Chasing Midnight. Susan Krinard

      His words shook the room like thunderclaps. For a moment no one stirred, and then everyone moved at once. Julia Pomeroy swayed as if she were about to faint. Distraught parents snatched their children from the jaws of corruption and scurried to safety. Mrs. Higgenbotham bellowed at her cringing daughter. Elvira Dearing hung back, resisting Mrs. Dearing’s limp tug.

      “That was simply the bee’s knees, Miss Chase,” she said. “If I could only—”

      Mrs. Dearing found unexpected strength and hauled Elvira away. Within two minutes the room was deserted except for Allegra, Griffin and Gemma, who stared after her friends with anger and bewilderment.

      “Don’t they have any guts at all?” she demanded. “And you think I should marry one of them?”

      Griffin held on to his calm by a thread. “This is hardly the time to discuss such matters, Gemma.”

      She wrenched out of his hold and snatched her record from the Victrola. “It’s ruined,” she said, as if the gift were the only casualty of the afternoon’s fracas. “I only got to play it once.”

      Allegra glanced at Griffin, her expression almost subdued. “I’m sorry, Gemma.”

      “It isn’t your fault.” Gemma hugged the scratched disc to her chest. “It was the best present anyone could have given me.”

      Griffin raked his hands through his hair and looked out the window. The lawn was deserted. The guests had undoubtedly found their way to the drive and their limousines. The party was most definitely over.

      “Aren’t you going to go after them and apologize?” Mal asked from the hall doorway.

      Griffin was in no mood for Mal’s gentle mockery. “Apologize?” he snapped. “Apologize for what? This is my home, and my sister. I won’t tolerate any selfrighteous criticism about how Gemma conducts herself or whom she chooses to invite to her own party. If those dried-up old prunes can’t bring themselves to crawl out of the nineteenth century…”

      He stopped, aware that Gemma was staring at him in astonishment. Allegra watched him with an expression he couldn’t interpret. Mal lifted his glass in salute.

      “Do you really mean it, Grif?” Gemma said, uncertainty in her voice. “The things you said to Mrs. Pomeroy…”