"By useful, do you mean profitable?"

She shrugged her shoulders, making the red silk of her blouse slide sinuously across her bosom. "If destiny wishes, it can be so." She gave him a fleeting smile. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have other guests to whom I must speak."

"Of course." He made a slight inclination of his head. "Perhaps we will talk again."

Lily made no reply. He needed to come to her and she dared not make it too easy. Moving across the room, she paused next to Lady Annabelle, who drew her into her circle of friends and began to chat with her as if they were old friends-which, it seemed, considering their conspiracy, might actually come to pass.

Lifting her full, moire skirts out of the way, Jocelyn hurried up the carpeted staircase of the Parkland Hotel. Though a gas chandelier burned overhead, the lobby was dimly lit. Perhaps other patrons wished to keep their identity secret.

With the hood of her cloak pulled over her head, Jocelyn hurried along the hall, skeleton key in hand. At the door to her bedroom suite, she fumbled, trying to push the key into the lock. The door swung open before she could manage and Christopher Barclay stood in the opening.

"You're late."

She brushed past his tall figure as she swept into the room. "Only an hour or so."

Christopher caught her arm and turned her to face him, sending the hood of her cloak tumbling backward. "The rest of your dandies might enjoy waiting on your every whim, but I do not. If you say you will be here, you had better be on time."

Jocelyn gasped as he hauled her into his arms and his mouth crushed down over hers. His kiss was hot and hard, his tongue demanding entrance, then plundering the inside of her mouth. This wasn't the tender lover who had taken her virginity, and it occurred to her that he was angry.

"I-I had trouble getting away," she explained as he pulled the tie on her cloak and tossed it away. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting." The words whispered out on a breath of air as he kissed the side of her neck, deftly worked the buttons at the back of her gown.

Christopher's dark head came up. "Perhaps you were busy entertaining your duke."

The words stunned her, though they shouldn't have. Everyone in London was talking about the Gypsy woman's prediction, wondering if the heiress and the Duke of Bransford would soon be engaged to wed.

"It isn't official. The announcement is yet some weeks away."

"So it's true."

She shrugged the shoulders left bare by the cut of her ball gown, though at Christopher's harsh regard she hardly felt nonchalant. "A marriage of convenience, nothing more."

"Which is exactly what I am to you-a convenience."

Her gaze met his. She saw the sparks there and the undisguised heat. "You knew it would come to this sooner or later. Have you changed your mind?"

A slightly mocking smile curved his lips. "Why would I do that? I have the use of your luscious body, and both of us can continue to enjoy the pleasure we get from each other."

"That...that is true." And yet there was something in the way he said it that bothered her.

Jocelyn didn't have time to ponder as he continued undressing her, stripping away her gown and petticoats, untying her corset and tossing it away, tugging her chemise off over her head. He turned her toward the mirror above the dresser, moved behind her and began to fondle her breasts. There was something incredibly erotic about seeing herself naked while Christopher remained fully clothed, and a spiral of heat curled low in her belly.

"Ripe," he said, cupping the heavy globes. "Like plump, delicious melons." He squeezed and lifted, and her nipples stiffened, rubbed deliciously against his palms. She felt his mouth against the nape of her neck, then his teeth biting down on an earlobe.

Pleasure tore through her, sent a flood of dampness into her core. His hand skimmed over her belly, traveled through the moist, dark curls between her legs, and a finger slipped inside her. Jocelyn trembled.

"Tell me what you want," he commanded, sliding the finger a little deeper, moving it over the bud at the apex of her sex. He rubbed and she bit her lip to keep from begging him for more.

"Tell me what will please you, Jo." Aside from Lily, he was the only person on earth who dared to call her that. But then Christopher dared just about anything.

He nipped the side of her neck to regain her attention. "What do you want, Jocelyn? How shall I take you?"

His finger probed and she quivered. "Deeper," she whispered. "Faster. Please don't stop."

He laughed softly and his hand fell away. Angry at the way he toyed with her, Jocelyn opened her mouth to rain down an angry retort. The words died on her lips as he shrugged out of his coat and began to strip away his neck cloth. He removed his shirt and shoes and the balance of his clothes and walked toward her, as naked as she, a magnificent specimen, his body lean and fit and as solid as granite.

He was hard, rampantly so, his member thick and heavy, straining upward from the nest of dark curls between his legs. If she hadn't known how good it would feel to have him inside her, she might have been frightened by the size of him. He stopped in front of her, cupped her face between his hands, tipped her head back and claimed her mouth in a deep burning kiss.

Jocelyn moaned. Her arms slid around his neck and she clung to him, absorbing his musky scent, her nipples tingling where they pressed into his chest. Christopher kissed her one way and then another, hot, wet, drugging kisses that left her mind spinning and her knees weak. She barely noticed when he turned her to face the mirror, urged her forward till her palms settled on the tapestry stool in front.

She started to rise, unsure what he meant to do, then felt him behind her, urging her legs apart, setting his hands on her hips.

"I'm here to bring you pleasure. That is what you want from me, and I intend to give it to you." His hand roamed over her bare bottom, making her skin tingle.

She gasped as he found her passage, positioned himself and surged forward, impaling her completely. He paused a moment, giving her time to adjust, then reached around and began to stroke the nubbin at her core. Streaks of sensation flashed through her, and intense, scorching heat. Christopher started to move and pleasure washed through her, and a need so powerful she moaned.

The pinnacle loomed ahead, the place of sweetness and light he had taken her to before.

"Chris...!" she cried out as he thrust into her again and again, driving her toward the promise of fulfillment, pounding relentlessly, taking her hard and deep. He thrust into her until she reached her peak, and tumbled into a shattering climax before allowing his own release.

She was barely conscious when he withdrew from inside her, turned her around and gathered her into his arms.

For an instant he just held her. She felt the press of his lips against the top of her head, then he straightened away.

"There is much more I can teach you-if that is still your wish."

She gazed up at him, the sweetness of their coupling still humming through her veins. "You know it is."

Christopher bent his head and pressed a tender kiss on her lips that seemed in contrast to his demanding lovemaking of moments ago.

In silence they both began to dress. As soon as he had finished, Christopher helped her button and straighten her garments, moving with a brisk efficiency that told her just how much practice he'd had. Once she was properly clothed, he turned and strode to the door.

"Send word when you wish another lesson." Then he turned the handle and walked out of the suite.

Jocelyn stared at the place he had been. Her body still pulsed from his touch. Pleasure still warmed her insides. Christopher had fulfilled his part of the bargain. He had behaved exactly as she had intended.

She didn't understand why it bothered her so much that he had left her the way he had.

Preston Loomis sat brooding in front of the fire in the study of his Mayfair town house. As he stared into the flames behind the grate, images of Tsaya slipped through his head. With her light eyes and pale skin, she looked nothing at all like Medela. Even the straight black hair didn't match the coarse gray strands that belonged to the Gypsy. But Medela had been an old woman when he had met her as a boy. She was an ancient, wrinkled creature when she died.

Was it possible they were related? The connection was distant. It was possible, he supposed.

His head turned at the ring of footsteps outside the study door.

"Come in," he called out to the man in the hallway, Barton McGrew, his man of affairs-or at least that was the title Preston had given him. But Bart's job had nothing to do with pushing papers around a desk. He handled whatever Preston needed done and nothing was too much to ask.

"Pour yourself a drink and sit down."

McGrew did as he was told, filling the crystal glass a little too full, then sipping the extra so that it didn't spill onto the expensive Persian carpet. Bart might have only the barest social polish, but a man like him was invaluable.

"What can I do for you, boss?" McGrew heaved his bulky frame into the chair across from where Preston sat on the leather sofa.

Preston had known Bart for years. The two of them had grown up together in a sleazy neighborhood in Southwark. McGrew was the only man who had known him as the infamous Dick Flynn. Aside from his mother and perhaps the old Gypsy, Medela, Bart was the only person in the world Preston completely trusted. Mostly because the big looby was somewhat bird-witted and, except for his loyalty to Preston, entirely without scruples.

And he depended on Preston for everything.

"There is a woman..." Preston began. "She uses the name Madam Tsaya. I want to know everything about her."

"How do I find her?"

Preston gave him the address he had obtained from Lady Severn, a house in an unremarkable neighborhood in Piccadilly.

"I'll do my best." Tilting the glass up and draining the contents, Bart shoved himself up from the chair and lumbered toward the door.

Preston watched him walk into the hall, thinking what an incongruous picture he made, perfectly dressed in the expensively tailored clothes Preston had bought for him, his short brown hair parted in the middle and neatly slicked back. At the same time, his big, ruddy features and lumpy broken nose were as coarse as those of the burly dockworker whose bastard son he was.

McGrew closed the door and Preston returned his attention to the flames curling over the grate, but he couldn't keep a small portion of his brain from straying to the beautiful and mysterious Tsaya, and wondering what Bart would find out.

Lily arrived a few minutes late for their weekly Wednesday meeting at the Red Rooster Inn. Shoving back the hood of her cloak as she headed down the stairs into the basement taproom, she hurried toward the room at the rear of the inn. The men at the table rose as she entered: Charles Sinclair, Uncle Jack and the duke.

Lily ignored a little pinch in her chest at the sight of him, so tall and incredibly handsome, and fixed her attention on the person who remained seated, a small woman with silver hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, a sturdy, attractive woman in her fifties.

Her name was Molly Daniels, Jack had told Lily, a very good friend of his. More than a friend, in truth, for she and Jack were lovers. Lily couldn't help noticing the way he looked at her, with a sort of softness and pride. She belonged to him, that look said, and there would be hell to pay should any man try to take her from him.

Lily started to smile, would have if her gaze hadn't strayed at that moment to Royal. Unlike Jack, his features were carefully schooled into blandness, and Lily hadn't the slightest notion what he was thinking.

"Lily, meet Molly," her uncle said by way of introduction.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Daniels," Lily said.

"Same here, but it's just Molly. Always has been. Your uncle Jack's real proud of you, luv."

Lily turned a smile in her uncle's direction then Charles Sinclair began the meeting.

"It would appear things are going exactly as we've planned. Loomis has made contact. He'll be trying to discover whether or not Tsaya is real or merely playing a role in some sort of operation. His man, Barton McGrew, handles anything of a personal nature Loomis might require. Fortunately for us, McGrew isn't long on brains. He's a dangerous man, though, utterly without conscience, and he will do anything Loomis asks."

"McGrew will be going to Tsaya's flat," Jack added. "Dottie Hobbs is there, acting as Tsaya's housekeeper, and she'll know what to say."

Dottie was one of the mob, people Jack had brought in to play different roles in the con. Her daughters, Darcy and Mary, would be Tsaya's cook and chambermaid during the day, the minimum household staff for someone of the middle class, which Tsaya purported to be, all of them dressed in freshly starched servants' garb at Royal's expense.

"You don't expect Lily to stay there, do you?" he asked, his expression changing from bland to worried. "You said yourself, this man, McGrew, is dangerous."

"She needs to drop by as Tsaya as often as possible," Sinclair said. "She needs to be seen going in and out."

"I don't like it," Royal said darkly.

Lily tried not to notice the way the indentation in his chin became more pronounced when his jaw was clenched, the way his eyes kept straying toward her.

Jack's shrewd gaze swung toward him. "My girl knows how to take care of herself-leastwise most of the time."

It was a not-so-subtle message that Royal was more a threat to Lily than McGrew. A muscle bunched in his cheek but he made no comment.

"When do I go in?" Molly Daniels asked, speaking up for the first time.

Royal answered, "Annabelle Townsend has a friend, Lady Sabrina Jeffers, the daughter of a marquess. Annabelle trusts her entirely and the girl has agreed to help us. Lady Sabrina has convinced her mother to hold a soiree the end of next week. The marchioness has invited Tsaya-who seems to have become all the rage. Tsaya's name is mentioned on the invitations and Lady Sabrina has made certain to include Preston Loomis on the guest list."

"I daresay, your friends have been quite useful," Sinclair said. "Let us hope they say nothing that will get back to Loomis."

"My friends are extremely loyal, and they all had a great respect for my father. They'll keep silent."

Sinclair nodded, seemed satisfied. "All right then, the soiree should do nicely. If Loomis knows Tsaya will be there, odds are he will come. And since he is expecting to meet an older woman who will enhance his fortune, we shall make a point to see that he does."

Sinclair explained that the plan was for Molly, heavily aged by theatrical paint, to be introduced as an eccentric, extremely wealthy, dotty old woman-the sort ripe for a man like Preston Loomis.

Sinclair turned his attention to Molly. "Lady Sabrina will introduce you as Mrs. Hortense Crowley, a friend of the family's just arrived from her estate in York."

Molly grinned. "Oh, I can't wait. I love a good part and this one's a pip."

Royal eyed her with uncertainty. "Are you sure about this, Mrs. Daniels? Mrs. Crowley would...well, there is the problem of the way she would speak."

Molly straightened and one of her silver eyebrows arched up in disdain. "Are you implying, young man, that I am anything other than a lady of the upper class?" The words were perfectly intonated and spoken with a haughty demeanor that could only belong to a well-bred lady.

Royal laughed and Lily found herself smiling as well. "You have my most humble apologies," he said, playing along with the role. "I cannot imagine what I was thinking."

"It takes a bit of practice," Molly said in her natural voice, "but it's not so hard-once ye get the 'ang of it." She added the cockney to show him how versatile she was, and Royal laughed again.

"I think our friend Loomis is in trouble," he said.

"My Molly's got real talent," Jack said proudly.

"So I see, but won't Loomis find out the Crowley woman doesn't actually exist?"

"He has no reason to doubt the word of the daughter of a marquess. York is a very good distance away, and though the jewels she will be wearing will be paste, they'll look real enough to be convincing."

The meeting continued until the details were all worked out. Once Loomis met Molly-Mrs. Crowley-an old woman who could enhance his fortune as Tsaya predicted-he would be convinced the Gypsy was real. Sinclair believed Loomis would seek Tsaya out for more advice and the Gypsy would very gladly give it.

The meeting adjourned and Lily rose from the table. Royal looked as if there was something he wished to say, but with Jack and Molly protectively surrounding her, he merely stepped out of the way.

As they walked toward the door, Lily forced herself not to look back at him and instead walked out of the inn.

Twenty.