The Dukes of Vauxhall

by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen

  Hedgehog could do nothing but blubber.

  The duke raised the black bar. Henry wanted to look away, but he wouldn’t give this duke the satisfaction. With a soft thud and a crunch of bone, the bar landed on the vulnerable flesh. Hedgehog screamed. Henry winced. The hand had a visible dent in it, and blood welled from the flattened fingers.

  “Get him out of here,” the duke said.

  Red yanked the sniveling Hedgehog away, the man cradling his injured hand to his chest. The duke looked at the blond. “Clean this up.” He gestured to the desk, which had a splatter of blood arcing out from where the hand had lain.

  “Yes, Duke.” The blond jerked his head toward Henry. “What about him?”

  “He comes with me.”

  Henry was still staring at the spray of blood on the once lovely wood of the desk when the duke jerked him to his feet. For a small man, he was surprisingly strong. He reached into his boot, pulled out a knife with a long, sharp blade, and slit the rope binding Henry’s ankles. Unlike his wrists, his ankles had not been bound tightly, and Henry had no trouble standing on his own.

  Until the duke grabbed the rope around his wrists and pushed him forward. “Hey!” Henry yelled when he stumbled.

  “Shut up and walk.” Such a melodious voice for such harsh words. And then when Henry didn’t move fast enough, the duke grabbed the bindings on his wrists and yanked upward.

  Henry bit back a scream. He wouldn’t cry like a child, but the duke would pay for that little act of cruelty.

  If Henry made it out of here alive.

  “Walk,” the duke ordered.

  Henry walked. Using the bindings, the duke guided Henry like one might a horse through what Henry realized must be a tavern or inn. He heard voices in a room to his left and what sounded like the clink of glasses. And he smelled the yeasty scent of freshly baked bread and the thick, rich odor of broth simmering with potatoes and spices. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and his stomach let him know that, along with his head and his back, it had complaints.

  Finally, Henry was marched up a back set of stairs such as servants might use and pushed before a wooden door. He glanced down the hallway and saw other doors were nearby, all shut like the one before him, and the hallway ended abruptly. It was closed off from the rest of the building. Which meant if this was an inn, situated in Lambeth or another of the areas near Vauxhall, the patrons using it might have no idea of the presence of these criminals.

  It was an ideal lair for these delinquents. And, of course, this was an unfortunate realization, because it would make finding Henry that much more difficult. That was, if anyone was even looking. For the first time, he wondered what had happened to Morton. Had they taken his secretary, or had the man been able to get away to alert a constable, or perhaps call in the Bow Street Runners?

  “Barbara,” the duke said. “Open the door.”

  “Open it yerself,” came the tart reply.

  The duke stiffened, pulling back on Henry’s bindings. Henry was tempted to point out that he was not the one who’d offended.

  “Barbara, open it now, or you can spend the rest of your days on your back in a brothel in Seven Dials.”

  “What nonsense,” came Barbara’s reply, spoken in a carefree voice. But a moment later, the door opened, and Henry looked down and into the face of a plump and pretty blond woman. She had dark blue eyes and pink cheeks, shown to advantage with her golden hair pulled into a pile on the top of her head. Her ample hips, large bosom, and bright smile spoke of a woman who enjoyed life.

  Her smile turned curious as she took him in. Her gaze flicked behind him, presumably to the duke. “I didn’t know you had company.” She arched a brow, then winked at him. Henry merely stared at her in bewilderment, a constant state of late.

  “He’s not that sort of company,” the duke answered, pushing him forward.

  “I see that now,” Barbara answered, obviously noticing his bindings. She shut the door and moved in front of him again, her gaze more assessing. “But what can he have done? A tall, dark, and handsome gentleman like this?”

  Henry wondered if Barbara was attempting to incite the duke’s jealousy. Was she his lover? She’d been waiting in what must have been the duke’s bedchamber. It contained a wardrobe, a dressing screen, and a large bed.

  “That’s not your concern. Leave us,” the duke ordered.

  “Leave you?” Barbara looked appalled. “Alone? With him?”

  “We have matters to discuss. Private matters,” the duke added.

  “I’d like to discuss the state of your shirt, Duke.”

  At what Henry surmised was a warning look from the duke, Barbara stepped back and raised her hands. “But we can discuss that later. Set it outside, and I’ll collect it for washing. As for him”—she gave Henry one last look—“you’d better keep him tied up.”

  “I intend to.”

  Barbara left them, and Henry tensed, not certain what would come next. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I won’t speak to you until I know whether my secretary is alive and well.”

  The duke cocked his head, his face in shadow and partly hidden by the cap. “The balding man you were with?”

  Henry gave a slight incline of his head.

  “He’s with the men in the servants’ quarters. I imagine he’s more comfortable than you at the moment.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “I don’t care.” The honeyed voice had an edge to it now. “You aren’t in charge here, Henry Selkirk.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “How do you not know mine?” The duke put his hands on his hips as if in challenge.

  “I heard them call you Duke,” Henry answered, but the duke waved a hand dismissively.

  “My real name, Henry. You said you would never forget me.”

  “I said…what?” The duke was obviously delusional. “I’ve never met you before in my life. I’d give anything not to have met you now.”

  “So sure, are you?” The voice took on a different quality. It was still low and melodious, but now it had almost a teasing tenor.

  And then the duke reached up and grasped his cap. With a tug, it came off, revealing short honey-brown hair tucked behind small ears, a small pale face, and large brown eyes he could not have forgotten had he wanted to.

  “No.” He shook his head. This was all wrong. This boy couldn’t be—but it wasn’t a boy. The illusion had been broken, and Henry couldn’t help but see the delicate bones of her face, the slim lines of her body hidden beneath boys’ clothing, and the long lashes framing the eyes.

  “Kate,” he said, the name sounding halfway between a prayer and a curse.

  “Welcome to The Griffin and the Unicorn, Henry.”

  Appropriate name for the place, Henry thought, because none of this could possibly be real.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  “Surprised to see me?” she asked, though the look on his face answered that question easily enough. He looked more than surprised. He looked at her as though she were a ghost.

  Perhaps to him she was.

  “I was surprised to see you,” she continued, not liking the way the heavy silence fell in the room. “I had no idea you were in line to become a viscount.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said, his voice rough, as though he hadn’t spoken in years. “It should never have happened.”

  She circled him, wishing she could remove his bindings but not ready to trust him yet—if ever. “And yet it did happen, and now you are one of the prince’s set.”

  He shook his head, his dark curly hair catching the light of the candles with the movement. He’d always had such thick, dark hair, the curl like spirals if he let it grow too long. Now it was cut just short enough to tousle, as was the fashion, but not long enough for her to insert her finger into a midnight spiral, as she had when they’d been children. “I barely know the prince. I was tapped to organize the celebrations—” He broke off. “It wasn’
t supposed to happen.”

  She moved before him again. “There seems to be a lot of that in your life.”

  “Yes,” he said, his gray-blue eyes meeting hers. She’d always thought his eyes such a pretty color, especially set off as they were by his otherwise dark features. The slash of brows, the mop of hair, and now the dark smudge of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. She was tempted to touch that stubble, but she refrained. She wouldn’t have liked to be touched thus if she’d been bound, and the least she could do was extend him the same courtesy.

  That was about all the courtesy she had to give.

  “What are you doing here, Kate?” he asked suddenly. “Why do they call you Duke? Why dress as a man? Why go to all this trouble”—he nodded at her stained shirt—“to speak with me?”

  She gave a harsh laugh. “You think all of this is about you?”

  His brow furrowed, and oh, but it was as adorable as it had always been. Although, he was no longer what she would call adorable. He was a man now—tall, muscular, and strong. If he hadn’t been bound, he would have attempted to overpower her before she could blink. That kind of power and danger were far from adorable.

  Which was why she should have put him in the dungeon—what they called the room in the servants’ quarters where they kept rivals from other gangs and where his secretary currently resided—but she couldn’t send him away without first speaking to him.

  Playing with fire, her mother would have said. And yes, Kate had always been one to play with fire.

  And get burned.

  “None of this is about you, Lord Bexley.”

  “Just call me Henry.”

  “If you insist on acting like a pompous ass, I’ll treat you like one, my lord.”

  “Kate—”

  “You may call me Duke.”

  “Not likely, Miss Dunn. Answer me this. If none of this is about me, then why am I being kept prisoner?”

  “After all this time, that is the burning question you wish to ask?”

  He gave her an exasperated glance. “It seems the most pressing as my hands are numb and my arms throbbing in pain.”

  “I am sorry about that.” And she was. “Perhaps I can find a way to make you more comfortable. But first I want out of this bloody shirt.”

  He closed his eyes.

  She shrugged. “Bad puns. A weakness of mine.” Ducking behind her screen, she shed her coat and attempted to unfasten the buttons on the shirt. Her hands shook so badly she had to pause and take a deep breath. Perhaps sending Barbara away had not been the best idea. She could have used her help now.

  Kate closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears she would never allow herself to shed. She could still hear the crunch of Hedgehog’s bones when the rod had come down on his hand. She was sick to her stomach at the thought of what she’d done—and yet she’d had no choice.

  She knew he’d been stealing from her for months. She’d given him veiled warnings and cautions, and he hadn’t taken them to heart. She was relatively certain Red also knew Hedgehog was stealing, but when one of the cubs—the youngest members of the gang—had come to her and reported Hedgehog was a thief, she’d had to act. She hadn’t become the leader of the gang and a duke of the criminal underworld by allowing her own rogues to steal from her. And if she showed any sign of weakness now, any sign of softening, there were a dozen men and boys waiting to take her place.

  Fear and a grudging respect kept her gang in line. She’d had to do unspeakable things to earn her position, and if she fell, all of the sacrifices she’d made would be for nothing.

  Kate opened her eyes again. She hadn’t enjoyed smashing Hedgehog’s hand. It would mean an end to his days as a pickpocket, but she’d spared his life. He could find other work. Most of the arch rogues of the other gangs would have killed Hedgehog for less.

  She’d always thought that once she had power, she could afford to be merciful. But now she wondered if her mercy toward Hedgehog—little as it was—might be the sign of weakness one of her own needed to try to overthrow her.

  If that happened, she knew what she’d be forced to do.

  Kate blew out a breath and started on her buttons again. A deadly calm settled over her. This was her life. She couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t turn her back, couldn’t trust anyone. The moment she thought she was safe, that she had “made it,” was the moment she’d be the most vulnerable.

  And now she’d found Henry Selkirk. Her old friend Henry had grown up and become a viscount. What must it be like to wake up one morning and realize you were a lord? A titled peer of the realm. He had everything—wealth, safety, power—and he’d done nothing to earn it.

  Kate didn’t think the two of them could be more different.

  It hadn’t always been that way.

  She pulled the shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor.

  “You can’t keep me here, you know.” Henry’s voice floated across the room, reaching her behind the screen. “I’ll be missed.”

  “That must be nice,” she said, untying the string holding up her trousers. “Having people who miss you. Your wife? Children?”

  “I meant my staff,” he said.

  Ah, so no wife and children, then. Why should that please her? It wasn’t as though she wanted to marry him. That would be a girlish fantasy, and she’d long outgrown those.

  “If you cooperate, you will be safely tucked into your mansion in Mayfair in no time.”

  “I don’t live in a mansion.”

  Was it her imagination, or was his voice closer than it had been a moment ago? She remembered she’d cut the bindings on his ankles, which meant he was free to move about her bedchamber.

  “Don’t you?” She turned and caught him watching her from the other side of the screen. “My lord, a gentleman would never spy on a lady.”

  His face reddened slightly, and he turned so his back was to her. She stared at him, surprised at his behavior. She’d expected him to argue, to point out she was hardly a lady. Instead, he’d treated her with courtesy. Her gaze dropped to his hands, which had turned purple. She had certainly not given him the same courtesy.

  She allowed her trousers to drop to the floor, then started unwinding the bindings that flattened her breasts.

  “I wondered how you had managed to hide your figure,” he said. She looked up at him, but his back was still turned. “I should not have been so curious.”

  She shrugged, forgetting he couldn’t see her. “I don’t have much to hide.”

  “Forgive me, but from the glimpse I had, that’s not quite true.”

  Now it was her turn for her cheeks to heat. And suddenly her nakedness made her feel vulnerable. She reached for the silk wrap she wore when she was alone—one of her few luxuries, her few nods to her femininity—and pulled it on, cinching the belt tightly.

  She removed the daggers from her boots, then toed them off. Taking hold of his bindings, she cut them. It was probably a mistake, but she didn’t want to look at those purple hands any longer.

  With a hiss, he lowered his hands to his sides, then groaned as he rotated his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. She winced in sympathy. She’d been bound before, and she knew the pain of numb limbs coming back to life. Giving him a private moment to recover, she strode across the room and poured a glass of wine from an open bottle. She sipped it, then shrugged and poured him one as well.

  She turned. “Drink this. You can probably use it.”

  His handsome face was contorted, but he gave a quick nod. “Thank you,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Don’t try anything,” she added when he began to move toward her. “I still have my knife, and I know how to use it. I can gut you in three seconds flat.”

  His brow wrinkled. “That’s not an image I want to examine too closely.” He took the wine she offered and sipped it with all the elegance of a titled nobleman. His gaze dipped to her attire, but he lifted it again quickly.

  They watched each other in silen
ce, both sipping wine. Finally, she sat on the edge of her bed, tucking her bare feet under her robe. Her knife was beside her.

  “It’s been a long time, Kate,” Henry said when his glass was half empty. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “I’m sure you wish you hadn’t.”

  “This isn’t how I would have chosen to renew our acquaintance.”

  She gave a short laugh. “If you’d known what I’d become, you wouldn’t want to be acquainted with me at all. I’m not suitable company for a viscount.”

  His face wrinkled in annoyance. “You think I’d put title above our friendship?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I don’t know Viscount Bexley. The Henry I knew didn’t scurry about to do the prince’s bidding, didn’t strut through Vauxhall giving orders, didn’t dress as though he were a peacock.”

  She gave a pointed look to his tight coat and crisp white cravat—at least it had been crisp and white.

  “The Kate Dunn I knew didn’t assault innocent men or threaten them with knives, not to mention abducting them.”

  “We’ve both changed,” she admitted.

  “What happened?” he asked, moving closer to her. She stiffened and held up a hand, a clear warning for him to stay back. He nodded. “One day I saw you, and the next you had disappeared. You never even said good-bye.”

  Her heart constricted, and she clenched her hands. She could not allow him to wiggle through her defenses. She wasn’t Kate Dunn anymore, and he wasn’t Henry Selkirk. “I’m certain my disappearance warranted a quarter hour of discussion over dinner, if that. But don’t pretend you actually missed me, my lord. Don’t pretend you looked for me.”

  She’d wanted him to look for her, wanted him to find her, to save her. But he’d never come. No one had come.

  She’d had to save herself.

  “I did look for you. I inquired—”

  “Stop.” She waved his paltry words away. “We were children. Life happened to us. We’re not children any longer. We shape our lives and our future.”