In the past few days, Jocelyn had thought of Christopher a thousand times. She had tried to convince herself it was impossible that she could have fallen in love with him. She didn't even believe in love.

But the pain in her heart was real and her feelings for Christopher had only deepened since that day. She respected him, she realized, for being man enough to stand up to her. Man enough to turn down an offer that told him nothing of her feelings. An offer he believed was little more than a whim.

Perhaps at the time, it had been.

Since his refusal, she had thought of him constantly. She had listened for any thread of gossip about him, scoured the newspapers for articles that mentioned his name. In a discussion of a case he had won, the London Times praised him for his abilities as a barrister and predicted he would go far. Christopher was smart and strong and yet she knew he could be tender.

Her heart hurt. She had spent hours telling herself she only wanted him because she could not have him. Now she knew she wanted so much more. She wanted Christopher to love her. As deeply as she was in love with him.

Her throat tightened. It was all just so unfair!

She felt trapped and confused. Part of her wanted to call off the wedding. Another part warned that if she did, she would be left with no one. Christopher had laughed at her offer of marriage, and should she repeat that offer, would likely do so again.

The evening slipped past. She danced with Royal three times, danced with his darkly handsome younger brother, Rule, danced with half the eligible bachelors in London, smiling all the while, pretending to be happy, working to look gay and sophisticated. She tried not to glance at the door, tried not to wish that Christopher would appear. She tried not to hope he would rush in and demand she cry off with Royal, tell her he had changed his mind. Tell her that he loved her and truly wanted to marry her.

Instead, she saw her father and mother approaching from the opposite side of the ballroom. From another direction, Royal walked toward her. It was time to announce their engagement.

"The hour has come," the duke said softly, offering her his arm. "I believe your parents have something of importance they wish to announce."

For a single, mad moment, she wanted to bolt for the door. She wanted to run away, hide until this nightmare was over.

Then she spotted her archenemy, Serafina Maitlin, standing near the platform where the musicians were playing and the announcement would be made. Her eyes were saucer-round as she watched the duke escorting Jocelyn and her parents toward the platform and realized exactly what it meant.

Anger turned Serafina's face bright red. Her mouth thinned into a brittle line and her eyes seemed to glitter. Jocelyn's doubt slipped away at the sight of her rival's jealousy.

By heaven, she would do it! She would become a duchess! She would show them! She would show all of them!

And especially Christopher Barclay!

Standing near the mirrored wall at the end of the ballroom, Preston Loomis spotted the old woman he had come there to see. Next to the Dowager Countess of Tavistock, Hortense Crowley was a gnarly old woman, wrinkled and slightly hunched over. More importantly, her mind was as old and fading as the rest of her.

He made his way in the old woman's direction, setting his empty punch cup down on a passing waiter's tray.

Around him, the crowd was murmuring, discussing the formal announcement that had just been made-the Duke of Bransford's engagement to the wealthy heiress Jocelyn Caulfield. It came as little surprise to anyone. The betting books were full of wagers. The duke was nearly bankrupt. The Caulfield girl came with a fortune. Royal Dewar had no real choice.

Preston managed to keep a satisfied smile off his face. His own coffers were overflowing, thanks to the most successful confidence scheme he had ever managed to accomplish. With the size of his fortune, he never had to work another day.

But the thrill of success came as much from the challenge a mark presented as it did the money. He focused his attention on old lady Crowley, who had moved a little away from the countess and now stood unsteadily next to a potted palm. Preston fixed a smile on his face and moved toward her.

"Mrs. Crowley, a pleasure to see you again."

She frowned, drawing her busy, dull gray eyebrows together. "Do I know you?"

A trickle of annoyance filtered through him. He wasn't used to being forgotten. "Why, yes. We've met on several occasions. My name is Preston Loomis. You may recall, I remind you of your late husband."

She looked up at him and her eyes brightened. "Indeed! Mr. Loomis, of course. Why, you're a dead ringer for my Freddy when he was your age."

They talked for a while, saying nothing of importance, just giving her time to relax in his company and get things moving in the direction he wanted.

"Do you follow the newspapers, Mrs. Crowley?"

She shook her head. "Never had much use for them. My Freddy did, though."

"I understand your husband was in the business of making armaments, among other things."

"Guns, you mean?"

"Why, yes."

She nodded, moving gray strands of hair that had escaped her silk cap. "Now that you mention it. Built rifles, he did. Foreigners are interested in rifles these days."

"I have an interest in weaponry, myself, at least as an investment. Would there be a chance I might participate in some way in the ownership of the plant?"

She stared off into the distance, said nothing for the longest time. Then she blinked and seemed to refocus. "You want to buy some stock?"

"I might consider it, yes. Though I would need to see the facility, of course."

She nodded sagely. "Of course. My Freddy always said never buy a pig in a poke. Why don't I have my solicitor pay you a call? Stevens is his name. Good man is Stevens."

Preston handed her an embossed white card with his address printed on it. He hoped the old bat would stay lucid long enough to remember why she had it.

"What's this for?" She waved the card around as if she were trying to dry the ink, and his hopes sank.

"You were going to give it to your solicitor, Mr. Stevens. Tell him I am interested in buying stock in your armaments factory."

"Guns, you mean?"

He barely hung on to his temper. "I would appreciate it if your Mr. Stevens got in touch." Once he did-if he did-Preston would take care of the rest.

The old woman tucked the card into the velvet reticule hanging from her arm, turned and ambled away without so much as a by-your-leave.

Preston blew out a frustrated breath. Perhaps he would never hear from her man.

Then again, the Gypsy had never been wrong.

An image of her appeared in his mind, lovely and exotic, her pale skin and light eyes a delicate contrast to her black hair and midnight eyebrows. An unexpected trickle of desire slipped through him. It was a rare thing these days. Perhaps along with their business dealings, they might make another sort of bargain.

Inwardly, he smiled. Then he brushed the thought away. At present, it was money he wanted, not the girl.

All in due time, he told himself.

All in due time.

Royal was finally able to escape his fiancee and their well-wishers and make his way to the safe haven of his friends.

"Congratulations," Nightingale said, the heavy gold and ruby ring on his right hand gleaming as he took a drink of champagne. "You will soon be one of us married folk."

Royal just nodded. He would be married, but Night had been fortunate enough to marry for love.

"Cheer up, old man," Quent said, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "You would have had to wed sooner or later. A man needs an heir and all that." This from a man who had just entered the marriage mart. Royal wondered how he would feel a few months from now.

"She's a lovely little piece," drawled Savage. "You're wedding the toast of London. Bedding her should be entertaining. That is some consolation."

Royal turned and looked back at his future bride. In her violet silk gown, her glorious mahogany hair gleaming, she was impossibly beautiful. She stood there like the duchess she would soon become, surrounded by a sea of admirers: envious young women, and men who thought that somewhere down the road there was a chance she might take one of them as a lover. For clearly her marriage was one of convenience.

Sherry's hazel gaze went in the same direction and he leaned toward Royal, the friend who knew his heart. "There is always the chance your fair lady will change her mind and the two of you can still be together."

Royal couldn't help hoping that would happen, even as he felt guilty for the thought. Lily deserved a husband and family. If he truly loved her, he would leave her alone.

Dillon St. Michaels walked up to the group just then. He took one look at Royal's solemn expression and sighed. "At least your money problems will be solved."

That much was true. And since Matilda Caulfield pressed for the wedding to take place just three months hence, he wouldn't have long to wait.

Other friends arrived in the circle, Lady Annabelle Townsend and her friend, Lady Sabrina Jeffers. They both professed their profound good wishes and best regards for Royal and Jocelyn's happiness, but both the women's eyes seemed to hold a trace of pity. Surely they didn't know the way he felt. Then again, women had sense of such things.

Royal straightened. It wasn't fair to Jocelyn to harbor these feelings for Lily. It was time he tucked them away. He had duties, obligations. And soon he would have a wife and family to care for. Lily would always remain in his heart, but from now on, only he would know the truth of how he felt.

Royal managed a smile he hoped looked more genuine than those that had come before. "If you ladies and gentlemen will excuse me, it is time I joined my beautiful future wife."

All of them looked at him. Annabelle summoned a smile, but no one said a word.

Lily couldn't sleep. By this late hour, Jocelyn and Royal had announced their engagement. She slid out from beneath the covers, crossed to the door of her flat and descended the stairs to the shop. Creeping quietly to the backroom, she looked in to see Tommy next to Mugs on the pallet she had fashioned for them. Earlier, she had made him the offer of a bath and amazingly he had accepted.

"A bath?" His dark eyes widened. "You mean with real hot water?"

Lily laughed. "Hot and steaming."

"Blimey, I can't remember me last hot bath."

"And I got you some clothes and a new pair of shoes so you would have something clean to put on after."

He stared up at her with big, awestruck brown eyes that turned slightly misty. "Someday I'll repay ye, miss, I swear it on Mugs's life." The dog whined as if he wasn't too sure about that, and Lily smiled.

"Someday I'm certain you will."

Tommy fetched the copper bathing tub off the wall where she kept it and they heated hot water on the tiny stove in the backroom of the shop. She set the clothes on the counter, hoping they would fit, and closed the door, giving him the privacy he needed. Lily smiled as she listened to his off-key singing of some bawdy sailor's song.

The bath was a lengthy affair, which meant he was enjoying himself. When he finished, he came out of the room dressed in a pair of brown twill trousers and a muslin shirt that were only a little too big for him.

His grin went from ear to ear. "The clothes is great, miss. Loose enough so's I can grow some and they'll still fit."

"You look very dapper." She glanced over at Mugs, pleased to see the dog had also got a bath.

Later, as usual, boy and dog had lain down on the pallet-this time between clean sheets.

"Now, ain't this the life?" Tommy shoved his hands behind his head. "Me and Mugs clean as a whistle, our bellies full and a warm place to sleep. I can't thank ye enough, miss, for all that ye've done."

"There's something else I would like to do, Tommy-if you will let me. I spoke to one of my customers, Mrs. Symthe, the grocer's wife. She said she and her husband are in need of a hardworking, trustworthy young man to handle deliveries for the store."

He sat up on the pallet. "Trustworthy? Ye don't mean me?"

"Well, you would be, wouldn't you? If you had a job, you wouldn't have to steal. Mr. Smythe would pay you a fair wage and you and Mugs could live in the room above the stable where the delivery cart is kept."

That was the difficult part, giving up Tommy's company. Whenever he was there, it helped to keep her mind off Royal and his upcoming marriage.

"Blimey, miss, I ain't never had a real job. Ye could trust me, fer sure. I wouldn't steal a thing."

"And you could still come over," she added. "We could still have supper together whenever you wished."

Tommy grinned. "I'd be pleased to take the job. When do I start?"

"Monday morning, if you're ready. I'll go with you to see the Smythes, help you get settled in."

Tommy laughed. "Ain't it somethin'. Me first real job-and all because I picked some fancy duke's pocket."

Lily's couldn't help a smile. But thoughts of Royal crept in and her smile slowly faded. "I'll see you in the morning, Tommy." She reached down and ruffled the dog's furry coat. "You and Mugs sleep well."

He closed his eyes, but the grin remained on his face. Lily smiled as she left the backroom and headed up to her apartment.

Now, hours later in the middle of the night, as she stood in the doorway watching them, she felt a soft tug at her heart. She sighed into the darkness. Tommy and Mugs slept soundly, but for her, sleep would remain elusive. Perhaps in time, she would be able to put her love for Royal behind her, but not tonight.

Not tonight.

Lily ignored the pain in her heart as she turned toward the stairs and headed up to her empty bed.

Twenty-Eight.

Four days had passed since the engagement ball. A cold April wind scoured the air and blew bits of paper into the street. Soon the daffodils would be in bloom, but today an icy chill blew in off the Thames.

A few blocks from the river, inside the big brick building that housed the Hawksworth Munitions Factory, Royal stood next to Benjamin Wyndam, Lord Nightingale, behind a glass window three stories above the main floor of the plant.

Situated in the Tooley Street area not far from the docks, the location had been chosen for the easy distribution of the products being made. Nightingale owned the plant. He chuckled as he watched the two men walking the floor three stories below, moving along the assembly line, one thin and dark-haired, the other sporting a thick, silver mustache.

"Loomis keeps nodding his head," Night said. "The man who is with him must be good. I think our friend is buying whatever the fellow is selling."

"He's saying something to the effect that batty old Mrs. Crowley's plant is worth far more than she knows. With the Americans on the verge of war, the stock Loomis is buying will soon be worth a fortune."

"Who is he?"

"Jack Moran calls him Gulliver. He's a member of the mob-a group of actors who do this sort of thing for a living."