Stealing the Duke's Heart

by Shana Galen

  Acknowledgments

  THANKS TO KELLY SNYDER for suggesting the title of this novella.

  And much appreciation to Grace Burrowes for saving me from sickening readers with my original plot. (And no, I won’t tell you what it was. Well... I might if you write to me and ask.)

  Of course, thanks goes to Carolyn Jewel as well for being such a fabulous co-author and to Miranda Neville for her help with the book’s theme and concept.

  And I want to acknowledge Joyce Lamb for her stellar copyediting. She tries to make me perfect, but if there are any mistakes, they’re still my own. Same goes with Sarah Rosenbarker, who proofed the manuscript. I always send her what I think is a flawless manuscript, and she always finds more mistakes. Thanks, Sarah.

  Taken by the Duke

  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 that 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 l
ad 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 stabbing 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.”

  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 h
ave 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.