Twenty-Nine.

Somberly dressed in dove-gray velvet trimmed with dark green silk, Jocelyn stood at the door of the modest town house owned by Christopher Barclay.

It was Saturday morning, two weeks since her engagement had been announced. It had taken her that long to figure things out, summon her courage and act. Her gloved hand shook as she lifted the brass knocker and rapped on the door. Inside her chest, her heart pounded as if she had run all the way from her home.

In a way she had run. Run from the meeting she had requested with her parents to inform them of her decision. Run from the horrified looks on their faces when, in as calm a manner as she could manage, she had told them she was ending her engagement to the Duke of Bransford.

"What are you talking about?" Her mother's eyes went saucer-round. "We are already making arrangements for the wedding."

"It's all right, Matilda," her father said. "It is simply a bout of nerves. All young brides go through this sort of thing. In time, Jocelyn will realize-"

"What I realize, Father, is that money and social position are simply not enough to make me happy. I am in love with another man, Father. And though I am not...not certain of his feelings for me, I am certain I will not settle for marriage to a man I care nothing about."

Her mother sank onto the sofa, taking shallow breaths and fanning her flushed face with her hand. "You cannot do this, Jocelyn. You cannot throw away everything you have worked for, everything you have ever wanted."

"I am throwing away everything you and Father wanted me to have. Until now, I didn't realize it wasn't what I wanted at all."

Her mother gazed beseechingly at her husband. "Talk to her, Henry. Make her understand. She cannot do this. She simply cannot!"

"Your mother is right, dear heart. Consider your position. You are soon to be a duchess. You can't think to throw that away. And there is the duke to consider. What would he say if he found out what you are thinking? Why, the man would be devastated. Give yourself some time, dearest. In time you will come to see reason."

Jocelyn shook her head. "It is too late for that, Father. I sent word to the duke this morning."

"Dear God in heaven." Her mother's fanning increased.

"Unfortunately, Royal has already left for the country. It may take a day or two, but soon my letter will reach him. He will know the truth of my feelings and that will be the end of our engagement."

Her mother's face was so pale Jocelyn began to fear for her well-being.

"She needs a drink of water," Henry said. "Ring for one of the servants, Jocelyn-before your mother faints."

Jocelyn hurried to the bellpull and an instant later a bevy of servants appeared to fetch whatever was needed. It wasn't long before the color began to return to her mother's pale face.

"We'll be ruined," she said, making a whimpering sound into the handkerchief Jocelyn pressed into her hand.

"It's all right, my dear," Henry said to her, patting her pudgy fingers. "We'll find a way out of this. It's amazing what money can do."

And what it could not, Jo thought morosely as she stood now in front of Christopher's door, praying he was there. She wasn't sure how long her courage would last, or what she would do if he rejected her again.

The door swung open just then. It wasn't the butler, but Christopher himself who stood in the opening, hard and dark and sinfully handsome.

"Jocelyn...what the devil...?"

"Could I...could I speak to you for a moment?"

"Good God, Jo." He hauled her quickly inside. "This is a bachelor household. What if someone sees you?"

"I don't care. I...Please, I have something to say and I am hoping you will listen."

He sighed. "I shouldn't. I know damn well I shouldn't be listening to a word you say." But he led her into the drawing room and plunked her down on the sofa.

It was a pleasant room, she noticed vaguely, not shabby in the least, but tastefully done in rich masculine tones of dark brown and forest green. For an instant, she allowed her gaze to drink him in, the lean, solid build, the dark hair and intense brown eyes. His carved features carried the stamp of intelligence. His jaw was set with implacable resolve.

Her heart twisted. No matter what she said, he wouldn't listen. He wouldn't believe a word. He understood her better than anyone she had ever known, and yet he didn't know her at all.

Her heart was pounding, her stomach tied in knots.

"Why did you come here, Jo? You wanted another tumble before you took your vows with another man?"

"No, I..." Her throat tightened. She didn't know where to begin. "There aren't...aren't going to be any vows. There isn't going to be a wedding at all. I-I broke off my engagement."

His dark brows arched up. "What are you talking about?"

"I sent a letter to the duke. I told my parents I was ending our betrothal. I don't care about being a duchess. I just...I want to be with you, Christopher."

For an instant, surprise flashed in his face. Then his features hardened. "Tell him you made a mistake. Tell him it was just bridal nerves."

Her eyes welled. She shouldn't have come. "I told him...I said I was in love with another man."

Christopher's jaw tightened. He reached out and gripped her shoulders, hauled her up off the sofa. "You little fool. Do you know what you've done? You've thrown away everything-cast aside everything you ever wanted."

She lifted her chin and looked at him through a veil of tears. "Did I? Perhaps I discovered being a duchess wasn't as important as I had imagined. Maybe I found out it wasn't as important as loving someone."

For a moment, his hard look softened. "Jo..." His hand came up and gently touched her cheek. "Even if you...have feelings for me, it couldn't possibly work. I couldn't give you the life you want. I would only make you unhappy."

"Would you?"

"If we married, in time, you would regret it."

She could feel his implacability. He was refusing her again. "I love you. I would never regret it."

A muscle jerked in his cheek. "Someday you would wish you had married the duke."

She kept her head high, but tears washed down her cheeks. "Then you truly don't want me."

Christopher swallowed. She could feel the tension in the hands that gripped her shoulders. He stood there for long moments that seemed like hours, his eyes locked with hers. Then a low growl came from his throat and he hauled her into his arms.

"You think I don't want you?" he whispered against her cheek. "I want you more than I want to breathe. I'm crazy in love with you. Sweet God, Jo, you think I don't want you? I've never wanted anything as much as I want you." And then he kissed her, a deep, fierce, burning kiss that said all the things she wanted to hear.

Jocelyn wept as she clung to him. "I love you, Christopher. I love you so much. We can make it work, I know we can."

He kissed her again, then pressed his lips against the top of her head. "I'm not a rich man, Jo."

"You will be-once we are married. I know I am spoiled and used to getting my way, but-"

He cupped her face in his hands. "If we marry, I will spoil you far worse than you are already."

She smiled up at him through her tears. "I trust you, Christopher, as I've never trusted anyone before. I trust you to make me happy."

He eased her back into his arms. "I may be the biggest fool in London, but, by God, Jo, I'm going to marry you."

Her heart filled to overflowing. Tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. She couldn't remember ever being happier than she was in that moment.

Or more in love.

Or more certain she had done the right thing.

It was Saturday, two weeks after Royal and Jocelyn had announced their engagement. At that final meeting at the Red Rooster Inn, Uncle Jack had insisted Lily take her share of the money they had collected from Preston Loomis. Though she tried to refuse, Royal had insisted and she had finally given in.

The money went into the bank as a cushion should her business run into unforeseen problems. So far that hadn't happened. Her shop was doing well, her patronage growing.

At the grocer's just down the block, Tommy Cox was doing a bang-up job as a delivery boy-or so Mrs. Smythe reported. On the surface, her life seemed to be going very well.

On the surface.

Underneath, her heart was broken and she wasn't sure it would ever be whole again.

Lily ignored the ache in her chest as she closed up the shop, ending another workday. She turned at the sound of a knock at the backdoor leading into the alley and smiled, certain Tommy had come by for supper. He had been there just last night, but he and Mugs were always more than welcome.

She hurried in that direction, opened the door and gasped at the sight of a huge, hulking figure standing on the back step.

"You Lily Moran?"

"Why, yes, that's right. Is there something I can do for you?"

His eyes gleamed. "It ain't me ye need to do for. 'Tis me friend, Dick Flynn."

Lily screamed as the man grabbed her arms and yanked her out of the shop into the alley. Dear God, Dick Flynn! Preston Loomis had found her out! Fear tore through her, making her heartbeat thunder. She searched for courage, and began to struggle against his brutal grip. She tried to kick him, but her heavy skirts got in the way. She tried to bite the big, meaty hand locked around her neck, twisted and turned, used all the tricks she had learned as a child on the street.

For an instant, she broke free, whirled and raked her nails down his puffy, florid face and turned to run.

"You little wench!" In an instant he was on her, cursing, calling her names she hadn't heard since she had lived the life of a thief.

She screamed again as a beefy fist rushed toward her, striking her jaw so hard, pain shot into her head. Another blow split her lip, slinging blood all over. Her head spun. Lily tried to get away, but her vision began to blur. Her gaze narrowed and faded until there was only blackness.

Royal leaned back against the seat of the ducal traveling coach. The gold-painted emblem on the side was chipped and fading, the red leather seats beginning to crack, a reminder of why he had gone to London.

Why he was marrying an heiress.

He blew out a breath. His task was complete. It was time he went home. After Jack Moran had handed Royal the lion's share of the money they had collected from Loomis, he had stayed in the city to clear his father's debts. He had paid off the majority of the bills that were owed, keeping enough in reserve to expand the brewery he had founded, which he still believed would prove a sound investment.

Though most of the money was gone, he felt he had served his father's memory well. There wasn't enough left to refurbish Bransford Castle but at least the family's good name had been restored.

He stared out the window of the carriage, seeing little more than a blur of green, not really noticing the budding leaves on the trees or the tiny spring flowers blooming in the grass on the rolling hills.

Instead, he was thinking of Jocelyn and his upcoming wedding. Thinking that he had done his duty, no matter how painful it was.

He refused to think of Lily. That time was past and remembering only brought pain.

He was deep in concentration when the sound of hoofbeats reached him. Galloping horses, men riding hard behind the carriage. Royal bolted up in the seat, his senses on full alert.

"Outlaws!" the coachman called out, whipping the four matched grays into a gallop that surged to a flat-out run. Pistol shots rang out. Royal took a quick look out the window, cursed at the sight of four mounted riders bearing down on them, reached beneath the seat and dragged out the long-barreled Adams .44 cap-and-ball revolver kept there for protection.

The hoofbeats grew louder. Royal leaned out the window and saw the men getting closer. All of them wore handkerchiefs tied over their noses and mouths, all rode hard and were rapidly gaining against the cumbersome carriage.

Royal swore another curse. The highwaymen who had been roaming the countryside. Damnation! He hadn't expected an attack in the broad light of day.

The coach rocked and swayed. The coachman fired three shots from his revolver and one of the outlaws cried out. Royal watched him teeter on his horse, then slam headlong into the dirt, but the other men kept coming.

Leaning out the window as the carriage careened down the road, Royal took careful aim and pulled the trigger. He fired a second shot and then a third. The damn gun was bulky and inaccurate. He'd had his eye on a new Beaumont-Adams, a much-improved design. Now he wished he had spent the money.

Several more shots rang out, one splintering wood on the side of the carriage. In better days, he would have had footmen at the rear of the coach, all armed for protection. But there was no money for that now.

Royal took aim and fired and another man went down.

"Leave 'em where they lay!" shouted the taller of the remaining pair, the leader, it seemed, who aimed his weapon and fired off several rounds.

"I'm hit!" shouted the driver, his gun flying out of his hand. The coach careened right, tilted to the left and nearly toppled over. Royal fired his last two shots before the rig began to slow. It was clear the man in charge barely hung on to the reins.

Royal steeled himself. The coin in his purse was all he carried. The rest was safe in his London bank account. He wore little jewelry, just his father's emerald ring and the pocket watch his brother Reese had given him as a gift one Christmas before he returned to his duties in the army.

The coach continued to slow, rolled to a jerky stop, and the riders rushed up, pulling so hard on their horses' reins one of the animals whinnied.

"You inside! Come out of there! Do it now!"

His weapon was empty. His man was wounded and in need of attention. He had no other choice.

The door jerked open and the leader, a barrel-chested man with long black hair and a handkerchief tied over his nose, motioned for him to come down. Royal descended the iron steps and stood in front of him.

"I'm afraid you won't get much." He handed over his pouch of coins. "That's all I have with me."

The leader reached down from his saddle and snatched the bag from his hand. For the first time, Royal realized the second man led an extra horse. "Get mounted. Yer comin' with us."

"Like bloody hell I am."

"Ye will or ye'll die where ye stand." The leader aimed the pistol directly at Royal's heart.

He looked up at his coachman, who slumped against the seat, his coat covered in blood. No help would come from there.

"Unhitch the team, Oscar," the leader instructed his partner, a man with kinky brown hair and side-whiskers. "We don't want 'em comin' after us." He turned back to Royal. "Get aboard that horse. Do it now."