The Dukes of Vauxhall
Page 1
THE DUKES OF VAUXHALL
Copyright © 2017 by Christi Caldwell, Shana Galen, Vanessa Kelly, and Theresa Romain
TAKEN BY THE DUKE
Copyright © 2017 by Shana Galen
FIGHTING FOR HIS LADY
Copyright © 2017 Christi Caldwell
THE PRODIGAL DUKE
Copyright © 2017 Theresa Romain
THE BUCCANEER DUKE
Copyright © 2017 Vanessa Kelly
Excerpt from Traitor in her Arms (c) 2017 by Shana Galen
Excerpt from Schooling The Duke (c) 2017 by Christi Caldwell
Excerpt from Scandalous Ever After (c) 2017 by Theresa Romain
Excerpt from Three Weeks With A Princess (c) 2017 by Vanessa Kelly
Cover Design: Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs
Image: Novelstock
Image: Vishnevetskiy/Shutterstock
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
TAKEN BY THE DUKE Taken By The Duke
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
About Shana Galen
Books by Shana Galen
FIGHTING FOR HIS LADY Fighting For His Lady
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About Christi Caldwell
Books by Christi Caldwell
THE PRODIGAL DUKE The Prodigal Duke
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
About Theresa Romain
Books by Theresa Romain
THE BUCCANEER DUKE The Buccaneer Duke
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
About Vanessa Kelly
Books by Vanessa Kelly
TRAITOR IN HER ARMS
SCHOOLING THE DUKE
SCANDALOUS EVER AFTER
THREE WEEKS WITH A PRINCESS
* * *
TAKEN BY THE DUKE
* * *
SHANA GALEN
Taken By The Duke
* * *
A vexed viscount…
When Henry Selkirk, the newly elevated Viscount Bexley, is proclaimed the Prince Regent’s Master of Ceremonies for His Highness’s combined birthday and Victory at Waterloo celebration, Henry wonders what he ever did to deserve such punishment. Taxed with curbing the notoriously extravagant prince’s spending, Henry juggles the prince and the difficulties of preparing the venue, Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. While touring Vauxhall, Henry encounters a gang of thugs and is taken prisoner by their leader, a disreputable criminal who calls himself the Duke of Vauxhall. The pleasure gardens are the duke’s domain, and he wants Henry gone. For good.
A woman with a secret…
When Kate Dunn sees Henry Selkirk again, she hardly dares to believe her first love will remember her. It’s been years since the two played as children together on the streets of London. She uses her influence to see him set free from the Duke of Vauxhall’s clutches, but when Henry refuses to give up his position at Vauxhall Gardens, his days are numbered. To add insult to injury, Henry warns Kate that it’s she who’s running out of time. He knows her secret, and once the gang finds out, she’s as good as dead. As the night of Kate’s greatest heist ever approaches, she must choose between failing the gang and losing her life or disappointing Henry and losing her only chance at true love.
Chapter One
* * *
“Why does she not have a net?” Henry Selkirk, Viscount Bexley, asked his secretary. “If she falls, all of our hard work will be for naught. The papers will carry the story of a dead performer, not that of the celebrations for the Regent’s birthday and Britain’s triumph over the French.”
“Yes, my lord,” Morton said, scribbling notes in a small book he carried. “Make certain the rope walkers have a net,” he murmured to himself.
Henry couldn’t understand why the woman would venture out on a rope without a net in the first place. Did she want to die? He certainly did not want to see her pretty face battered and bruised.
But then, Henry did not understand the motives behind what most people did. Especially those who enjoyed taking risks and confronting danger. Henry walked on, his dark gaze scanning the walk and the parade of couples passing by. “Half of these lamps are not lit, Morton,” he said. “It’s far too dark. No wonder the pickpockets are so bold.”
“Too dark. Yes, my lord.”
Henry heard a giggle and a shush from one of the shadows. It was not difficult to ascertain why the walks were not properly lit. Lovers wanted darkness for privacy. And they could have their privacy and their damn walks back just as soon as the prince’s celebrations were ended. God knew Henry wanted them over more than anyone.
He tossed a glance over his shoulder.
Except perhaps Morton.
“Keep up, Morton.”
“Yes, my lord.” He all but jogged to keep pace with Henry’s long strides.
“I did not ask for this position, Morton,” Henry said, walking on. He’d been to the pleasure gardens just outside of London half a dozen times over the past fortnight. He’d signed contracts with musicians and with George Barrett, who owned Vauxhall Gardens. The prince wanted a masked ball, a concert with fireworks, and a grand ball. His Highness had tapped Henry to organize it all.
“I wanted no part of this business, Morton.”
“No, my lord.”
“I went to see Prinny on an entirely different matter.”
“At the urging of the Lords, sir.”
“Yes. I was to speak to him about his overindulgent spending. Do you remember, Morton?”
The secretary nodded. “It was a ploy, my lord.”
“It was an outright trick. Send the new man into the lion’s den.”
“It’s not your fault you are newly a viscount, my lord.”
No, that was his cousin’s fault. The damn man had to fall from a horse and break his neck. And this after his fathers and brothers had succumbed to a fever. Why was no one in his family ever careful? But after a string of unlikely deaths that led Henry—far, far down in the line of succession—to inherit, Henry was beginning to believe this viscountcy was cursed.
If only he hadn’t happened upon the prince and his cronies when the group had been planning celebrations for the victory of Waterloo and the prince’s birthday. When Henry had suggested to the prince th
at he might try to economize, the prince had agreed.
“Right you are, Bexley, and you are just the man I need.”
Henry had looked from the prince to Prinny’s friends Lord Alvanley and Sir Lumley, known to his friends as Skiffy. The gentlemen had looked as perplexed as Henry. “Your Highness?” Henry had finally offered.
“You will help me economize, Bexley. I hereby declare you the…er—” The prince looked to his friends for inspiration.
“The royal master of ceremonies, Your Highness,” Alvanley had suggested with a smug smile. Henry had never liked the baron.
The prince clapped his hands. “Exactly!”
Henry had been the prince’s royal master of ceremonies for precisely sixteen days, four hours, and almost forty-five minutes. In that time, he had persuaded the prince to combine the Waterloo and birthday celebrations, convinced the prince that he did not need to arrive nightly in a bier borne by four elephants, and counseled against a champagne fountain.
And the celebrations were still wildly overbudget.
And now that Henry was finally seeing the gardens at night, as they would be during the celebrations, he was demanding lamps be lit, rope walkers be protected, and more security brought in. All of those changes would require blunt. But Henry hadn’t been to Vauxhall Gardens since he’d been a child, and he hadn’t realized how much it had deteriorated. The last thing he needed was for the prince to be harmed or accosted during the festivities.
Henry and Morton rounded a corner, entering a particularly gloomy area of what was known as the dark walks. Thus far they’d encountered only lovers seeking privacy, but now they came face-to-face with a group of youths harassing a young man.
Henry cursed under his breath in frustration. This was exactly the sort of thing he wanted to avoid. He was no coward and would not run from the situation, but how he wished he were home in his library, safely ensconced before a fire.
One boy of about eighteen, with hair blond enough that it shone in the darkness, pushed the smaller lad so he stumbled. The boy was caught by another of the gang, this one a few years older and a ginger with a flat face full of freckles.
“What is this about?” Bexley demanded. It seemed the sort of thing he should say.
“Help me, sir,” the boy said before the ginger pushed him down to his knees.
“Shut yer potato hole.” The ginger put his hands on his hips, and the other three youths closed ranks behind him. Henry wasn’t overly concerned. These might be thugs, but they knew better than to lay hands on a nobleman. That was a hanging offense. Still, he was careful and alert.
“Release that lad at once.”
“And if I say no?” the ginger asked.
“Then I’ll call for one of my constables and have you escorted from the gardens. It’s time we removed all the riffraff. You, sir, are no longer welcome here.”
“Is that so?” the ginger asked. The boy on his knees, small and slim, trembled and ducked his head.
“Yes.”
“You got that turned about, guv. You’re the one not welcome.” He looked at his friends. “What do you say we give the nob a farewell present?”
The youths nodded, and Henry braced for a fight. He’d been in his share of fights on the streets of London when he’d been young and reckless and a fool. Now he preferred to avoid risky situations (there was the cursed viscountcy to think of), but he really had no choice at the moment. He couldn’t leave this defenseless boy, and it was too late to walk away. Henry was careful but not a coward.
It had been some time since he’d had a scuffle, but he was confident he could inflict some damage and cause enough of an uproar to attract one of the constables.
But to Henry’s shock, the ginger didn’t come for him. Instead, he yanked the lad up from his knees. Henry barely saw the glint of the blade before it slammed down and into the boy’s belly. The boy bent over, blood dripping onto the ground. He took a step and fell.
Someone screamed, possibly Morton, possibly the boy who’d been gutted. Henry rushed forward to catch the boy. But the lad staggered away and crumpled into a twisted ball.
“Morton, call for the constable,” Henry ordered, yanking out his handkerchief. He bent, taking the lad by the shoulders. “How bad is it? Here, let me staunch the flow of blood.” As he reached for the lad, the boy rolled slightly onto his back. He looked up at Henry with a look Henry couldn’t quite decipher, and then he reached up and wrapped his arms around Henry’s neck.
“Now!” the injured boy yelled, sounding far too robust for a lad who was bleeding profusely from a belly wound.
“What—” Henry began.
“My lord! Watch out!” Morton called.
Cursed, Henry thought.
That was his last thought before all went black.
* * *
He came awake slowly and by degrees of pain. First, he was aware of the pain in his head. The back of his head throbbed incessantly, causing a roaring in his ears akin to that of a riotous mob. Next, he was aware of the pain in his shoulders and his arms. He tried to touch his aching head, but his hands were bound behind his back. Moving them at all shot pinpricks of agony up and down his skin. The limbs had obviously fallen asleep and objected to waking up.
His back was the next area of discomfort he noted. He lay on something hard and cold, and his back protested not only his hands digging into it but the unyielding floor. Finally, he tried to open his eyes.
That was the worst pain yet. The room was poorly lit, but even the gloomy lamplight made his head swim. He snapped his eyes shut again. After a few moments, the roaring in his ears seemed to subside and he was aware of voices.
“Where’s Hedgehog?” a low, melodious voice asked.
“The boys have him outside, Duke. Do you want him?”
“Bring him in.”
Footsteps came alarmingly close, the boards near his head quavering in response. Then a door opened, and all was silent except for the sound of footsteps, lighter and more muffled. Perhaps a man walking on carpet? Henry was half tempted to open his eyes again. He was prepared for the light now, and the ache in his head was tolerable, barely, but if he opened his eyes his captors—it was becoming increasingly clear that he’d been abducted and bound—would know he was awake. Better to feign unconsciousness and plan his escape.
Escape?
How was it he, Henry Selkirk, was planning an escape? This sort of thing was not supposed to happen to him. He was too cautious to be abducted, damn it.
Footsteps shook the floor, and a door creaked open. This time, multiple footsteps sounded as well as some sort of scuffling. “Let me go!”
Henry risked cracking his eyes open and saw a man struggling in the grips of the ginger and the blond he’d seen at Vauxhall earlier that night. Through a small window, he noted it was still dark outside, so he hoped it was still the same night. He had no idea how much time had passed or how long he’d been unconscious. He also had the quick impression of a small, dark room paneled in wood before he closed his eyes again. The man between the thugs from the gardens must be the one they called Hedgehog. With a short, round body and spiky hair, he looked like a hedgehog.
Hedgehog emitted a string of inventive profanities before a low, silky voice interrupted. “You did this to yourself, Hedgehog.”
“Duke, I can explain.”
Duke. This was the second time someone had called the leader—the man with the honeyed voice—Duke. But if he was a duke, what was he doing with criminals from Vauxhall? And why would he keep a viscount tied up?
“I don’t want your explanations. You stole from me, and you know the price for that.”
“No, Duke. Don’t!”
Hedgehog was moving away from Henry and toward the duke. Too late, Henry realized he knew this because he’d opened his eyes and was staring straight at the man they called Duke. And he was no duke at all. He was the lad from Vauxhall, the one who had been stabbed. His white shirt still bore the crimson stain of blood. The stab
bing must have been a trick, a lure to reel Henry in. But why had they wanted him and—more important—what would they do with him now?
Henry stared at the scarlet on the man’s otherwise well-made linen shirt. Of course, it wasn’t the lad’s blood at all. Just another part of what must have been a plan to abduct him and—what? Ransom him to his family? Kill him? Keep him hostage until after the prince’s celebration?
Oh, very well. The last one was wishful thinking.
The lad they called Duke raised a brow, or so it seemed. His face was shadowed by the cap he wore. “You might as well quit pretending to sleep,” he said. “Go ahead and sit up. You’ll want to see this. It will save me the trouble of devising a new lesson for you.”
Henry struggled to roll over, not an easy feat with his hands bound and nothing to use for leverage.
“Red,” the duke said. “Help him.”
“I can do it,” Henry all but growled. He’d just as soon look a fool than accept any help from the ginger who had smashed his head.
“Hurry up. I don’t have all night.” The duke reached for an iron bar and slapped it into one small hand—pale, delicate hands that looked as though they should play the violin or sip tea.
Or pick a pocket. The best pickpockets prized their hands above all else.
Henry rose to his knees, a sickening lump forming in his belly.
“No, please. No!” Hedgehog begged, tears and snot running down his face. Red, the ginger, held his right hand down on a lovely cherry wood desk. It was bare of paper or ornamentation, but for the pistol on one corner.
Seeing that Henry was on his knees and had a view of the desk, the one they called Duke nodded. Then he looked at Hedgehog. “If you ever steal from me again,” he said, his low voice menacing, “I’ll put a pistol ball in your brain. Count yourself lucky tonight.”