Grace Among Thieves Read Free

discussion of Hillary. “You know we’re right on schedule. Corbin believes he can have the first shipment of DVDs to us within three months.” I spoke quickly, eager to keep Bennett engaged. This DVD project was my baby. We’d contracted to have Marshfield Manor digitally immortalized; not just for posterity’s sake, but to produce the DVDs en masse to sell in our gift shop for happy visitors to take home and remember their trip.
    The souvenirs we currently offered were pathetic. Our tiny gift shop had been an afterthought by my predecessor, carved into a small corner of the mansion only after guests began demanding keepsake items for purchase. Featuring a few high-quality pieces made by Emberstowne artisans and a small assortment of mugs and key chains, the store cried out to be relocated into a bigger space and stocked with more enticing goodies. That was another of my many plans for the future. One step at a time.
    “Not the filming,” Bennett said, crashing my hopes to avoid the subject. “Hillary.”
    I glanced down again. Bennett’s forty-six-year-old stepdaughter, whose sole ambition seemed to be to convince the world she hadn’t yet seen thirty-five, smiled as she eased closer to Corbin. With a lovely, if tightly preserved face, and a petite, well-maintained figure, Hillary was—on paper, at least—a catch. That is, until she opened her mouth and her personality spewed forth.
    Even from our vantage point I could spot the glint in her eyes and the flirtatious pitch of her hip. “Is that why she’s back?” I asked quietly. “She intends to be part of the DVD, doesn’t she? I haven’t had a chance to talk with her since she arrived.” Truth was, I’d gone out of my way to avoid talking with the woman.
    I’d heard, from my nosy assistant, Frances, that Bennett’s stepdaughter had returned because she’d been dumped yet again, and I wasn’t in the mood for another one of Hillary’s “woe is me” sagas. Although I’d had my own share of romantic disappointments in recent years, I wasn’t interested in a pity party. It wouldn’t do either of us any good.
    Time and again, suitors fawned over her, eager to pamper, eager to please. Then, when they discovered that she wasn’t heir to the Marshfield billions it was
hasta la vista
, baby. Rather than count her blessings for being rid of leeches, Hillary harped at Bennett, urging him to change his will and leave Marshfield to her.
    Why she would want a husband who only loved her for her money was beyond me.
    Below us, she laughed delicately and found reason to touch Corbin on his hand, his arm, his shoulder. Best of all, she didn’t notice us watching her little performance.
    She took a predatory step closer and Corbin again stepped back. He swung a pained, guilty look all around, as though expecting a surveillance camera to capture this little tableau.
    Instead he found us. Was that relief on his face? Or panic?
    Bennett waved. Corbin blushed, raising a hand in return greeting. Spotting us watching, Hillary’s animated expression fell flat.
    “I suppose we should get down there,” I said.
    Bennett gave a snort. “Let her squirm. She’s embarrassed now, and she should be. She’s getting too old for such silliness. I should have clamped down harder on her when she was younger . . .”
    He let the thought hang, but I knew what he was thinking. He’d often lamented the fact that his second wife had shunted him aside when it came to parenting. I knew he regretted not being a stronger influence on Hillary’s life.
    “All I am to her now is a bank account,” he said.
    “She respects you. In fact, I think she’s a little afraid of you, too.”
    He gave a sad smile. “That’s something, I suppose.” He rested his arms on the gallery railing—an elegantly carved waist-high wall of stone—and folded his hands. Extending his two index fingers in Hillary’s direction, he said, “I want to thank you for your discretion, but I also want you