One Night for Love

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