Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) (12 page)

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, sev
eral 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 a
n 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 lean
ed 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.

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 gentl
eman’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.

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.

The whole field was full of spectators now, everyone kicking at the clods of dirt and putting them in their places. Peppy music played from the loudspeaker and people were
cackling and joking and having a jolly good time with the task.

Some of them had had a little too much to drink and Miranda thought Gabrielle might be one of them.

They made their way over the field, divot by divot.

Gabrielle spread her arms out to steady herself as she stomped one, trying to imitate Miranda’s. She broke into peels of giggles. “
Isn’t this a lark, Ms. Steele? It’s my favorite part of the game.”

“Oh, yeah.”
Aristocrats doing manual labor for no pay? It did have a certain charm, but not one that appealed to Miranda. At least not at the moment.

Gabrielle
hurried over to another clump with cute, mincing steps. “Davinia and I are going shopping after the match in Chelsea. Come with us?”

A shopping trip? That was where Miranda drew the line. Be polite, she reminded herself. “
Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ve got to be at—”

Her eyes went wide and her lip quivered in that pouty expression again. “
Oh, you must. You simply must.”

Good grief.
Miranda was really getting tired of this spoiled little girl telling her what she “must” do. She was about to tell her off when she had another thought.

Three women alone on a shopping spree in the city. What could be more
intimate? What could be more inductive to idle conversation about their private lives? Maybe she could find out who that Sebastian dude was and why Davinia was hanging around him. Or better yet, what secrets Gabrielle was hiding.

“All right,” she said. “But
I’ve got another appointment first.” At the museum. “Maybe I can meet you somewhere later?”

The pout turned to a smile of rapture. “
Oh, that would be smashing. I’ll give you my mobile number.”

Mobile. That meant cell.
Already regretting the commitment she’d made, Miranda pulled her phone out of her pocket. She gave the woman her number then keyed in the one Gabrielle rattled off. It was a weird pattern she wasn’t sure she’d gotten right.

She read it back.

No answer.

She looked up. Gabrielle was gone.
Where’d she go? Miranda sighed. What a spacey chick.

She stopped stomping and shielded her eyes with her hand,
feeling like a hen looking for her lost chick. She was near the far edge of the field where riders were warming up their steeds for the next chukker. The crowd was dense and noisy. If she didn’t find Gabrielle in a few minutes, she’d forget the divot stomping and the shopping trip and head for the museum with Parker and Sir Neville.

She tried to turn back, but she felt like a trout trying to swim upstream.

Suddenly a small blur of white blazed over the grass and jumped the low divider.

“Come back, Sissy!” a woman cried.

A cat.

Then
there was a loud shriek. A horse’s shriek. Miranda had heard that sound before.

“Lookout!” someone
shouted.

“It’s number three’s pony.”

There was the sound of galloping hooves and people started screaming and running every which way. Hunting for a spot where she wouldn’t get trampled, Miranda spun around.

And froze.

The hazy image of a shiny chestnut coat with bridle and riderless saddle danced before her eyes. The loud whinny seemed to pierce her eardrums. The earthy odor of horse filled her nostrils. She blinked hard and the image cleared.

T
he animal was bucking and rearing up only a few feet from her. Its body lifted off the grass, forehooves pawing the air like a crazed orchestra conductor. She thought she caught the glint of a horseshoe.

The shouts around her became
a dull muffle. She’d seen this before. But not this close.

The dancing hooves hovered in the air
for what seemed like ten minutes. Right over her head.

Then
down they came. Down. Down. Down. Closer. Closer. Closer.

Just before they reached her, she snapped out of her daze and instinct kicked in. She ducked and rolled as if she were avoiding a
karate kick.

S
he kept rolling.

She didn’t stop until she heard
a man cry. “I’ve got him. It’s all right now.”

She raised herself up on her elbows and caught sight of Lionel’s thin body
in jodhpurs, boots and team jersey, holding his pony’s bridle, his pointy beard bobbing as he reamed out some assistant on the other side of it.

The assistant led the animal away and he hurried over to her. “Ms.
Steele. Are you quite all right?”