Page 77

‘But, Dad, I—’

‘Now!’ Neville roared, as Bill turned and fled.

Chapter 38

‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ said Elizabeth, horrified and frightened, but her husband waved his hand dismissively.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re bleeding!’

‘It can wait,’ Neville growled. ‘This can’t. Fliss, come with me to my study. I need to speak with you.’

Fliss hesitated, glancing at Kit.

‘Alone,’ Neville said, in a tone which implied he didn’t expect any disagreement.

‘No, I want Kit to come with me,’ Fliss insisted. ‘Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of him.’ Her mind was racing, wondering what on earth this was all about. But the one thing she knew was that she wanted Kit beside her.

Neville harrumphed, but didn’t say anything further. If he wondered why Fliss was so insistent that his son-in-law accompany them, he was wiser than to question it. The four of them – Lord and Lady Oliver, Fliss and Kit – set off through the ballroom, aware of everyone’s eyes on them, as they moved through the crowd and headed to Neville’s study.

He closed the door behind them and Elizabeth picked up the landline to call the emergency services, speaking quietly into the old-fashioned receiver as Neville sank down in his chair. He closed his eyes for a moment, and suddenly looked terribly unwell, his face ashen. He took the white silk handkerchief from the pocket of his dinner jacket and pressed it on the back of his head. It came away covered in blood.

‘Take a seat, Fliss,’ he said wearily. ‘And you too, Kit.’

They did as they were instructed, sitting down in the leather chairs on the opposite side of the desk.

Neville paused, his breathing shallow, his pallor grey, before unlocking his desk drawer and reaching for a sheaf of papers, taking them out and placing them on his mahogany desk. Fliss could see that they looked like formal, legal letters, with the crest on the top reading: Knight Miller. The name was somehow familiar to Fliss, and she fought to try and remember why, feeling that it was important. But its origins eluded her.

‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Elizabeth said, taking a seat beside her husband.

‘Then we haven’t got long. Fliss, I … There’s something I need to tell you …’

Then his eye was caught by something she was wearing. He looked at her dress and the brooch that was pinned to her shoulder.

‘I know that brooch …’ he said. ‘The winter rose …’

Suddenly Fliss knew with blinding clarity what he was going to say. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t realised until now. She inhaled sharply, gripping the arms of the chair, as the room seemed to swim in front of her eyes.

‘I met you,’ she said slowly, staring at Lord Oliver, watching his face intently as she spoke the words. ‘With my mother. When I was a child. You gave this to her.’

Neville nodded slowly as Elizabeth looked at him keenly.

Kit saw the change in Fliss, saw the shock on her face at whatever realisation she had just had. ‘Fliss, what is it? Are you OK?’

But Fliss couldn’t respond, memories coming back to her with clarity that had remained buried until now.

It was like a puzzle that had long eluded her, and suddenly the pieces were fitting together so fast that she could hardly keep up. She recalled the man her mother had met in St James’s Park that day, seeing his features clearly for the first time. It was forty years ago, so he had been much younger, but he still had that same rich, theatrical voice, that same air of authority.

The man had given her mother a brooch, which had been passed on to Fliss. It depicted a Winter Rose, the name of his favourite racehorse whose portrait hung at the bottom of the stairs in Clarendon Hall.

And the final part of the riddle – the name of the law firm her father, John, had told her was on the papers her mother had signed: Knight Miller. The papers which had silenced Jacqui through a confidentiality clause, and arranged the payments for Fliss to attend her prestigious boarding school …

‘You’re my father,’ Fliss stated. It wasn’t a question. ‘My real father.’ Her heart was pounding, her blood rushing through her veins and a roaring sound swooping in her ears. For the first time she looked at Lord Oliver, really looked at him, trying to see any similarities with her own features. He had been blond before his hair turned grey, his startling blue eyes almost the same colour as her own.

She heard the sharp intake of breath from Kit seated beside her, but he said nothing, knowing this wasn’t his time. Instead, he squeezed her hand, a quiet reassurance that gave her strength.

Neville nodded. ‘Yes, Fliss. I am. I should have told you a very long time ago.’