Free Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) by Linsey Lanier

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,