She nodded, barely flicking Royal a glance. Each week, they came and left separately. Royal waited a few minutes for Lily and Sinclair to climb the stairs to the street, then started up behind them. By the time he reached the corner, Lily stood at the cab stand, waiting for a carriage. Sinclair was disappearing down the street.

He told himself to turn and walk the other way, but his feet refused to obey. Lily spotted him and froze as he started striding toward her. He didn't see the skinny boy who darted into his path until they had collided.

"Beg pardon, milord," the boy said, spinning round to dash off in the opposite direction. Lily's hand shot out and caught the back of the lad's ragged coat, bringing him to a sudden, sliding halt. Royal stepped in front of him, further blocking his way.

Lily's glance went from the boy to Royal. "I believe you must have dropped this, Your Grace." She held up the pouch of coins that had been in his inside coat pocket.

"Blimey..." the boy said, wide-eyed, "yer good. I didn't feel a thing."

"What the devil...?" Royal stared down at the leather pouch Lily held out to him.

"He's a cutpurse, Your Grace." She handed him the pouch, then turned back to the boy, who looked up at her with huge, frightened eyes. He couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve, small for his age, and utterly skin and bones.

"Who taught you," she asked, "Harry O?"

The boy started to run again and Royal caught his shoulders and brought him to a struggling halt. "Easy, lad."

"Who?" Lily pressed.

The boy ceased his struggles and just stood there looking defeated. "Fast Eddie. But I been on me own fer a bit."

"Men like Harry and Eddie teach boys the trade. They learn to steal then exchange their ill-gotten gains for a bit of food and a place to sleep."

"Are ye gonna call the coppers?"

Royal felt a wave of sympathy for the ragtag boy. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Tommy. Me name's Tommy Cox. I won't do it again, milord-I give ye me word."

"Where are your parents, Tommy?" Lily asked softly.

The lad just stood there, his head hanging down, brown hair falling forward, covering a pair of sugar-bowl ears.

Royal tugged on the back of the boy's dirty tweed coat. "Answer the lady, lad. Where are your mother and father?"

He swallowed so hard his throat moved up and down. "I don't remember me da. He died when I was small. Me mum got sick and died a few years back. Ye gonna call the coppers?"

Lily looked up at Royal, silently beseeching him to let the boy go.

"Not this time," Royal said. "But if you keep up this kind of behavior, Tommy, sooner or later, you'll wind up in prison."

Lily caught the boy's arm. "Listen to me, Tommy. My name is Lily Moran. I own a hat shop in Harken Lane called the Lily Pad. It's just off Bond. If you need something to eat or a warm place to sleep, you come and see me, all right?"

Tommy looked up at her, his eyes even bigger, and filled with something that looked like hope. "Ye mean it?"

She smiled. "I mean it, I promise."

"Whot about me dog? I don't go nowhere Mugs ain't welcome."

Royal hadn't noticed the ugly, brown-and-white mutt until it trotted over and sat down at the boy's feet.

Lily pretended not to notice how bad the dog smelled or the splotches of dried mud and offal on its coat. "You can bring Mugs, too."

For the first time, Tommy smiled. Lily saw it, and the tender expression on her face made something tighten in Royal's chest. He caught the boy's hand and dumped a handful of silver into his grimy palm. He didn't dare risk a gold sovereign. A boy his size could be killed for something as valuable as that.

Tommy grinned up at him. "Thank ye, sir." He turned to Lily. "I may come see ye, miss. I may hold ye to yer word."

Lily smiled at him. "You do that, Tommy."

The boy dashed away, his mangy dog at his heels, both of them vanishing round the corner.

"If he shows up, he'll probably steal you blind," Royal said, but he couldn't pull his gaze from Lily's face, and pride rose inside him at what she had done.

The tilt of her chin held a trace of defiance. "I lived in the streets once. My uncle was good to me, but we were poor. I was a cutpurse and a thief. I know what it's like to go hungry."

His chest squeezed. She was so brave and so sweet. He simply couldn't help himself. Leaning toward her, he bent his head and settled his mouth over hers. Right there on the street next to the cab stand, he kissed her.

For an instant, Lily stiffened, then her mouth softened under his and she kissed him back, her slender body swaying toward him. Arousal shot through him and the blood seemed to burn through his veins. Desire hit him like a fist, numbing his brain and making him go rock hard. In an instant he was lost.

It was the press of Lily's hands on his chest, pushing him away, that brought reality crashing in. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing a little too fast.

"I-I can't do this, Royal. I can't...can't be your mistress."

He swallowed, wanting her so badly he ached. "I know."

Her eyes welled, brimmed with tears. "There's something I need to know, Royal. I know I have no right to ask, but...are you...are you and Jocelyn..."

He frowned. "Are we what...?"

"Did you make love to her, Royal?"

"Good God, no!"

Lily looked down at the slender feet peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirts. "I thought...at the ball the other night...you both disappeared and I..." She looked up at him. "You're an extremely virile man, Your Grace, and men have needs. Since we can't...can't be together, it seemed only logical that you would-"

"It didn't happen, Lily. I am surprised you thought Jocelyn would be willing."

She shrugged and glanced away. "The two of you are going to be married. It wouldn't be the first time a man took his wife before the wedding."

"Not this man," he said, and realized how little he desired the woman destined to become his bride.

Lily just looked at him. "And yet you took me," she said softly.

A cab appeared just then, the bay horse plodding up in front of the stand. There was no time to explain and he had no idea what he would say if he tried.

"I have to go." Lily made her way toward the door of the carriage. Royal helped her inside and paid the driver the fare.

"Will you come to the race?" he found himself asking.

Lily leaned out of the cab and for the first time, she smiled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Royal just stood there, captivated by that smile, wondering how he was ever going to give her up.

Then he remembered the vow he had made to a father who lay dying, and knew he would have to find a way.

Preston Loomis shifted in his chair in front of the fire. A dying March would soon blossom into April. Spring couldn't get here soon enough for Preston. He hated the damnable cold, hated the fog and the rain.

Maybe he would take some of his recent earnings and slip off to Italy or Spain, someplace warm. He smiled at the notion, knowing he would never actually go. He was a Londoner, no matter the rotten weather.

He looked up at the sound of a man's gruff voice, saw Bart McGrew standing in the doorway.

"Come in and get warm," he offered. "It's bloody cold out there."

Bart lumbered toward him, set himself in front of the hearth and turned his back to the fire to warm himself. "'Twas warmer today than yesterday. Maybe winter's finally on the way out."

"I hope so." Preston shifted on the brocade sofa, trying to find a comfortable position, which seemed harder to do every year. "So what have you learned about the old woman, Mrs. Crowley?"

"I asked round like you said. Found a few what knows her. She's from York, they say, stayin' with Lady Tavistock, the countess, ya know? I guess they're friends."

"I know who Tavistock is." And it was rather ironic that the late Duke of Bransford's aging aunt was going to provide a second tasty morsel to add to Preston's already overflowing coffers-in the form of her friend, Mrs. Crowley.

"So you ran across nothing untoward about her, no hint of anything amiss?"

Bart shrugged his beefy shoulders. "She's a dotty ol' bat, half-addled in the brain. Lots of money, they say, and not much kin to help her spend it."

"No children?"

"None I heard of. Old man Crowley left her a bloody fortune and she's still got most of it. I guess he owned mills and such, and some kinda factory."

Coal and cotton and who knew what else, according to Mrs. Crowley.

"Nice work, Bart."

The big man nodded, pleased at the compliment. He turned and headed for the door.

"Oh, there is one more thing," Preston said, stopping him before he reached it. "There is a boat race coming up. It's some kind of sculling match between four men. I want to know who is racing and when."

Bart grinned. "I already know when it is. Race is set for Sunday next, if the weather ain't too poor. Starts at Battersea, goes round the bend toward Putney. After church. One o'clock off the mark. Be lots of folks there, bettin' and such."

Preston rarely questioned Bart's information. The man had developed a network of servants round the city, all with an ear for gossip, and Bart paid them handsomely for information.

"You did well, my friend. Let me know the names of the men who will be racing as soon as you know."

Bart just nodded. As he ambled out of the drawing room, Preston picked up the book he had started to read. His mother had taught him the basics of reading and ciphering, all she had ever learned. She had made him promise to learn more, said it would pay off in the future.

His mother, as usual, was right. The tutor he had hired with the first money he made had not only schooled him, but educated him in the ways of a gentleman. Preston mingled with the upper crust as if he were born there and no one questioned whether he belonged or not.

And he had a knack for persuasion. They called a man a confidence artist because he could win a person's confidence long enough to steal his money.

Preston chuckled. Once he won old lady Crowley's trust, she wouldn't know what hit her.

Twenty-Three.

They got lucky. Sunday was the prettiest day they'd had so far this year, perfect for a boat race. Royal stood in a circle with Sherry, Jonathan Savage and Quentin Garrett, the other Oarsmen who had come to race. The winter had been long and cold and all of them were looking forward to being on the water again, to limbering up muscles that hadn't been worked since the fall.

Four single-seat sculls waited on the muddy bank of the river flowing through Battersea Park on the outskirts of London. A group of friends and acquaintances stood at the edge of the water, mingling with people who had simply heard about the competition and were eager for an excuse to get out in the sunshine.

Royal spotted Lily standing next to Jocelyn. She wasn't there as Tsaya. She was simply Lily, looking feminine and pretty, and so sweet something twisted inside him. She and Lady Annabelle stood in a circle talking to Lady Nightingale, Lady Sabrina, Aunt Agatha and the old woman, Mrs. Crowley.

Royal smiled fondly at his aunt. After she had heard the story, Aunt Agatha had, amazingly, been eager to join in their plan. She had been suspicious of Preston Loomis from the start, she had said, had tried to warn William, her nephew, the duke, but by then he had been sucked under Loomis's spell. She hadn't known the confidence man had been responsible for depleting much of the Bransford fortune. She was furious and eager for justice once she found out.

Aunt Agatha laughed at something Molly Daniels said, an odd pair if ever there was one. But the women seemed to be getting along very nicely and the sparkle in Aunt Agatha's eyes said she was enjoying the entire adventure.

"It's time we got the race under way." This from Quent Garrett, who had stripped off his coat and now stood near the boats, barefoot, in breeches and a full-sleeved shirt. Savage and Sherry did the same, and Royal joined them, stripping off his socks, boots and jacket, and handing them to Sherry's valet, who collected all of the garments and carried them into the tent that had been set up as a place to change at the end of the race.

St. Michaels wasn't racing today. Along with several volunteers, he would be officiating at the finish line. Nightingale would remain at the starting point, keeping an eye on Loomis, assuming he appeared. There was no way to know for certain, but Lily was convinced he would be there.

Royal looked over at the slender woman gowned in peach silk. Wisps of silver-blond hair had escaped from beneath her wide-brimmed straw bonnet and floated seductively around her heart-shaped face. She was smiling at something Lady Annabelle said, her cheeks flushed an enchanting shade of rose. A pang of longing went through him and a jolt of desire so strong his whole body tightened.

Inwardly he cursed.

"Come, lads." Sherry slapped him on the back as he started toward the river. "Time to race."

Like the others, Royal was eager for the match. He wanted to win today, wanted to win for Lily, but instead he would lose to Savage. It galled him, though he might have lost anyway. The men were evenly matched. If the outcome weren't set, any of them might be the winner.

As it stood, Savage would win and the rest of them would race hard for second place. They would give it their all and do their best to win. That was the fun of the sport.

Sherry grinned. "I shall see you all at the finish," he challenged as he reached his boat.

"All you will see is my stern," Quent countered, the red in his dark hair glinting in the sun.

"You will both see mine," Royal promised, grinning as they made their way toward the water.

As they checked their equipment a final time, making certain the smooth spruce oars were properly placed and the brass oarlocks would hold securely, Royal couldn't resist a glance over his shoulder. Jocelyn waved, but it was Lily who drew his attention, Lily and the smile he knew was meant for him alone.

Wishing it didn't please him so much, Royal shoved his long, sleek scull into the water, jumped in, settled himself in the sliding seat and took hold of the oars.

Lily watched Royal and the Oarsmen as they expertly lined themselves up for an even start in the water. The crowd muttered then fell silent, waiting for Lord Nightingale to pull the trigger on the starting gun. Preston Loomis, the gathering's latest addition, stood next to the earl, a relief to all of them. Nightingale had worked hard to strike up a friendship with the confidence man and it seemed he had succeeded.

Lily stood close enough to overhear some of the men's conversation. They were talking about the race, then a wager was made. Nightingale bet on the duke, Loomis bet on Savage.