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
'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.'
'Lily.' The Duke of Portfrey leaned forward in his chair suddenly and possessed himself of her free hand with both his own. The letter slipped unheeded to the floor. 'Beatrice and Thomas Doyle were your mama and papa. They gave you a family and security and a good upbringing and an unusually deep love, I believe. No one—least of all me—is ever going to try to take them away from you. They will always be your parents.'
She nestled her head against Neville's arm, but he could see that she had raised her eyes to look at Portfrey.
'We loved each other, Lily,' Portfrey said, 'your m—Frances and I. You were conceived in love. We would have lavished all our affection on you if…' He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'She loved you enough to give you up temporarily for your safety. In twenty years I have never been quite able to lay her to rest or to let go of the possibility of you. We did not abandon you. If you can possibly think of her—of Frances, my wife—as your mother, Lily, if not your mama… If you could possibly think of me as your father… I do not set myself up as a rival to your papa. Never that. But allow me…' He lifted her hand to his lips and then released it and got abruptly to his feet.
'Where are you going?' Elizabeth asked.
'She is in shock,' he said, 'and I am pressing my own selfish claims on her. I have to leave, Elizabeth. Excuse me? I will call tomorrow if I may. But you must not try forcing Lily to receive me. Look after her.'
'Your grace.' Lily spoke for the first time since Neville had come into the room. Portfrey and Elizabeth spun around to look at her. 'I will receive you—tomorrow.'
'Thank you.' He did not smile, but he looked at her again as if he would devour her. He made a formal bow and turned toward the door.
'Wait for me, Portfrey, will you?' Neville asked. 'I will be with you in a minute.'
His grace nodded and left the book room with Elizabeth.
Neville got to his feet and drew Lily to hers. He set his arms about her and drew her close. What must it feel
