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

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 b eside 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 exten ded. “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 comment 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, mad am. The duchess is also a client of my firm,” he explained to the room.
    Sir Neville t ook 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