It showed Dorian come in, and draw the drapes, and cross to her.
For a moment, the ballroom did not understand what it was seeing.
Then it understood all at once.
The chatter died as though a switch had been thrown.
Somewhere near the back, a champagne flute slipped from a hand and shattered on the hardwood, and no one turned to look, because no one could look away from the screen.
“Turn that off,” Maeve shrieked, her voice cracking down the middle.
Dorian bolted for the fireplace, but the cables ran behind locked paneling, installed that way, Odette had made sure, days before.
He spun and lunged for the remote in her hand, and she stepped back and slipped it smoothly into her clutch, and the footage played on — long enough, more than long enough, for every important person in Greenwich to understand exactly what they were looking at, and exactly whose house they were standing in.
Lyra had sunk into a chair with her face in her hands.
“Odette,” she sobbed.