—I was just lost in thought. I was remembering this.” He held out an open hand.

  There in the center of his palm was a tarnished coin. Its edges irregular and worn with the passage of centuries, it bore a profile of a man with curly locks and a wreath around his head.

  “It’s a genuine Roman denarius from 44 BC. It bears the image of Julius Caesar himself. A favorite professor of mine at Cambridge gave it to me on a walk one day. I’ve been thinking about that afternoon.” Sir Neville’s eyes grew moist. “I didn’t feel worthy but he said I had a promising career ahead of me. Now look what it’s come to. What I’ve come to.” He shoved the coin into his pocket.

  “Let’s get him out of the sun,” Parker said, taking one of Sir Neville’s arms.

  Miranda nodded and took the other arm.

  “I’m fine, really,” he protested. “At worst it was an anxiety attack. It’s passed now.”

  “Let’s just go over here, Sir Neville.” She gestured toward one of the tents.

  “Really, my dear, you’re very kind but this isn’t necessary.”

  She forced out a casual laugh. “If you don’t need some shade, Sir Neville, I do.”

  There were also kind people under the tent who gave up a lawn chair so Sir Neville could sit down. Miranda watched their faces trying to guess if they recognized the museum curator who’d been in the news, but they seemed too preoccupied with the game and their own affairs.

  They helped Sir Neville down, though he was still putting up a fuss.

  “As soon as you rest a bit, we’ll take off for the museum,” Parker reassured him.

&nbs
p; While they waited Miranda stared out at the ponies and riders battling around the field, though she’d lost interest in the game. It seemed Lionel’s team was ahead by a few points.

  At last the horn blew to signify the chukker’s end. She turned and studied Sir Neville’s face. His eyes seemed clear now but he still looked pretty pale.

  “Maybe he should go home,” she said to Parker.

  Sir Neville reached up to take her hand and patted it. “No, no, my dear. I need to get to the museum. I can’t leave Emily—”

  “There you all are!”

  Everyone turned in time to see Gabrielle scurrying over, the flare of her safari print skirt swishing around her shapely legs. “Where on earth have you been? It’s time for the divot stomping.”

  “The what?” Miranda asked.

  “Divot stomping, of course.” Gabrielle stared at her as if she were crazy. “Come on, then. Everyone’s out there already.”

  From his chair Sir Neville waved a hand. “You go on, Gabby. I’m too old for divots.”

  “Oh, Neville.” She stuck out her lower lip, her baby-doll eyes glistening.

  “We need to keep an eye on Sir Neville just now, Lady Gabrielle,” Parker told her in a firm tone.

  She wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “Well, Ms. Steele, then.” She grabbed Miranda’s hand. “We’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll bring her right back when we’re finished.” She gave her a yank that nearly pulled her off her feet.

  Miranda heard Parker’s low growl behind her and turned back with a do-I-have-a-choice? look as she hurried out to the field with her captor. If she wasn’t trying to get information out of this prima donna, she might have slapped her.

  Instead she smiled as if she were excited. “So what do we do?”

  “Oh, it’s easy. We go about and put back the tufts of grass the ponies kicked up. Like this.” She kicked at a clump of dirt at her feet, found an empty hole and pressed it into the ground with the toe of her shoe. “See?”

  “Okey-dokey.” Miranda found one and did the same. Only her press was more of a real stomp that made Gabrielle giggle.