The Dukes of Vauxhall

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

  Bitterness soured her mouth. How far they’d fallen. They’d gone from wearing fine satin garments and strolling through Hyde Park, to scraping coin together for the food on their sparse table.

  “If Sam doesn’t win this, Bartram is not going to allow him to fight anymore,” Ruth put in, interrupting Patience’s useless self-pitying. Then both she and Sam would be out of work, and the only funds available to them, the money Ruth earned as a seamstress at Madame Bisset’s. “He promised—”

  “I know what he said,” she hissed, her patience snapping. She hurled the cloth down, drew in a deep breath, and forced herself to calm the panic churning in her belly. “I know what he said,” she repeated, more for herself than the sister staring knowingly back.

  Bartram Smith, the lead organizer of London’s big fights, didn’t give a jot who her father had been. As such, Patience had been cleaning up the financial mess left in her father’s wake... and doing an altogether miserable job of it for the better part of two years.

  She rubbed her fingers over her forehead.

  “He needs to win, or he’s not only going to be killed,” Ruth said in uncharacteristically solemn tones, “but we’ll starve.”

  “We won’t starve,” she assured with far less conviction than she felt. She and Ruth had taken to laundering garments, but those monies would never be enough to survive. The muscles of Patience’s stomach tightened. And at twenty, her brother was full of a cocksure arrogance that was more dangerous in the streets of London than a faulty pistol put to a man’s head. It would never win him a match and had cost him countless ones before it. And now, their very stability rested on his shoulders.

  “You know what you have to do.”

  So they’d ceased dancing around what her tenacious sister was really on about.

  Restless, Patience stalked over to the window and drew it open. It did little to ease the oppressive heat of their cramped quarters. “I’m not asking for his help,” she gritted out, directing those words to the bustling streets below.

  “You should have done so four years ago when Father died.”

  A wasting illness had seen the once-powerful Storm reduced to a thin, frail shadow of the man he’d been. “For what purpose?” she asked tightly. The day she discovered the great lie he’d perpetrated against her family... me... she’d vowed to never see him again. But in her fury with his betrayal, she’d still believed that, with her father’s passing, he would have paid his respects. Tom Storm had taken him in like a son, trained him, and in the end, that same student had thought so little, he’d not come to her and her family upon her father’s death

  Ruth planted her hands on her hips. “You’ll let your pride be our downfall.”

  “My pride?” she echoed, storming across the room. She went toe-to-toe with her sister. “Is that what you think I was? A bitter lover? You’d condemn me for expecting more from a man our father trusted than to be lied to?” Hurt indignation flared in her breast.

  “You’re the only woman who’d rather have a street fighter from London than a duke’s son.”

  “He didn’t even come when father passed,” she cried, and then closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. When she trusted herself to speak, she attempted to explain to Ruth, who’d been only a girl at the time. “It was never about his birthright,” she said, her voice emerging as a broken whisper.

  Patience forced her gaze elsewhere. She’d not share those details with her sister. He’d entered her life, slipped inside her heart, and all along there had been another. A proper miss to whom he’d been betrothed and never mentioned. Yes, those heartbreaking details had shattered her and would have certainly been the death knell for her younger sister’s adoration for the Duke of the Ring. Though, she didn’t know why it should matter whether her sister or brother hated Godrick Gunnery with the same vitriolic loathing that she did.

  Mayhap because in their adulation they’d preserved some of the innocence Patience had lost early on. Or, mayhap it was because, even with the betrayal between them, part of her heart would belong to him forever. “You cannot have a relationship built on a foundation of lies,” she said. Which was precisely what Godrick Gunnery had done. The least lie being his birthright, and the greatest being that he’d been betrothed to one of those lofty ladies who’d paid Patience a visit and not only revealed her identity but shared evidence that Godrick had merely been toying with the lowborn daughter of a boxer.

  Her heart spasmed all over again. Damn him. And damn her and her inability to make any of their lives right.

  “No,” her sister said in surprising agreement. “But neither can you feed a family without coin.”

  She winced. Touché.

  Ruth gave her head a pitying shake. “I’ll not mention the Duke again.” You just did.

  “Do not call him that,” she said tersely. The Duke of the Ring was the name the fighting world gave Godrick Gunnery after he’d handily beaten his first opponent.

  “But that is his fighting name.” Yes, it was. Earned after a crowd had proclaimed, Godrick the fighter with noble roots capable of smiting any opponent like the Lord himself. It perfectly suited a commanding gentleman of strength and power. “No. You’ll never hear me so much as suggest that you pay Godrick a visit—”

  “You said you wouldn’t mention him again,” she said brusquely.

  “Very well. I’ll go see to Samuel. And his bruises. Hopefully, he’s still breathing—”

  “Enough, Ruth.” Patience leveled a glower on her persistent sibling.

  Muttering to herself in her typical Ruth fashion, her sister marched off. As soon as the click of the door resonated in the still, Patience let loose a long stream of curses. Damn her sister for being correct. It hardly mattered how many years younger she was, Ruth possessed an insight and resolve most of the fighters Tom Storm had schooled over the years did not.

  Except one. There had been one indomitable figure that no other person could or would ever compare to.

  She stalked to the window and began to knock her forehead rhythmically against the lead windowpane.

  Patience knew precisely what she had to do.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Lord Godrick Gunnery, the Duke of Claymore’s fifth-born child and fourth-born scandalous son, had long been a figure gossiped about by Polite Society. It was not every day that a duke’s son committed himself to a self-made existence. And one built on prizefighting, no less.

  Nine years ago, his had been a story that scandalized societal mamas and matrons and had seen him snubbed and shunned by leading hosts and hostesses all over London. Labeled barbarous and a disgrace, he’d seen every last door closed to him.

  Until Godrick had won and won and continued winning, and ultimately amassed not only a fortune, but earned the title of England’s greatest fighter.

  For that, they could forgive a duke’s son nearly anything. Oh, that didn’t mean the ladies wished to wed him. They were content to pursue a place in his bed. Never anything more.

  Not that he’d ever given a jot about their, or anyone’s, approval. He’d found a greater sense of worth and pride in setting himself apart from the stilted world he’d been born to. A world that didn’t see the merits of hard work.

  It was why even now, four years retired from fighting, he’d established The Lords Boxing Club, a salon to rival Gentleman Jackson’s own fighting empire. The same effort he’d put into his training and career was what he devoted to every lesson doled out. A man’s business was only as good as his unhappiest client. As such, Godrick was never late to a session.

  Everyone knew that.

  His clients. His family. Bramley Allard, the Marquess of Ailesbury, Godrick’s first student-turned-friend. Knowing that, his friend still entered Godrick’s office moments before an appointment. “I’ve a lesson,” he said as the other man sailed in.

  His friend held up a newspaper. “I take it you’ve seen this?”

  Shrugging out of his jacket, Godrick h
ung the garment on a gold hook in the corner of the room. As he changed his footwear, he glanced over at the copy of The Times in his friend’s hands.

  He snorted and pulled on his shoes. “I give a hell less about societal gossip than even you,” he pointed out as he stood. Ailesbury was a second-born son who’d found himself an unexpected marquess with the passing of his brother. But he had grown up on the fringe of Society, as Godrick had.

  He made to step around Ailesbury, but the man blocked his path. The marquess waved the paper once more. “You’ll care about this.”

  Curiosity piqued, Godrick stole a glance at the clock on the opposite wall and then briefly scanned the title. The words blazed in black ink snagged his notice, and wordlessly, he pulled the gossip sheet from his friend’s hand. Ignoring Ailesbury’s dry chuckle, Godrick raced his gaze over the page. He didn’t give a bloody damn ten times to Sunday what a single lord or lady of London did with their days, nights, or any other moment between. What he did care about was the fighting world. He might not have been born to the same station as the men who fought those great bare-knuckle fights, but it had been an indelible part of his soul since he’d taken his first lesson.

  “They’re calling it The Battle of the Century,” Ailesbury offered needlessly.

  “And you see another fortune to be made...” Godrick’s words trailed off as he quickly paused on the prizefighter slated to fight and win. “Darius King,” he muttered. “Cocksure, arrogant bastard.”

  “Reason to be arrogant and cocksure,” Ailesbury reminded him. Yes, since Godrick had retired from fighting, the bulkier man had emerged to build a name for himself. Though he’d not neared Godrick’s number of victories, he’d amassed a significant number of them, all through skill and dirty-fighting tactics Godrick had never resorted to.

  He made to toss the paper back to Ailesbury when his gaze caught on one particular detail on that front page.

  Godrick froze. It was not the risk of his title as greatest fighter of the century, or even the name of the pompous, unafraid-to-fight-dirty name of King that commanded his attention. Rather, it was the surname of the person mentioned as more of an afterthought than anything. Surely there was another fighter with the same surname as his late, great instructor. A name also belonging to the man’s spirited, skilled, and headstrong daughter. His heart thumped oddly in his chest. Sam Storm. There it was. Patience’s brother. By God, the boy couldn’t be... His mind raced to tabulate the years Samuel Storm had been when Godrick had lived with them. Twenty. The boy would be twenty. And his sister eight and twenty. His fingers curled reflexively on the page.

  “It’s killing you.” His friend’s dry, and erroneous, comment brought Godrick jerking back from memories of his time with the Storm family. Ailesbury was right, but not for the reasons he believed.

  “Nothing kills me,” he replied automatically, his gaze wandering unbidden back to that front page. After he’d cost himself the only woman he ever loved, all the affairs and events of Society or the fighting world had been nothing more than empty diversions. He forced himself to relinquish the scandal sheet.

  Ailesbury collected it. “You wish it was you.”

  Of course, his friend didn’t know those buried secrets and stories of Godrick’s time with Storm and his kin. Not how it pertained to anything outside of fighting, that was. Even with their friendship and loyalty, there were certain parts of a man’s soul he didn’t bare to anyone. For Godrick, one of those parts was and would always be Patience.

  He firmed his jaw. Stubborn, unforgiving Patience, who’d ordered him to the devil, and only after she’d broken his nose with a sharp, impressive right hook. He glanced away, fixing his turbulent stare on the clock ticking away the moments. And even when time had passed, and he’d hoped to speak with her when she was rational and not seething over his lies, his own impulsivity had shattered the hope of anything more.

  The memory of her brother’s grunt as he’d crumpled at Godrick’s feet set his belly to churning.

  He’d spent four years trying to bury and forget those deepest regrets and darkest pain. Had believed himself wholly immune to Patience and able to hear that damned surname without feeling like he’d been gutted with a dull knife.

  Only to have his friend enter his salon and prove him the damned liar he was.

  “Godrick?” Ailesbury gave him a queer look. “Are you all right?”

  No. “Of course.” Ten years later, he was still the same hurt, broken man he’d been when he’d fallen in love with Patience and then lost her through mistakes that were all his own. “I’ve a lesson,” he forced himself to say.

  “And I’ve a wager to place,” Ailesbury added, folding the paper and stuffing it inside his jacket. “You might despise the man, but there isn’t a reason to be so proud as to cost yourself the small fortune that can be made.”

  “I don’t have the need for a small fortune.” Not from or because of Darius King. Godrick stalked from the office, his friend hurrying after him and easily matching his long-legged stride.

  “Ah, but not all of us have the benefit of being born the son of a duke,” Ailesbury pointed out, adjusting his black Oxonian hat. He flashed him an even grin. “That is, a duke’s legitimate son.” Most other men would have been teeming with resentment at being relegated to the role of stranger and not claimed by one of the most powerful peers in the realm. Ailesbury, however, had taken pride in mocking and disavowing those connections to his sire, rumored to have kin littering the whole of England.

  They reached the ring, where Godrick’s student, Nichols, a prosperous merchant, stood in wait.

  “If you change your mind and wish for me to place a wager on your behalf?” Ailesbury called as Godrick joined the younger, smaller man.

  “I won’t,” he retorted, not glancing back at his friend. He’d be damned if he’d wager any coin on a King win. Particularly against a Storm.

  Greeting Nichols, one of his wealthiest patrons, Godrick turned himself over to the lesson, refusing to think about his late mentor or the man’s family. He shot a fist out, catching his opponent on the chin.

  Particularly not Patience Storm.

  The man’s teeth knocked loudly as his head flew back. “Christ, God,” Nichols panted, sidestepping a sharp follow-up cut. “It’s only a bloody lesson.”

  God. That damned blasphemous moniker, Lord God, given him after his first fight. In a society where propriety was valued and godliness was supposed to matter, too many didn’t have a proper compunction at using the Lord’s name. Godrick ducked and favored the other man with a quick stab to the ribs.

  The air left Nichols on a swift exhale, and he went down to his knees, clutching his side.

  “It’s never practice,” Godrick reminded him, his chest rising and falling fast from his exertions. That was the most crucial advice he could hand down to any of his students. “What you do here”—he motioned to the fully equipped studio—“is even more important than what you do in an official fight,” he explained as Nichols remained on the floor, prodding his ribs.

  It was also a lesson Godrick had been handed ten years earlier by his instructor, Tom Storm. A man who had been a mentor and like a second father to him. Godrick owed his skill and prowess and sizable fortune to Storm for all the lessons he’d imparted.

  You repaid my father’s devotion with lies, Godrick. Lies. Lies...

  Those familiar words, an accusation, rattled around in the chambers of his mind, as fresh now as when Patience Storm had hurled them at him, along with a deserved right hook to the nose. His hand unconsciously rose to touch his face and he dropped his fingers back. For years, she would slip in and out of his thoughts like a ghost haunting him for sins of his past. He’d done a damned fine job of forgetting her. Just like that, with Ailesbury’s casual mention about a damned fight, she’d resurfaced. And in moments like these, he’d thrust her back to the place where regrets dwelled. For what could have been. For what would never be.

  Sweat dripping o
nto his brow, Godrick rolled his shoulders. “Get up,” he ordered Nichols. “You don’t have time to nurse a wound in a fight.”

  Cheeks flushed, the slender fighter pushed to his feet and brought his arms up in a ready pose.

  Are you giving me lessons, Miss Storm?

  You need them. Desperately...

  The echo of Patience’s laughter pealed around his brain. Godrick immediately shot a fist out, catching Nichols lightly on the chin, the lesson more important than the blow.

  His student grunted and gave his head a slight shake.

  “The dodge is as important as the parry,” Godrick instructed, circling the younger, smaller man.

  “How are you not even tired?” his opponent groused, panting heavily.

  Because he’d spent the better part of the past years training, and then fighting, countless men. It was his connection to the late Tom Storm that made it near impossible to forget the woman who’d captured his heart and then ordered him gone.

  Nichols grazed his right fist along Godrick’s jaw. His head whipped back, and grunting, he gave his head a hard shake. Bloody hell. She’d been his one weakness. Thinking of her and what might have been had life played out altogether differently cost him nothing but concentration and regret he didn’t need. Head clear once more, he gave Nichols a sharp jab to the midsection, costing the man another noisy exhalation.

  “Christ,” the man hissed, dancing back with skilled footing that hinted at his talent.

  Godrick dimly registered the door opening and closing as his next patron entered the salon. “Arrogance is your enemy,” he counseled. “Landing a blow to the cheek, chin, or kidney won’t win you a fight if you overestimate that strike.” He danced away from Nichols, demonstrating the proper footwork and positioning. “Arms up. Close to your face. Only a distraction—” From the corner of his eye, a flash of red like a sunset-kissed sky brought his attention whipping sideways.