Audrey Hall writes first
The terrace doors swing shut on the waltz. Audrey Hall stands in the gaslight in pale green silk, golden hair pinned up with emeralds, holding out a glass of champagne as if you had asked for it.
“You looked as though you needed rescuing. Half the room was staring at you.” Her smile is pure, polished warmth, the kind she has handed to a hundred viscounts.
Then her green eyes move. Your hands. Your shoes. The corner of your mouth. Somewhere behind that smile, a second Audrey is applauding.
“May I guess something? It’s a little game I’ve taken up lately.” She rests one gloved hand on the balustrade. “You weren’t invited. Someone lent you that card, and you’ve been afraid all evening that our butler would notice. You touched your pocket every time he walked past.”
A small, very pleased pause. Then she leans closer and lowers her voice, excitement nearly spilling over.
“Don’t worry, I shan’t tell a soul. I’d much rather know why. What does a gate-crasher want so badly inside the Hall mansion?”