by Mary Balogh
23
Lily was feeling depressed. Neville had made a quick recovery after coming out of his fever, as might have been expected of a seasoned soldier, and had returned to Kilbourne House two days later. He had called the day after that, but only briefly to announce that he was leaving town for a few days. He had not explained either where he was going or when he expected to return—if he ever did. His manner had been abrupt and impersonal, though he had taken Lily’s hands in his when he took his leave. Elizabeth had been in the room too.
“Lily,” he had said, “you will promise me, if you please, not to leave this house alone and not to leave any room in a house other than this without company.”
He had waited for her answer. It had not seemed an appropriate moment to assert her independence. Anyway, she would have done as he suggested even if he had not asked it of her.
“I promise.”
He had squeezed her hands, hesitated a moment, and then said more. “When you do leave this house,” he had told her, “you may sense that you are being watched and followed. You must not be alarmed even though you will be right. There will be more than one of them—watching out for your safety.”
Her eyes had widened, but she had not argued. It was no longer possible to persuade herself that she had been imagining any of the attacks on her life. And he had earned the right—with a bullet in his shoulder—to show an active concern for her safety.
She had nodded again and he had left after squeezing her hands once more and bending toward her to place one light kiss on her cheek.
Since then she had gone driving in the park twice at the fashionable hour with Elizabeth and the Duke of Portfrey, and she had been to one private dinner at the Duke of Anburey’s and one select soiree at the home of one of Elizabeth’s friends—a lady with a reputation as a bluestocking. And her lessons had resumed.
She had thrown herself into her studies with a frenzy of energy and determination. At last she seemed to have passed a frustrating plateau and could see progress again in almost all skills except embroidery.
But she was depressed. No progress had been made in apprehending the man who had tried on three separate occasions to kill her. She had kept quiet about her own groundless suspicions. There were no clues, no leads. But in the meantime she felt as if she lived in a cage. She could go nowhere alone even though the weather had been uniformly glorious and the early mornings had beckoned her with an almost irresistible invitation. And even when she was from home she felt the presence of her guards.
Her nerves were feeling frayed. Elizabeth had mentioned quite casually that she was glad to have learned that Lauren was going to her grandfather’s in Yorkshire. A change of scene would be good for her.
When had she left?
“Did Gwendoline go with her?” Lily had asked.
But Lauren had intended going alone. Had she really gone to Yorkshire? Lily could not help asking herself. But it was absurd. Lauren, though she rode, was not the type to gallop astride across the open stretches of Hyde Park. And one could not somehow imagine her aiming and firing a pistol. Or thrusting a rock from its moorings on top of a cliff. But even so …
Worst of all, Neville was gone—just at the time when Lily had thought there was a new courtship between them and he was on the verge of declaring himself. She tried not to think about him. She had a life to live. But that life was so very dreary at present. She looked forward to the evening party Elizabeth had been planning for several weeks. It was expected to be a large gathering. Lily’s fame had reached new heights after the incident at Vauxhall. Besides, invitations to Elizabeth’s select parties were always coveted.
Lily dressed carefully for the occasion. She intended to enjoy herself and to acquit herself well. She was to be in the nature of a hostess since she lived here, and that was an entirely new venture for her.
“What do you think, Dolly?” she asked her maid before going downstairs. “Am I beautiful or am I beautiful?” She pirouetted, her arms held gracefully to the sides.
“Well, I don’t know as how either word would describe you exactly, my lady,” Dolly said, her head tipped to one side, one finger against her chin—Dolly had never stopped addressing her as if she were a countess. “If you was to ask me—which you are doing—I would say you look beautiful.”
They both laughed, tickled at the sorry joke.
“You always look lovely in white,” Dolly continued. “And lots of ladies would kill for all that fine lace. You need some jewelry, though.”
“Shall I wear the diamonds or the rubies?”
They chuckled together again, and Lily fetched her locket from the drawer beside her bed. She had not worn it since Vauxhall—that very special occasion that had gone all awry. But she would not be superstitious. She touched a hand to it after Dolly had clasped it about her neck. Oh yes, he had been right, she thought, closing her eyes briefly. The locket made her papa seem closer and reminded her of her mama. But most of all it made her think of him taking her to the jeweler’s to have the chain mended so that she could wear it again.
“He will come back, my lady,” Dolly said.
Lily looked at her, startled. Her maid was nodding sagely.
“Gracious,” Lily lied, “I was not even thinking of him, Dolly.”
“Then how do you know which him I was talking about?” Dolly asked saucily, and went off into peals of laughter again.
Lily was still smiling as she went downstairs. The guests began arriving almost immediately, and she had no time for further thought or brooding. She concentrated on her posture and smiles, on listening and on saying the right things. It was not so very difficult after all, she was finding, to mingle with the ton. And most people were kind to her.
She was in the book room about an hour later with Elizabeth, the Marquess of Attingsborough, and two other gentlemen. Mr. Wylie had asked her in the drawing room if she had taken out a subscription to any of the libraries, and the marquess had informed him that Miss Doyle could not read but they would not hold that against her as she was certainly one of the loveliest young ladies in town. Lily had been unwise enough to protest indignantly that indeed she could read.
Joseph had grinned at her. “People who tell fibs, you know, Lily,” he had said, “go straight to hell when they die.”
“Then I shall prove it to you,” she had told him.
That was why they were in the book room. Lily had challenged the marquess to withdraw any book from any shelf and she would read the first sentence aloud.
“Are there any books of sermons here, Elizabeth?” he asked, looking along the shelves.
“I say,” Mr. Wylie told Lily, “I would take your word for it, Miss Doyle. I am sure you read very prettily indeed. And I cannot see that it matters if you don’t. I was merely making conversation.”
Lily smiled at him.
“Gallantry to ladies,” Elizabeth said, “was never Joseph’s strongest point, Mr. Wylie. There are no sermons, Joseph. I hear enough at church on Sundays.”
“A shame,” he muttered. “Ah, here, this will do—The Pilgrim’s Progress.” He made a great to-do about drawing the leather-bound volume from the shelf and opening it to the first page before handing the book to Lily.
She was laughing and feeling horribly flustered at the same time. She felt even more embarrassed when someone else appeared in the doorway and she saw that it was the Duke of Portfrey. He must have just arrived and had come to greet Elizabeth.
“Ah, Lyndon,” she said, “Joseph has insulted Lily by claiming that she is illiterate. She is about to prove him wrong.”
The duke smiled and stood where he was in the doorway, his hands clasped behind him. “We should have had a wager on it, Attingsborough,” he said. “I would be about to relieve you of a fortune.”
“Oh, dear,” Lily said. “I do not read very well yet. I may not be able to decipher every word.” She bent her head and saw with some relief that the first sentence was not very long; neither did it appear to co
ntain many long words.
“ ‘As I walked through the wild-er-ness of this world,’ ” she read in a halting monotone, “ ‘I l-lighted on a cer-tain place where was a den, and I laid me down in that place to sleep; and, as I slept, I drrr-eamed a dream.’ ” She looked up with a triumphant smile and lowered the book.
The gentlemen applauded and the marquess whistled.
“Bravo, Lily,” he said. “Perhaps you are bound for heaven after all. My humblest, most abject apologies.” He took the book from her hands and closed it with a flourish.
Lily glanced toward the Duke of Portfrey, who had taken a couple of steps closer to her. But her smile died. He was staring at her, all color drained from his face. Everyone seemed to notice at the same time. An unnatural hush fell on the room.
“Lily,” he said in a strange half whisper, “where did you get that locket?”
Her hand lifted to it and covered it protectively. “It is mine,” she said. “My mother and father gave it to me.”
“When?” he asked.
“I have always had it,” she told him, “for as long as I can remember. It is mine.” She was frightened again. She curled her fingers around the locket.
“Let me see it,” he commanded her. He had come within arm’s length of her.
She tightened her hold of the locket.
“Lyndon—” Elizabeth began.
“Let me see it!”
Lily took her hand away and he stared at the locket, his face paler if that were possible—he looked as if he might well faint.
“It has the entwined F and L,” he said. “Open it for me. What is inside?”
“Lyndon, what is this?” Elizabeth sounded annoyed.
“Open it!” His grace had taken no notice of her.
Lily shook her head, sick with terror even though there were four other people in the room besides the two of them. The Duke of Portfrey seemed unaware of them—until he withdrew his eyes from the locket suddenly and passed one hand over his face. Then while they all watched silently he loosened his neckcloth sufficiently that he could reach inside his shirt to pull out a gold chain that bore a locket identical to the one Lily wore.
“There were only two of them,” he said. “I had them specially made. Is there anything inside yours, Lily?”
She was shaking her head. “My papa gave it to me,” she said. “He was not a thief.”
“No, no,” he said. “No, I am quite sure he was not. Is there anything inside?”
She shook her head again and took one step back from him. “It is empty,” she said. “The locket is mine. You are not going to take it from me. I will not let you.”
Elizabeth had come to stand beside her. “Lyndon,” she said, “you are frightening Lily. But what is the meaning of this? You had two such identical lockets specially made?”
“The L stands for Lyndon,” he said. “The F is for Frances. My wife. Your mother, Lily.”
Lily stared at him blankly.
“You are Lily Montague,” he said, gazing back at her. “My daughter.”
Lily shook her head. There was a buzzing in her ears.
“Lyndon.” It was Elizabeth’s voice. “You cannot just assume that. Perhaps—”
“I have known it,” he said, “since the moment I set eyes on her in the church at Newbury. Apart from the blue eyes, Lily bears a quite uncanny resemblance to Frances—to her mother.”
“I say! Look to Miss Doyle,” one of the gentlemen was saying, but his words were unnecessary. The Duke of Portfrey had lunged for her and caught her up in his arms. Lily, only half conscious, was aware of her locket—no, his—swinging from his neck just before her eyes.
He set her down on a sofa and chafed her hands while Elizabeth placed a cushion behind her head.
“I had no proof, Lily,” his grace said, “until now. I knew you must exist, though I had little evidence for that either. But I could not find you. I have never quite stopped searching for you. I have never been quite able to proceed with my life. And then you stepped into that church.”
Lily was turning her head from side to side on the cushion. She was trying not to listen.
“Lyndon,” Elizabeth said quietly, “go slowly. I am well-nigh fainting myself. Imagine how Lily must be feeling.”
He looked up at Elizabeth then and about the room.
“Yes,” she said, “the other gentlemen have tactfully withdrawn. Lily, my dear, do not fear. No one is going to take anything—or anyone—away from you.”
“Mama and Papa are my mother and father,” Lily whispered.
Elizabeth kissed her forehead.
“What is going on in here?” a new voice asked briskly from the doorway. “Joseph told me as I was walking through the door that I had better get in here fast. Lily?”
She gave a little cry and stumbled to her feet. She was in his arms before she could take even one step away from the sofa—tightly enfolded in them, her face against his neckcloth.
“I am the one who has upset her, Kilbourne,” the Duke of Portfrey said. “I have just told her that she is my daughter.”
Lily burrowed closer into warmth and safety.
“Ah, yes,” Neville said quietly. “Yes, she is.”
“The letter was addressed to Lady Frances Lilian Montague,” Neville said. “But someone had written beneath it in a different hand—or so the vicar assured me—‘Lily Doyle.’ ”
He was sitting on the sofa beside Lily, her hand in his, her shoulder leaning against his arm. She was gazing down at her other hand in her lap. She was showing no apparent interest in the conversation. The Duke of Portfrey had crossed the room and come back with a glass of brandy, which he had held out silently to her. She had shaken her head. He had set it down and pulled up a chair so that he could sit facing her. He was gazing at her now, his eyes devouring her. Elizabeth was pacing the room.
“If only we could know what was in the letter,” his grace said wistfully.
“But we do.” Neville drew the duke’s eyes from Lily for a moment. “The letter was addressed to Lily Doyle. William Doyle was her next of kin though he had not known of her existence. The vicar opened the letter and read it to him.”
“And the vicar remembers its contents?” his grace asked sharply.
“Better yet,” Neville said. “He made a copy of the letter. After reading it, he advised William Doyle to take it over to Nuttall Grange, to Baron Onslow, Lily’s grandfather. But he believed that William had a right to a copy of it too. He seemed to feel that the Doyles might wish to claim some sort of compensation for the years of care Thomas Doyle had given Lily.”
Lily was pleating the expensive lace of her overdress between her fingers. She was like a child sitting quietly and listlessly while the adults talked.
“You have this copy?” the duke asked, his voice tight.
Neville drew it out of a pocket and handed it over without a word. His grace read silently.
“Lady Lyndon Montague informed her father that she was going to stay with an ailing school friend for a couple of months,” Neville said after a few minutes. Elizabeth had come to sit close by. “In reality she went to stay with her former maid and the girl’s new husband—Beatrice and Private Thomas Doyle—in order to give birth to a child.”
Lily smoothed out the creases she had created and then proceeded to pleat the lace again.
“Her marriage to Lord Lyndon Montague had been a secret one,” Neville said, “and both had pledged not to reveal it until his return from his posting to the Netherlands. But he was sent on to the West Indies with his regiment and she discovered she was with child. She was afraid of her own father’s wrath as well as his. Worse, she was afraid of her cousin, who was pressing her to marry him so that he would inherit the fortune and the estate as well as the title after Onslow’s death. She was afraid of what he would do to her—and the child—if he discovered the truth.”
“Mr. Dorsey?” Elizabeth asked.
“None other.” His grace had folded the
letter and held it in his lap. His gaze had returned to Lily. “We were foolish enough to believe that our marriage would protect her from him. The opposite was, of course, true.”
“She was afraid to go home and take the baby with her,” Neville said. “She was waiting for her husband to return from the West Indies—she had written to him there to tell him of her condition. In the meantime she left the baby with the Doyles. She must have intended to write to her husband again after she returned home. But he was an officer and therefore always in danger of death. And she must have been very fearful for her own safety. And so she left her locket with the baby and a letter to be given to her husband on his return or to her daughter in the event that neither of them ever came for her.”
“I always suspected,” his grace said, “that her death was no accident. I suspected too that Dorsey had killed her. She had indeed written to tell me there was to be a child—but if she wrote another letter, I certainly did not receive it. When she died there was no child within her, and no one knew of any recently born to her. She might have been mistaken when she wrote that first letter, I realized, or she might have miscarried. But somehow I have always known that there was a child, that there was someone in this world who was my son or my daughter. I explored every possibility I could think of—but I did not know about Beatrice Doyle.”
“Lyndon,” Elizabeth asked, “is it Mr. Dorsey who has tried to kill Lily, then? But surely not. I cannot believe such a thing of him.”
“Onslow is bedridden,” Neville said. “Probably it was into Dorsey’s hands that William Doyle placed the letter. He would have discovered the truth then, though it would not have appeared very awful to him because Lily was dead. I do wonder, though, if William Doyle’s death was accidental. He might have made some awkward claims on Onslow for the years of support given his granddaughter. The vicar at Leavenscourt is perhaps fortunate to be still alive. But then, of course, came Lily’s sudden appearance at Newbury. Dorsey was there in the church too. He saw what Portfrey saw and must have realized the truth immediately.”
