Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) (11 page)

Then she turned over and pulled the covers up, thank God. But as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help wondering…
could she be right?

Too agitated to sleep, he paced back and forth in the cold, narrow room, the dank air seeping into his bones.

No one understood. No one knew
what this shell of an existence was like for him. Year after year of agonizing disappointment. The memory of loss compounding year after year. Watching your rival achieve anything he wanted with hardly any effort at all. While you labor away striving, working, hoping…only to lose to him again.

And then the one thing comes along. The culmination of all your desires. The single person who could turn it all around and make your life worth living once again. And he snatches that away as well.

Damn him.

He
thought of the coin.

The small
silver disk stamped with Julius Caesar’s image. A genuine Roman denarius. How he’d coveted it. But Professor Kent had given it to his prize student instead of him.

And so he watched him
after that, a rotting seething burrowing deeper in his bowels year after year, as Neville Ravensdale achieved more and more and more.

And
now there was the Marc Antony dagger.

It
had reminded him of the coin when he first learned of its discovery. Rare and ancient and beautiful. And in that moment he’d vowed to have it. Or rather that Neville would not have it. And he didn’t have it.

But
now?

He sank down on the bed and raked his fingers through his hair.
He’d known the risks of this scheme but he hadn’t let them stop him. Perhaps he should have thought things through more. He’d gotten in over his head. He might have to pay too dearly for what he’d done. He might be paying for a long while.

Had
it been worth it? Guilt scratched at the edges of his heart. He scoffed at the sensation. Of course it was worth it. Just the look on Neville’s face when he opened that box in front of all those cameras was worth it.

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.

J
ust 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.

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, s
he 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.

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 air
headed 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 t
o her guests and strolled 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.”