The Dukes of Vauxhall

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

  The Runners were out in force. But as far as Roman could tell, they were still outmanned by Vauxhall’s gang and other disreputable sorts. Everything he’d ever heard suggested Vauxhall would leave nothing to chance if he could make a profit.

  With so many wealthy men here tonight, there was a great deal of profit to be made—or stolen. Roman could feel trouble prickling along the back of his neck. It was the way he always felt when a storm approached just over the horizon, even when a breeze barely stirred.

  “I’ve never met the infamous Duke of Vauxhall,” Roman said. “Is he in the tent?”

  “Saw him awhile ago,” Clarence said, “talking to Devonshire. He wanted to see the ring, I take it.”

  “Bloody hell,” Roman muttered.

  The Duke of Devonshire had agreed to sponsor the fight and put up a purse that included a spectacular diamond and gold ring for the winner. The fact that Vauxhall was sniffing around it was not a good sign.

  In the last few minutes, more people had crammed into the tent, and the heavy air was beginning to reek of sweat and alcohol. Vauxhall’s underlings squeezed through the crowd, taking bets and likely picking pockets. The only empty space was right up by the ring, where several ornate padded chairs stood empty awaiting the arrival of the Regent and his retinue.

  The boisterous crowd was growing restless, since the fight had been due to start some minutes ago. The organizers clearly didn’t wish the Regent’s arrival to interrupt the fight, but they might not have a choice.

  Roman saw a stealthy hand inch toward the back of his father’s coat.

  He grabbed it and pulled its owner upright. A frightened boy, no more than ten, stared back at him. Halfway into his cups, Roman’s father made a large and inviting target for one of Vauxhall’s cubs.

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, mister,” yelped the boy, trying to struggle free. “Honest.”

  “Oh, really?” Roman said, holding him in a firm grip.

  Clarence twisted around. “Were you trying to pick my pocket, you blasted rascal? I’ll have you transported for trying to steal from a member of the royal family.”

  Under his layer of dirt, the boy bleached as white as bone.

  When Clarence started to wave for a constable, Roman shook his head. “No need for that, sir. The lad was just trying to get closer to see. Isn’t that right?”

  “Y…yes, your worship.”

  Roman extracted a half crown from his pocket and gave it to the boy. “Run along now, before you get into trouble.”

  The youngster cast him a grateful look before slipping back away.

  Clarence snorted. “He wasn’t trying to get closer, was he?”

  “Of course he wasn’t.”

  “Gone soft in your old age, lad?”

  “Hardly, but the prisons are crowded enough, as are the transport ships. They don’t need more children filling them up.”

  Roman might have found himself with a similarly desperate life, since Grandfather Cantrell had intended to place him in an orphanage shortly after his birth. If he’d even survived past infancy, he’d probably have ended up on the streets or in a gang, like the cubs roaming the Gardens tonight. Only the Duke of Clarence’s intervention had saved him from that fate. Not only had his father provided financial support, he’d made it clear he would take it poorly if his son was not raised in a manner befitting his heritage.

  Grandfather Cantrell had eventually accepted Roman for his own sake, and they’d grown close. But he owed his father a debt he could never repay. Clarence knew it, too, which was why he was now so cheerfully trying to manage his son’s life.

  “Let us not think on dreary subjects like prisons tonight,” said Clarence. “You need to relax and enjoy yourself, my boy. The war is finally over.”

  “I’ll try, sir.” Not that Roman could ever entirely leave war behind. The memories lurked too near the surface.

  “How goes your search on the Marriage Mart?” his father said. “Any promising fillies on the horizon?”

  “That is hardly a topic conducive to my relaxation.”

  Clarence guffawed. “Still having trouble, eh? It’s that blasted reputation of yours. Scares the poor chits silly. Plus that damned scar.” He shook his head. “Always thought the ladies found scars to be romantic.”

  “Apparently not mine.” Though Antonia didn’t seem to mind his scar—or his reputation—at all.

  “Not to worry,” Clarence said. “I think I’ve found just the right girl for you.”

  That sounded alarming. “Who?”

  “Lady Serena Tidmore. She’s the daughter of an earl and wealthy to boot. Her father’s a splendid chap. If I drop a word in his ear, I’m sure he’ll be happy to smooth the way.”

  “Please do not,” Roman said. “Unless you wish me committed to Bedlam.”

  “Met the girl, have you?”

  “I have. She’s appallingly rigid and judgmental. And I doubt she’d want anything to do with me, given my background.”

  “She would if her father and I encouraged the match.”

  “He probably would, because she’s already halfway on the shelf.”

  “Makes no sense, if you ask me. She’s a pretty gel with a good dowry.”

  “She’s a mean-spirited gossip, and you know it.”

  Clarence sighed. “Well, at least she won’t be intimidated by you. In fact, I think she’s just the woman to keep you in line.”

  “With respect, sir, I don’t wish to be kept in line.”

  His father adopted a comically woeful expression. “Is it so wrong to wish for you to be happily settled in London, like the rest of my children?”

  “You just want me around so you can borrow money,” Roman said bluntly.

  “Dear boy, I have your cousin Griffin for that. But I’m quite serious when I say you do have family, and I don’t mean Griffin or the rest of your scapegrace cousins. My children by Mrs. Jordan would be happy to get to know you better. They’ve told me so any number of times.”

  Although Roman had met some of his half-siblings, he maintained his distance. They all seemed pleasant enough, but it felt disloyal to his mother’s memory to establish a stronger connection with them. Clarence had been devoted to Mrs. Jordan, whereas he’d shown no interest in Roman’s mother after their brief affair concluded.

  “That is kind of them,” Roman said politely.

  His father snorted. “I know what that means. My boy, it’s time to settle down, spend time with your family, and find a nice little wife. Who knows? The Regent might even give you a title to thank you for your services.”

  “I don’t need—”

  His father elbowed him in the ribs. “There’s that scoundrel Vauxhall, talking to Devonshire. Looks like they’re not going to wait for the Regent, after all.”

  Roman glanced at Devonshire, who was talking to a surprisingly elegant, slight-looking man.

  Except…

  “Are you sure that’s Vauxhall?” he asked.

  His father shot him a frown. “I may be getting old and fat—although not as fat as my brother—but my eyesight is fine. That’s the bloody fellow right across from us, in the black coat.”

  That the Duke of Vauxhall was a woman was stunningly obvious—at least to Roman. He could see it in her slender shoulders and the delicate lines of her face. While her disguise was a masterful one, he couldn’t believe she managed to get away with it all these years.

  But people generally saw only what they wanted to see, or what they assumed was the truth. His own life had taught him that lesson.

  “That is quite a surprise,” Roman said.

  His father peered at him. “What is?”

  “The Duke of Vauxhall is—”

  The words died on his lips as he stared in disbelief. It would appear there was another woman prancing about the Gardens dressed as a man—or a boy, more accurately.

  “Forgive me, sir,” he said as he shot to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Roman, whe
re are you going?” Clarence exclaimed. “The Regent will be arriving any moment.”

  “I see someone I must talk to.”

  “And it can’t wait?”

  “It cannot.”

  He grimly shoved his way past a pair of cupshot rakes and headed for the other side of the tent. One of these days, the blasted girl was going to get herself killed. That is, if Roman didn’t throttle her first.

  * * *

  Antonia tried to peer over the shoulder of the man in front of her. She and Richard were barely ten feet from the boxing ring, but they might as well have been ten miles away. The tent was packed shoulder to shoulder, with more pouring in.

  Clearly, half the population of the city wanted to attend the Battle of the Century, as the organizers had deemed the event. But the chances of Antonia actually seeing the fight were diminishing with every passing second. She was beginning to feel rather lightheaded from an atmosphere thick with the odors of sweat, cologne, and liquor. If the bout didn’t begin soon, she might cry uncle and ask Richard to take her home.

  She could try to get herself safely home if Richard wanted to stay. No one would look twice at her, dressed in breeches and a short jacket and with her hair pinned up under a slouchy hat. But since they were deep in the darkest parts of the Gardens, Antonia had no desire to encounter the disreputable characters lurking about without Richard by her side, disguise or not.

  Nor was she as young or as skinny as she used to be. It had been some months since she’d last ventured out dressed as young Tony, and it would appear she’d gained weight—mostly in the bosom and in her bottom, which was tremendously inconvenient. It hadn’t been easy to secure a boy’s clothing in the first place, and it would be even harder next time around.

  Tonight was beginning to feel like trouble. A quiet voice seemed to whisper in her ear, telling her a threatening storm scudded in her direction.

  “Bloody hell.” Richard scowled at the large man who’d just squeezed in front of them. “You stepped on my foot, you blighter. And you’re blocking my view.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder. “Bugger you, you little shite.”

  When Richard started to bristle, Antonia grabbed his sleeve. “Leave him alone,” she murmured. “We’ll get trampled if you start a fight. Besides, he’s twice your size.”

  “We’re getting trampled anyway,” Richard grumbled. “That imbecile just about crushed my foot.”

  “As I just mentioned, he’s twice your size.”

  “Oh, very well,” Richard said. “But I’m sure I could take him, if I had to.”

  She bit back a smile. “True, but you’d probably get arrested. Just think what our parents would say if they found out.”

  “Lord, they’d murder us.”

  “Especially you. My father would very likely hold you responsible.”

  Richard grinned. “He knows this sort of escapade would never be my idea. I just tag along to make sure you stay out of trouble.”

  “Balderdash. You wanted to come tonight as much as I did.”

  “I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known it would be such a crush. Can’t see a blasted thing.”

  “We could try getting closer to the front. I’ll wriggle through first and then you can follow me.”

  Richard shook his head. “Best to hang back here since half of London is present. Can’t take a chance on getting recognized.”

  “It’s so dark in here, no one would be able to tell me from Adam.”

  He cast a dubious gaze over her figure. “Don’t know about that. You’re more recognizable than you were a few years ago when we started sneaking out.”

  “I’m beginning to think getting recognized wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to me.”

  He gaped at her. “Did someone drop you on your head? Just think of the scandal if people found out you were…you know.”

  “That I’m a girl running about in boy’s clothing?”

  “Hush, you booby. If someone hears us, you’ll be ruined.”

  “That would mean Papa would have to give up his annoying efforts to marry me off to a wealthy aristocrat—which we both know is never going to happen.”

  Especially since Roman Cantrell had sailed into her life.

  Not that the good captain would wish to have anything to do with her after that hideous scene in Camberwell the other day. Antonia had asked her father point-blank why he hated Roman, but he’d gone as tight-lipped as an oyster. Subsequent attempts to broach the subject had resulted in a stern order to stay far away from Roman Cantrell.

  It appeared her odd but lovely friendship with Roman was over, a thought so depressing she’d told herself repeatedly that it mattered not a whit. Sadly, her bracing self-lectures had failed to do the trick.

  “Trying to ruin yourself is a ridiculous plan,” Richard said.

  “It’s not really a plan, per se. It just occurred to me.”

  “Well, I’ll have none of it. In fact, we’re leaving right now.”

  She stopped him when he tried to grab her arm. “We’ve gone through a great deal of trouble to get here tonight, including sneaking out of our houses. And I know how much you want to see this fight.”

  “Tony—”

  “I promise I’ll be as good as gold. It would be silly to come all this way and then miss the main event.”

  Richard cast a longing glance toward the ring. “Looks like they’re about to get started. I suppose we could stay for a round or two and then sneak out when no one is looking.”

  “Then why don’t we try to move closer? It’s bound to get more crowded once Prinny arrives, and I can’t see a thing from back here.”

  “You’re right. Clarence arrived about a half hour ago, so the Regent is bound to show soon.”

  Antonia was about to wriggle through a small gap in front of her, but she jerked back. “Clarence is here? Was anyone with him?”

  “Yes, Captain Cantrell.” He grimaced. “Oh, blast. Do you think he’ll recognize you? Maybe we’d better leave after all.”

  She tried for a casual shrug. “Cantrell barely knows me. Besides, I’m sure his attention will be on the fight.”

  “I don’t know, Tony—”

  “Stop fussing and come along.”

  Flattening her arms across her chest, she slid between two men blocking their way. Richard swore but followed, apologizing to those who protested when she elbowed them aside or trod on booted toes. They wriggled their way closer, to just behind the ringside corner where Gunnery was deep in conversation with Gentleman Jackson.

  Antonia’s heart pounded like a hammer against her ribs—not from exertion, but from the fact that she was now within hailing distance of Roman. She could no longer deny her hopeless infatuation with him. She simply had to see him again and know he was all right.

  Why wouldn’t he be, you nitwit?

  He hadn’t seemed all right in Camberwell after her father had insulted him. For a few moments, Roman had looked truly pained, even haunted, and it had made her heart ache. Whatever troubled him, it must be bad.

  That it was also the root of her father’s hostility was abundantly clear.

  Antonia shaded her eyes against the flare of the torches around the ring, blinking to adjust her vision. When it cleared, she found herself looking straight at Roman, not more than fifteen feet away. He was gazing back at her with a stunned expression that suggested her disguise had catastrophically failed.

  His expression swiftly transformed into one of outrage. When he jumped up from his chair, her heart climbed into her throat.

  She grabbed Richard’s arm. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “But the fighters are taking their places. See, Jackson is making the introductions.”

  The crowd started to cheer as Gentleman Jackson introduced the combatants with flourishing language.

  Antonia had to shout in Richard’s ear to be heard over the din. ”Captain Cantrell recognized me.”

  Startled, Richard glanced acros
s the ring. “Uh, oh, he’s headed this way, too. And he looks cross as crabs.”

  “No, he looks ready to throttle me. Let’s go.”

  As she pulled Richard back the way they came, she spared a glance over her shoulder. Roman was forging toward them with a grim determination that said she needed to be long gone before he reached her.

  When Jackson called the fight to begin, the crowd surged closer, pushing Antonia back toward the ring and forcing her to let go of Richard. He grabbed for her but stumbled and was shoved further away. It took only a moment for him to be swallowed up in the heaving throng.

  Clamping down on a surge of panic, Antonia made herself as small as she could. For a desperate moment she found herself squeezed between two very drunk men and almost prayed that Roman would find her. But then she remembered what was likely to happen if he did. Wriggling like a fish on a hook, she managed to pop free a moment later.

  Finally, she saw the exit and headed for it. She’d almost reached it when a man shot his arms out in response to something happening in the ring and whacked her cap to the ground, sending her hair half tumbling from its pins.

  “Sorry, lad.” Then the man did a double take and gave her a delighted grin. “Well, what have we here?”

  “You have nothing.” Antonia snatched up her cap and shoved it back on her head. “Good night to you, sir.”

  He snaked out a hand and halted her backward shuffle toward the exit. “Oh, don’t leave now, my pretty.”

  The man yanked her close. His clothes were expensive and smelled of bay rum, and she had the vague sense she’d met him before.

  Unfortunately, he was also strong, easily preventing her from pulling her knife from her boot—not that she wished to stab him unless absolutely necessary, since that would cause an unholy commotion.

  “Unhand me, sir,” she ordered.

  He squeezed her arm so hard she had to bite back a curse. “I swear I know you.”

  “You don’t.”

  When he reached for her cap, Antonia kicked him in the shin, solidly connecting.

  He yelped. “That hurt, you stupid bitch.”

  A large hand suddenly came down on his shoulder. “This will hurt even more,” Roman said from behind them.