She’d watched enough of it.

She wasn’t a lawyer and she wasn’t a detective, but she’d kept house for rich people for thirty years and she knew a theft when she was dusting around it.

There was a coup underway in that mansion, quiet and perfumed and wearing a modest dress, and at the center of it was a four-year-old who was about to be handed a fortune under a lie.

Chapter 8 — The Match