“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. Thereareno 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. Itismine.” 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, whatisthis?” 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.”
