"What?"

"Sinclair says Loomis and McGrew are dangerous. Morgan said the same. I'm not sure the risk is worth it. Someone might get hurt."

Sherry fixed him with a stare. "That someone you're worried about wouldn't be Lily, would it?"

"She's a likely target. If Loomis finds out who she really is-"

"Once this is over, Tsaya will disappear forever, and Lily will be completely out of danger. Give it some time, Royal. Tonight is the Wyhurst soiree. Once Loomis meets our Mrs. Crowley, things are going to move a whole lot faster. We'll reel Loomis in like a fish on a line. You'll have at least a portion of your father's money returned and the justice he deserves."

Justice. He wanted that above all things.

Royal released a breath. "All right, we'll see how things progress. If it looks like Loomis is taking the bait, we'll keep going."

"Good lad," said Sherry, coming up from his chair. "You never were much of a quitter." He started for the door. "I'll see you tonight." A light brown eyebrow arched in question. "I presume you are going to be there."

"I'm accompanying Jocelyn and her parents. I figured it was time I faced my situation and tried to make the best of it." Though it was a bitter pill to swallow and not his idea but Lily's.

Still the concept was sound. His engagement would be announced in only three weeks. He needed to focus his attention on the woman he would wed and look for a way they might find some bit of happiness together.

Royal wished he felt more enthusiasm for the notion.

Twenty-One.

Jocelyn stood next to their hostess, Lady Fiona Wyhurst, a rotund little woman with red hair fading to gray and a very large bosom, which she did her best to disguise beneath the modest sequined bodice of her shot-silver ball gown.

Her daughter stood beside her, Lady Sabrina Jeffers, a beautiful, willowy blonde that Jocelyn had seen on occasion but never met. Sabrina was polite enough, Jocelyn supposed, yet there was a certain aloofness about her, a self-assurance that said she belonged to the aristocracy. Each lift of her golden eyebrows seemed to say I am the daughter of a marquess. I am someone special.

Then again, perhaps it was simply that Jocelyn never liked a woman who was nearly as beautiful as she.

Sabrina caught sight of the Gypsy woman who had become society's latest amusement and gave the small group a faint, parting smile.

"If you all will excuse me, I believe I see our special guest for the evening, Madam Tsaya." Sabrina turned and drifted away with a grace Jocelyn envied. Still, it was she who was marrying a duke, not the willowy blonde.

Royal stood on her opposite side and Jocelyn turned to face him. "I hope you're enjoying yourself, Your Grace."

He looked down at her and smiled. "Of course I am. I am escorting the most beautiful woman in the room. How could I not be?"

She almost blushed, a rare occurrence for her, but the duke so rarely paid her a compliment, she felt slightly giddy. He was, after all, one of the most eligible bachelors in England and by his presence at her side tonight, he was letting all of London know his intentions.

Standing in the same circle, her mother flicked Jocelyn a conspiratorial glance, then focused her attention on the duke. "They are playing a waltz, Your Grace. My Jocelyn so loves to dance."

He smiled. "Then it is fortunate I reserved several dances on her card and I believe this is one of them." He extended an arm and she rested her fingers on the sleeve of his black evening coat. "Shall we?"

With his impressive height, golden eyes and golden hair, he looked stunning. But then he always did. Dozens of eyes followed them as they made their way through the crowd and a little thrill went through her that once they were married, this sort of attention would always be hers.

They had almost reached the dance floor when her gaze happened to light on Christopher Barclay, standing among a group of his friends. She was always a little surprised to see him in such elevated circles and yet there was something about Christopher that demanded acceptance and respect. With his drive and determination, she had no doubt he would become one of the most successful barristers in London, and connections among the social elite would surely be helpful.

Still, he would never be a truly wealthy man.

And he would never be a duke.

She kept her eyes on Royal as she walked past him onto the dance floor and moved into position in front of her partner, resting her hand on his wide shoulder. The orchestra began the waltz and Royal swept her into the dance with unerring grace. Still, she couldn't keep her glance from straying to the dark-haired man who was her lover.

He was scowling, she saw, his face as black as thunder. He had no right to be angry and yet it gave her a jolt of satisfaction to know he was jealous. She lost track of him as the waltz progressed and fixed her attention on her future husband. She wondered what it would be like to make love with him, wondered if he would be able to rouse her passions as her current lover did.

But even as she smiled up at him, thoughts of Christopher intruded: the determined press of his lips, the hot way they moved over hers, his white teeth grazing her nipple, his hands on her hips as he bent her over and drove himself inside her from behind.

Jocelyn stumbled.

Royal caught her before she could fall. "All right?"

She managed a smile, but it wasn't easy. "I must have stepped on something. I am fine." But a sensual rash spread over her breasts, and perspiration trickled between her breasts. It infuriated her to discover that just the memory of Christopher's lovemaking could have so much power over her.

It wasn't supposed to happen. She was the one who was supposed to be in charge, the one in control. Christopher Barclay was no more than a dalliance, an affair that would be over the moment she deemed it so.

She repeated those words several times through the evening, and yet several hours later as she stood next to her father and spotted Christopher talking to her archenemy, Serafina Maitlin, jealousy burned into her stomach like a red-hot coal.

How dare he? If he thought for a moment he could sleep with Serafina and also with her, he was sorely mistaken!

Taking several deep breaths, she brought herself under control and returned her attention to her father, who rarely attended these affairs and had come tonight only because the duke was joining their party and strictly to please her.

"Bransford has been quite attentive this evening," he said, obviously pleased.

Jocelyn nodded. "As he should be. After all, we shall be officially engaged in only three weeks."

Her father smiled. "Your mother and I couldn't be more pleased."

Jocelyn managed to keep the smile on her face, but even as they continued to converse, she was thinking of Christopher, determined to talk to him, set him straight on the conditions of their arrangement.

Most importantly that while they were lovers, there would be no other women!

Dressed as Tsaya, Lily chatted with Lady Annabelle Townsend and Lady Sabrina Jeffers, coconspirators in their scheme. Lily tried not to notice Royal standing next to Jo, but it was impossible to do. Had it been only three days since she had lain with him? Since they had made passionate love in her tiny upstairs apartment?

She tried not to recall the ease with which he had undressed her, the skillful lovemaking that gave evidence to the number of women he'd had. She tried not to be insulted by his indecent proposal that she should become his mistress, but she couldn't help wondering if the attention he had paid her was merely a diversion, a source of entertainment while he awaited his beautiful bride.

"Tsaya, I believe you've met Lord Wellesley." Lady Sabrina's voice pierced the haze of her thoughts.

Lily turned toward him, jangling the gold bracelets on her wrists. "We have met. It is good to see you, my lord."

He made a faint bow. "You, as well, Madam Tsaya."

"I believe Lady Sabrina and I are being summoned," Annabelle said good-naturedly. "I'm afraid you will have to excuse us." The ladies departed, leaving her to chat with Royal's best friend.

"How are you holding up, love?"

Her gaze strayed to Royal for a single telling instant. "Well enough. Loomis is here. Mrs. Crowley is here. It should be an interesting evening."

"Indeed." His gaze lit for a moment on Royal, just as hers had done. "If he could change things, he would."

"Perhaps." But she was no longer certain. In three weeks' time, Royal would become formally engaged to the wealthiest, most beautiful woman in England. If he could change things, would he actually wish to marry a woman who came to him with nothing? One who had lived on the streets for a time, surviving by her wits, by trickery, theft and deceit? A woman whose body no longer held surprises for him? It was difficult to believe.

"Loomis is talking to Mrs. Crowley," the viscount said, his gaze on the pair not far away. "Let's get a little closer, see if we can hear what they are saying?"

Lily turned her attention to the stoop-shouldered old lady who had arrived earlier. Molly Daniels was totally unrecognizable as the woman Lily had met at the Red Rooster Inn. Gowned expensively in dove-gray silk, she wore a sparkling diamond necklace that even keen-eyed Preston Loomis wouldn't recognize as a fake.

As planned, Lady Sabrina had introduced Mrs. Crowley to her guests as a family friend from York, and Molly seemed to have had no trouble keeping up her end of the conversation with the group of women she met. She had also conversed with Wellesley and Savage, who pretended to be acquainted.

Chatting casually as they strolled, Sherry led Lily to a spot near where Preston Loomis stood next to Molly, who was grinning up at him like a half-witted fool. She was shaking her head, her silver hair dimmed to a lackluster gray, the faint lines in her face etched deeply into wrinkles.

"Now...what the devil was I saying...? Something about clothes, wasn't it? Or were we discussing my cotton mills?" She wore too much powder and her cheeks were a little too rosy, as if she had drunk a bit too much champagne. "Lately, it seems harder and harder to recall."

Loomis gave her a reassuring smile. "We were discussing the lovely gown you are wearing, madam, but I believe you did mention something about a mill."

Her heavy gray eyebrows drew together. "Can't recall what it was. Probably talking about coal. My late husband, Freddy, was fascinated with coal. Bought two new mines just before he passed away, God rest his soul."

Loomis's interest was clearly piqued. "Is that so? I, too, am interested in mining. Perhaps we could discuss the subject on another occasion."

Mrs. Crowley grinned. "Just like my Freddy. You even look a little like him-younger, of course, but just as handsome as my Freddy."

Preston was smiling, continuing to converse with Molly as Sheridan led Lily away.

He chuckled softly. "I think our Mrs. Crowley has snared herself a rabbit."

"My uncle says she is the best confidence woman he has ever met."

"She certainly seems to know what she is about. Loomis was practically salivating."

Lily turned just then, peered through her heavy black bangs to see Jonathan Savage approaching.

"All seems to be going well," he said, flicking a glance to where Loomis still talked to Mrs. Crowley. He was the exact opposite of Royal, black-haired and dark-eyed, no golden angel, but devilishly handsome.

"I think I had better mingle," Lily said, for Loomis had ended his discourse with the wealthy widow and might wish to seek Tsaya out. She paused to say hello to Lord Nightingale and his wife, who were congenial, as always. Then someone tapped her shoulder.

Lily turned to see Royal's aunt Agatha, Lady Tavistock, standing beside her as if she had appeared out of nowhere. "Might we have a word, my dear?"

A trickle of unease slipped through her. "As you wish," Lily said with a slightly thicker accent than she had been using thus far.

Lady Tavistock led her a few feet away where they could be private. "That is quite a marvelous costume, my dear, but I wonder why it is you are wearing it?"

Lily's stomach turned over. Dear God, was it possible the dowager countess had recognized her?

She took a deep breath and tried to bluff it out. "I am afraid I do not know vhat you mean."

"Well, I am quite certain you do, my dear, and I would like to know what sort of nonsense my nephew has involved you in that would require you to dress like a Gypsy."

Fortunately, Lord Wellesley appeared just then. He smiled down at Lady Tavistock. "I see you have met Madam Tsaya. Is she predicting good fortune for you?"

"She is predicting that my nephew is in a great deal of trouble. As I imagine you and the rest of his friends are also a part of this, you may explain to me exactly what is going on and why Royal has involved this lovely young woman in one of his outrageous pranks."

The viscount looked at Lily over the frail old woman's head, caught her arm and laced it through his. "Come with me, my lady. You will probably disapprove, but perhaps, once you understand, you might even be willing to help."

He cast Lily a glance that said what else can I do? and led the dowager away. Lily breathed a sigh of relief that she didn't have to deal with the problem and nearly collided with Preston Loomis, whose light blue eyes were practically dancing.

"I met her, Tsaya. The old woman you told me about."

Lily collected herself, nodded sagely. "It was foretold. I saw it-as I sometimes do."

"I wish to meet with you," Loomis said. "When can that be arranged?"

This was it. It was happening just as they had planned. She frowned, pretended to think when she might be free. "Tuesday would be a good day." Monday was the official opening of her millinery shop, plus she didn't want to seem too eager. "You may come to my house in Piccadilly. At noon would be best." She gave him her address and Loomis nodded.

"All right, Tuesday. I look forward to seeing you then."

"I cannot say for certain I will have more to tell you. But there is a chance."

He smiled with obvious anticipation, tilting the ends of his mustache, and made an inclination of his head. "Till Tuesday. Have a good evening, madam."

It was done. She would begin making financial predictions for Loomis. In the beginning, those predictions would pay off. In the end, if all went well, Loomis would learn a very costly lesson.

She looked over to where Royal had been standing next to Jo but saw neither one of them. Her heart sank. Had they slipped off somewhere together? Was Royal kissing Jocelyn, touching her? Her cousin had not spoken of her second rendezvous with Christopher Barclay. Was she tired of the man already and eager for someone new?

And what of Royal? When Lily had refused to become his mistress, had he simply turned to the woman he would soon make his wife?

And if they were together, how could she fault them?

She glanced round the drawing room, but they were nowhere to be seen. Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, Lily hurried along the hall toward the servants' stairs at the back of the house, needing to go up and change out of her Tsaya costume and leave the soiree.

She wouldn't return downstairs as Lily. Since Jocelyn and her parents were escorted tonight by the duke, Lily had pretended a headache and stayed home. Only Tsaya had come and as soon as she changed, she hurried out of the house to meet her uncle in the alley behind the stable where he waited in his rented carriage to escort her home.

Molly was with him, she saw when she reached them, both of them excited by the success of the evening.

Lily thought of Royal, ignored the pain in her heart and climbed inside the coach.

Jocelyn saw Christopher escaping through the French doors out onto the terrace. She watched him for a moment, heart pounding as she waited to see if Serafina Maitlin would join him.

But the redhead was busy entertaining a group of male admirers and didn't seem in a hurry to leave.

Excusing herself to the ladies' retiring room, Jocelyn fled down the hall and slipped out a side door into the shadows of the terrace. A few feet away, Christopher stood alone in the darkness, the tip of his cigar glowing in the inky solitude of the night.

Jocelyn readied herself as she approached him, her temper climbing with every step. He turned at the padding of her soft kid slippers on the flagstones and leaned back against the balustrade, clamping the cigar between his straight white teeth.