Read Delaney's Shadow for Free Online Page A

lead a life of leisure and simply enjoy the wealth he’d spent his lifetime acquiring. His first wife had filled most of her days with bridge games and shopping, and had apparently been perfectly content. Mundane necessities like cleaning, laundry, menu planning, or caring for her child had been handled by the household staff. The only occupation Constance Graye had undertaken seriously had been playing Stanford’s hostess. She’d excelled at that, working her social connections with the zeal of a politician. The parties she’d given had been legendary.
    Or at least they had seemed legendary to Delaney the first time she’d attempted to host one of her own. She’d wanted to make Stanford happy. That was why she’d eventually given in about her career, too. She’d directed her energy toward being a good wife. She hadn’t quite believed him when he’d sworn he didn’t expect anything from her except her love.
    “You’re beautiful, Delaney.” That had been Stanford’s reply to everything, and he’d considered the answer sufficient. “You make me feel young. That’s plenty. How could I want more? You’ve already given me more than I’d ever dreamed.”
    She took a brush from the edge of the sink to scrub the baking tin she’d used for the muffins, and her gaze strayed to the gloves that protected her hands. They were yellow and clumsily ugly, but they were necessary. The current round of skin grafts was healing well. The doctors had assured her the lines would be practically invisible when they were done, and the Frankenstein patchiness over her knuckles would fade with time, but that didn’t concern her. All she’d cared about was regaining the full use of her fingers. The burns to her body had been superficial compared to the damage done to her hands.
    There was no way Stanford would have found her beautiful now. No one would. How could she ever have resented the way he’d admired her appearance?
    Her stomach tightened at the thought, so she automatically pushed it away. Stanford had been a good man. He’d loved her, and he’d been kind to her. And it could very well be her fault that he was dead.
    The dining room door squeaked open.
    Delaney bent over to fit the muffin tin into the dishwasher. “I’m almost done here, Grandma. Do you want some help making up the rooms?”
    Someone cleared their throat. The sound was distinctly male.
    Delaney closed the dishwasher door and straightened.
    A short, middle-aged man stood in the doorway. He had a symmetrical, unremarkable face that would be difficult to describe and would fade into a crowd. His round-shouldered posture and toed-in feet seemed to reinforce his apology. He kept his attention on the brochure he was holding. Helen displayed an assortment of them on the table by the front entrance. Some advertised local businesses and tourist attractions. This was one she’d had printed to promote her business.
    “May I help you?” Delaney asked.
    “Yes, I’m sorry, miss. I’m looking for Mrs. Wainright.”
    “I believe Mrs. Wainright is busy upstairs. Were you interested in booking a room?”
    He nodded and stepped forward hesitantly. “Yes, I was driving by and saw the sign for the Wainright House on the gatepost. This is lovely. When was it built?”
    Odd that she hadn’t heard the front doorbell. Perhaps she’d been running the water. “Sometime in the early nineteenth century. The history is in the brochure you’re holding, if you’d like more details.”
    “Of course, of course.” He fumbled to open it. “Yes, I see. And it was built by a Wainright. How fascinating. Then Mrs. Wainright must have been married to a descendant of the builder. Mother would be thrilled to meet her. She’s a history buff, but she gets out so seldom. Arthritis, you know.”
    Delaney pulled off her gloves and set them on the counter. “If you’d like to wait in the dining room, my grandmother should be down directly.”
    “Your grandmother? Oh, this is