The Dukes of Vauxhall

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

  Mamma tapped him on the arm. “Dearest, there’s Mr. Woods. Did you not say the other day that you needed to speak with him?”

  Much to everyone’s relief, her intervention worked.

  “I do. Thank you for the reminder,” Papa said, waving to his friend.

  He was soon engaged in business discussions with Mr. Woods, while Mamma and Mrs. Keane resumed their chat about the latest fashions.

  Richard pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Crisis averted. Don’t joke about us getting married, Tony. It’s not worth it.”

  Antonia shook her head. “I’m going to have to do something about Papa. He simply won’t give up trying to marry me off, and he’s awful at it. Nothing Mamma and I say makes a difference.”

  “Because it’s become a matter of pride for him.”

  “His or mine?”

  He grinned. “His, obviously. You don’t have any pride. Your father, however, won’t be satisfied with anything less than a duke for you.”

  “I’d be lucky to snag a knight, given the gossip about my birth and the fact that Papa is a merchant.”

  “True, but he’s a filthy rich merchant. That has to count for something.”

  “Not so far.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a fellow who seems very interested in you. He’s been staring like anything for the last several minutes.”

  Antonia couldn’t help perking up. “Really?”

  “He’s just to the left, first box over.”

  The supper boxes at Vauxhall lined three sides of the Grove. Papa had managed to secure one near the end of a row, giving them a good vantage point for watching the festivities. Unfortunately, the crowd now milling about in front of the orchestra pavilion partly obstructed her view, forcing Antonia to crane sideways around her mother to see.

  When she saw what Richard meant, she almost toppled over in shock.

  There was a man staring at her, and with an intensity she felt in the pit of her stomach. He was big and broad-shouldered and looked rather menacing, even though he lounged informally, one booted foot propped up on the rail in front of him. His hair was dark and cut ruthlessly short, and a scar ran down the side of his face. Starkly garbed in unadorned black, but for a snowy white cravat and a gold hoop that dangled from one ear, he resembled nothing so much as a pirate. A dramatically handsome, even elegant, pirate.

  She hastily retreated, her heart banging like mad. “If he’s staring at me in particular, it’s not with admiration. He looks like he wants to hang me from the nearest yardarm.”

  Richard leaned forward to take another look. “That’s not how I would describe it.”

  She frowned. “Then how would you describe it?”

  “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”

  “You are so annoying. Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “Can’t say that I do. He’s not the sort I would likely forget.”

  “Indeed not. He looks like a buccaneer.”

  “Or a highwayman.”

  “Maybe it’s a costume, and he got the dates mixed up,” she said. “The masked ball isn’t until later in the week.”

  Richard snorted. “Any self-respecting man would go home and change rather than prance around dressed up like a confounded pirate.”

  She peeked out again. The man was still staring at her with unnerving intent. Still, it was rather exciting. Men usually only stared at her if she’d done something clumsy or they were gossiping about her murky parentage.

  Antonia tapped her mother’s shoulder. “Do you know why that gentleman is staring at us?”

  Mamma gave her a distracted glance. “I imagine it’s because you look especially pretty tonight, my dear.”

  Her father, having just said farewell to Mr. Woods, turned with a concerned expression. “Is someone bothering you, pet? Point him out this instant.”

  “No one is bothering me. I simply wondered about that man in the box at the end of the row. He seems quite interested in me. Um, in us, I mean.”

  “Where exactly—” Her father fell silent as he stared at the mysterious gentleman.

  “Do you know him?” Antonia prompted.

  “Yes, and he’s not staring at you,” Papa said. “He’s staring at me.”

  “Oh. That’s a relief, I suppose. I see he’s sitting with Mr. Steele. You know him, do you not?”

  Her father’s sharp gaze whipped back to her. “Antonia, how do you know Steele?”

  She mentally winced, since she wasn’t supposed to know people like Griffin Steele. Not that she personally knew the former crime lord, but she’d seen him more than once at Vauxhall during her secret excursions with Richard.

  “I saw him at Gunter’s a few weeks ago. He was with his wife, having ices.” That, at least, was the truth. “Richard pointed him out to me,” she added, trying to sound innocent.

  Papa frowned. “And how does Richard know who he is?”

  Richard’s eyes grew round. “Ah…”

  “Goodness, everyone knows Mr. Steele,” Mamma said, coming to their rescue. “He’s entirely respectable now that he’s married.”

  “That is a matter of opinion,” Papa said. “I certainly don’t see him as fit company for our daughter, as is evidenced by the confounded blighter who’s with him.”

  “And exactly who is the, er, blighter?” Antonia asked. “And why is he staring at you with such a ferocious expression?”

  “Probably because he wants to gut me. And that is exactly what I wish to do to him.” With that trenchant remark, her father stalked out and headed toward Mr. Steele’s box.

  Mamma let out a long-suffering sigh. “That dramatic-looking man must be one of your father’s business rivals.”

  “If he is, they’re certainly not friendly rivals,” Antonia said.

  As one of the most successful traders in England, Papa had plenty of competitors and even a few outright enemies. He was more than capable of handling anyone who challenged him, but this man seemed different.

  Dangerous.

  Mrs. Keane looked worried. “Anthony appears to be extremely annoyed. I do hope they don’t get into a fight.”

  Mamma rose from the table. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. In any case, Anthony would never start a brawl in public—especially after I remind him of that.”

  “I’ll go, Mamma,” Antonia said, jumping up.

  “Certainly not.” Her mother made a grab for her.

  Antonia deftly evaded her. “Don’t worry. I won’t start any brawls, either.”

  Unless, that is, the mystery man threatened her father. Then he’d have Antonia Barnett to deal with, too.

  * * *

  Roman Cantrell pointed a finger at Griffin’s cheek. “That is the most paltry excuse for a scar I have ever seen. Besides, you got yours falling out of a tree when you were a brat in short pants. I got mine in a knife fight off the Barbary Coast.”

  “You may have a better scar, but my tattoo is miles better than yours,” his cousin said as he replenished Roman’s glass with wine.

  “How the hell do you know what my tattoo looks like?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I know mine is better.”

  Roman snorted his disdain. He’d gotten his tattoo in Tripoli, and it had hurt like hell.

  “Would you like to see?” Griffin asked. “I’ll show mine if you show yours.”

  “Don’t make me ill. Besides, your wife would look askance if we stripped in public.”

  “It wouldn’t be the most outrageous thing I’ve ever done in front of Justine.”

  “I can believe it.” Roman was still amazed that Griffin had convinced a lovely, decent woman like Justine Brightmore to marry him. In fact, he found it hard to believe his cousin had managed to get himself both leg-shackled and reformed. But if Griffin could do it, a man whose reputation was far worse than his, perhaps there was hope for Roman after all.

  That’s what his father, the Duke of Clarence, was hoping. Unfortunately, respectable
society misses either turned pale with fright as soon as Roman talked to them, or their mothers dragged them away, as if terrified he’d ravish them in the middle of a ballroom.

  So far, he hadn’t been tempted to ravish anyone. Every single girl he’d met since returning to England had bored him silly.

  “Speaking of outrageous,” Griffin said, “I hope you’re not planning to challenge Captain Barnett to a duel. If you keep staring at his family so pointedly, that’s the likely outcome. He’s very protective of them, especially his stepdaughter.”

  Seven years older than Roman, Barnett was still a big, imposing man in his prime. But he wasn’t as big as Roman, or as ruthless. Barnett had principles, whereas Roman had learned long ago that loyalty and honor could bite you in the arse if you weren’t careful.

  “I have no interest in his daughter,” he said. “In case you’ve failed to notice, she has all the appeal of a lamp post. I would have mistaken her for a boy if not for the dress and that pile of hair on her head.”

  Griffin chuckled. “Truer than you know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ah, I see our little staring contest has prompted the good captain to head this way, which I presume was your intent. Again, I feel compelled to reiterate my concerns about public brawling. Justine and my mother will be returning any moment, and neither will take it kindly if they stumble into impromptu fisticuffs.”

  Roman smiled with satisfaction as Barnett strode toward them, murder in his gaze. Having it out with his chief rival was a priority, and a chance encounter in Vauxhall was perfectly acceptable. Barnett needed to hear Roman’s warning loud and clear and it wouldn’t hurt to have witnesses.

  “I only resort to physical violence when absolutely necessary, Griffin. I merely wish to issue Barnett a polite warning about interfering in my business.”

  “I’m sure it will be very polite.”

  Griffin rose to his feet as Barnett stalked up to their box. Roman, however, made a point of staying where he was—boots propped up on the rail, wineglass dangling in his hand. As tough as he was, Barnett was not a thug. He’d fought his way to the top of a dangerous profession using his wits and his fists, but he was still a gentleman.

  Roman, however, wasn’t a gentleman, despite his royal blood. The wary reaction of the ton to his reappearance among their ranks made that as clear as a sunrise over the South China Sea.

  Barnett’s glare remained lethal. “If you have something to say to me, Cantrell, then say it. Do not send threatening looks my way, or stare my wife and daughter out of countenance.”

  “But they don’t seem the slightest bit discomposed by my admiring glances,” Roman said. “Quite the opposite.”

  That was hardly true. Mrs. Barnett had barely glanced at him, but the daughter had stared at him with an expression torn between fascination and horror. At least she hadn’t pulled out her smelling salts, like several young ladies he’d met.

  “My family is off limits,” Barnett said. “Don’t even think about exacting retribution through them, or you will find yourself at the bottom of the Thames.”

  Roman snorted. “I’m quaking in my boots.”

  When the captain’s hands curled into fists, Griffin heaved a sigh. “Sir, as much as my cousin deserves it, I beg you to refrain from punching him. The pleasures of Vauxhall may seem tame compared to your exciting lives on the high seas, but I hardly think the ladies will be pleased by an impromptu prizefight.”

  Barnett shot Griffin an irritated look. “I have no intention of starting a brawl, not that it’s any business of yours. I’ll thank you to stay out of it.”

  “I beg to differ. I take any threat to Captain Cantrell as a threat to me.”

  Coming from Griffin Steele, that sort of statement would normally have had grown men pissing down their legs.

  Not Barnett. “That has me quaking in my boots, it does,” he mocked. “You’re as bad as Cantrell, so ask me if I care about your opinion.”

  As enjoyable as it was for Roman to listen to his cousin spar with his rival, it was time to get down to business. He was about to do just that when the sight of a small figure dashing toward them with single-minded determination caught his eye. Antonia Barnett apparently had no trouble shoving men twice her size out of the way.

  “I hate to interrupt your splendid tirade,” Roman said as he finally rose, “but it seems your stepdaughter is about to join us.”

  Miss Barnett swanned up with a challenging smile that dared anyone to object to her presence. For such a petite thing, she seemed to have a great deal of brass, especially in the face of her father’s disapproving glower.

  “Antonia, why are you marching about without an escort? You know I hate that,” Barnett snapped. “Please return to our box immediately.”

  She peered at him, as if perplexed. “That request makes no sense, Papa. You just said I shouldn’t be walking about without an escort.”

  “That is simply a neat bit of sophistry, and you know it,” her father sternly replied.

  The girl laughed. The sound, full-throated and warm, was nothing like the polite titter society misses employed to express amusement.

  “I’m just teasing, Papa,” she said, pressing Barnett’s arm. “You know I’m perfectly safe in the Grove, especially with you only a few boxes away. In any case, Mamma sent me to fetch you. She’s afraid you might get into a disagreement with your, er, friends, and cause a scene that would distress the ladies.”

  “Good God,” her father muttered.

  “In the interest of peace,” Griffin said with a smile, “allow me to make the introductions. I am Griffin Steele, and this is my cousin, Captain Roman Cantrell.”

  Miss Barnett dipped into a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Steele.” Then she turned to Roman, squarely meeting his gaze for the first time. “And you, Captain Cantrell. I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”

  For a moment, Roman thought he was seeing things. In the light of hundreds of lanterns hanging from the trees, she seemed to shimmer like a fairy, half in and half out of the world of man. Her thick hair gleamed like moonlight, and her spangled yellow dress coasted over the gentle curves of her lithe figure, glittering with her every movement. Her smile was charmingly fey, as if she alone were privy to a splendid joke.

  But it was the eyes that truly gave him a jolt. Of rich, honeyed amber, they were framed with lashes so lavish her eyes appeared lined with kohl. Staring into that gaze was like looking at sunshine.

  And then it hit him. The girl had inherited those eyes from Barnett, the man who claimed to be her stepfather. That gaze—and her forthright manner—testified to Barnett blood running strong and true.

  From her resigned sigh, it was obvious she was used to people reaching that conclusion. Roman couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy, since he understood how difficult it was to pretend to be something you weren’t.

  “What the devil is wrong with you, Cantrell?” Barnett growled. “The least you could do is respond to the poor girl instead of gaping at her like an idiot.”

  “Damnation, Barnett,” Roman said. “I thought you didn’t want me even talking to your precious little darling.”

  “I don’t, but she’s taken the matter out of my hands. And you will refrain from using foul language in her presence.”

  Antonia turned her big, innocent-looking eyes on her father. “Papa, you frequently swear in my presence at the office.”

  “I do not.”

  “Of course you do. In fact, you made me vow never to tell Mamma, remember?”

  He grimaced. “Oh, hell. Don’t say anything or we’ll both be in for it.”

  “It is our little secret,” his daughter said in a solemn voice.

  Barnett’s aggrieved huff spoke volumes about their relationship. Roman had to admit it was surprisingly entertaining to see the gruff trader tied up in knots by a slip of a girl.

  “Do you often visit your father’s offices?” Griffin asked in an amu
sed voice. “Wapping is not exactly a stroll in Mayfair.”

  The captain bristled. “Are you suggesting I don’t know how to protect my own child?”

  “Not at all,” Griffin said. “In fact, I would commend you for being so open-minded a parent.”

  “No one in Wapping would dare touch me,” Antonia said. “They know Papa would cut their hearts out and toss their bodies into the river.”

  Barnett looked about to have an apoplectic fit. Roman found himself liking Miss Barnett more by the minute.

  “And do you enjoy visiting your father’s office?” he asked.

  “I do,” she said. “I have a head for numbers and often help with the ledgers.”

  “That’s a rather unusual pastime for a young lady.”

  She hesitated a fraction too long. “It’s odd of me, I know.”

  “There’s nothing odd about you, my dear.” Barnett narrowed his gaze on Roman. “Surely you’re not suggesting there’s something wrong with a young woman having a brain.”

  “On the contrary. There’s nothing more appalling than a stupid woman.”

  “Except a stupid man,” Antonia said.

  “Oh, well done,” murmured Griffin.

  Roman had to swallow a chuckle. “I’m sure you’re a great help to your father. God knows he could use it.”

  He meant it as both a jest and a compliment, but her gaze sparked with disapproval. Clearly, she was very protective of Barnett, as he was of her.

  “Women often have better heads for business,” Griffin smoothly interjected. “Take my mother. She’s been successfully running her charitable institution for years.”

  Antonia rewarded Griffin with a warm smile. It turned her elfin features, which were too sharp and clever to be deemed conventionally pretty, into something approaching beauty. Roman wondered what it would be like to have such a smile directed at him.

  “I’ve heard about Lady Hunter’s wonderful charity for girls and their babies,” she said. “I wish I could be so useful.”

  “You do lots of useful things,” her father said gruffly. “You take care of your mother and me, for one.”

  “Thank you, Papa, but that hardly compares to Lady Hunter’s estimable work.”