"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 contain 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.