Marcus didn’t answer. He looked around the room, wild-eyed, realizing he had just crashed the most publicized wedding of the decade to save a woman who didn’t know who she was.
Beside him, the woman trembled, overwhelmed by the sea of staring faces and the blinding lights. She reached up with a shaking hand and pulled back the hood of her coat.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. It started in the front row with Lady Beatrice, whose cane clattered to the floor, and rippled back to the press pit.
The face was pale, thinner, and haunted, but there was no mistaking the sharp jawline or the dark, soulful eyes. It was the face that had graced magazine covers and obituary columns for a year. It was the face of the woman buried in the Swiss Alps.
Victoria Vance was alive.