The waltz came to a jagged halt. One by one, the violins trailed off as the musicians followed the gaze of the crowd.
The French doors stood open to the night air. Framed in the threshold stood a young woman. Her cheap wool coat was wet with dew, and her boots were scuffed–a jarring bruise against the pristine silver and white elegance of the gala.
A murmur rippled through the room. “Is that a staff member?” “How did she get past the gate?”
Melanie stepped into the light. She looked terrified, clutching her envelope like a shield. She looked at the hundreds of faces staring back at her, and then her eyes locked on William.
Lady Beatrice, standing near the champagne tower, dropped her flute. It didn’t break, but the sound of crystal hitting the carpet was audible in the silence.
“My god,” Beatrice whispered, her hand flying to her throat.
It wasn’t the girl’s poverty that stopped the room’s heart. It was her eyes. They were a piercing, icy shade of slate–“Croft Grey.” They were the exact eyes that had stared down from the portrait in the boardroom for forty years. The ghost of Alistair Croft had just walked into the party.