A Renegade Royals novella
Captain Roman Cantrell, illegitimate son of a royal duke,
served his country as a ruthless privateer on the high seas. But the war is
over and his father orders him home to London to find a respectable wife, one
who will help restore his reputation amongst the ton.
But the only woman Roman finds remotely attractive is the
opposite of respectable. Antonia Barnett is decidedly unconventional,
positively scandalous—and entirely enchanting. Unfortunately, she’s also the
daughter of his greatest rival, a man who believes that Roman’s dangerous past
will come back to haunt him.
But troublesome fathers and ruthless enemies are no match
for Antonia—as Roman is about to find out…
About Vanessa Kelly
Named
by Booklist as one of the "New Stars of Historical
Romance," bestselling author Vanessa Kelly's books have
been nominated for awards in a number of contests. She is also the recipient of
the prestigious Maggie Medallion for historical romance. With a Master's Degree
in English Literature, Vanessa is known for developing vibrant Regency
settings, appealing characters, and witty storylines that captivate readers.
You can visit her on the web at vanessakellyauthor.com.
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The Buccaneer Duke by Vanessa Kelly
Chapter 1
“I don’t suppose you would consider marrying me, would
you?” Antonia Barnett asked in a hopeful voice.
“I’d rather throw
myself in the Serpentine,” said Richard Keane. “You know I’d die a thousand
deaths for you, old girl. Getting leg-shackled, however, is out of the
question.”
She tried to work
up a grumpy response, but Richard was her dearest chum, and she’d known him for
so long that it was difficult to see anything but friendship between them.
Besides, she was no great beauty, small and skinny to the point of angularity.
Those characteristics served her well in certain circumstances, yet were
decidedly detrimental when casting lures for a mate.
“You could do
worse,” she said, “especially since I’m rich.”
“Confound it,
Tony, keep your voice down,” Richard hissed, glancing toward the front of the
supper box. “My mother would love for us to get riveted. She’s like a dog with
a bone on the subject. I’ll never hear the end of it if you start up again.”
Rebecca Keane was
sitting nearby with Antonia’s mother, eating Vauxhall’s paltry excuse for a
supper and engaging in animated conversation. Antonia’s father, as usual, stood
and kept a watchful eye on the occupants of the other boxes and the crowds
strolling along the colonnaded walks of the Grove. Papa had never been a fan of
Vauxhall Gardens. He was convinced that it was a den of thieves, drunks, rakes,
and prostitutes, all scheming to take advantage of respectable women like his
wife and daughter.
He wasn’t
entirely wrong, as Antonia had personally witnessed. But unlike her father, she
loved Vauxhall, with its wide avenues and groves of trees glittering in the
light of thousands of colorful glass lanterns. If Papa ever found out that she
and Richard occasionally snuck off to spend evenings strolling those groves and
peeking into secluded grottos, he would have an apoplectic fit.
As far as Antonia
was concerned, parents were best kept in the dark about potential areas of
conflict. It made life easier for all concerned.
“Our mothers can’t hear us,” she replied.
“Not over the din of the orchestra. Why they must play an endless stream of
military marches is beyond me. I can barely hear myself think.”
“They’re
practicing for next week’s celebrations to commemorate our great victory at
Waterloo.”
Antonia scoffed.
“The Prince Regent is no doubt more concerned with celebrating his birthday
than the end of the war. If there’s anything Prinny loves it’s a good party.”
The next few
weeks would see a veritable orgy of balls, concerts, and fireworks to honor
both the defeat of Napoleon and the Regent’s birthday. Many of the events would
be held at Vauxhall Gardens. Like Prinny himself, the festivities were bound to
be overblown, gaudy, and ridiculously extravagant.
The fact that
they would undoubtedly be a great deal of fun too meant Antonia had every
intention of attending as many as she could, even if it meant telling a few
white lies to her parents. Top on her list was the prizefight rumored to take
place a few days after the masked ball. While such fights were thoroughly
illegal and no place for a lady, that simply made her all the more determined
to attend—although certainly not as a lady.
“Maybe you’ll
meet some new suitors during the celebrations,” Richard said. “Bound to be some
fellow who will take a shine to you.”
“Richard, I’ve
been on the Marriage Mart for three years, and we all know I’m an abject
failure. It would take a miracle of monumental proportions to change that.”
Her friend’s gaze
warmed with sympathy. “Is that why you came up with that cracked brain idea to
marry me?”
“You must admit
it would solve more than a few problems. Papa would stop worrying about me, and
your mother would be deliriously happy. We could eventually run Nightingale
Trading together, and we’d be as rich as King Solomon.”
“You mean you’d
be rich as Solomon. My father is a minority partner, remember?”
“No matter. As my
husband, you’d control my fortune. One day you’d be the head of everything.”
Everything would
include one of the most influential trading companies in England. Under normal
circumstances, Antonia should be a considerable prize as a result. Her
circumstances, however, were anything but normal.
“Sorry, old gal,
it’s still not enough to tempt me,” Richard said. “Besides, you’d bully me
unmercifully. We both know you have a better head for business than I do.”
“Nonsense, you’re
very good with numbers, just like your father. You’d be splendid running
Nightingale Trading.”
“Not as splendid
as you. And your father would make me walk the plank before he allowed us to
marry. Only a rich aristocrat will do for his darling daughter, as he’s made
abundantly clear.”
“Yes, and look
how well it’s worked out,” she said gloomily. “It’ll be a miracle if anyone
wants to marry me after last week’s incident.”
“Were you talking
about marriage, my dear?” interjected Mrs. Keane, who’d obviously been
eavesdropping. She smiled archly at Antonia’s mother. “I have said a thousand times
that my son and your daughter would make the perfect match. After all, they are
such good friends.”
“Yes, so good
they are like brother and sister,” Mamma replied with a twinkle in her
beautiful blue eyes.
“True enough,
Mrs. Barnett,” Richard said with a grateful smile. “And we’d probably kill each
other after a week, anyway, so there’s that.”
“Nonsense,”
huffed Mrs. Keane. “Everyone knows friendship is the best foundation for
marriage. Antonia and you are well-suited in all respects.”
Antonia’s father
had been lounging against a railing at the front of the box, but Mrs. Keane’s
brassy voice caught his attention. “We’ve discussed this more than once,
Rebecca. As estimable as Richard is, he and Antonia are not suited for each other.”
Richard gave a
dramatic shudder. “Can’t think of anything more dismal, actually.”
“Richard Keane!”
his mother exclaimed. “What a terrible thing to say about your dearest friend.”
“He’s probably
right, Mrs. Keane,” Antonia said, wrinkling her nose. “And his opinion is
generally shared by everyone on the Marriage Mart. I suspect I’m doomed for
spinsterhood.”
“Nonsense,
darling,” Mamma said. “Everyone thinks you’re lovely.”
“And if they
don’t, they’ll have me to answer to,” Papa said in a stern tone.
Antonia’s father
was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early forties. Rugged and imposing, his
over-protective manner towards his only child—while endearing—was yet another
impediment to her quest to find a suitable husband.
“I believe Lord
Totten discovered that when you tossed him into the pond at Green Park,” she
said.
“I didn’t toss
him,” Papa said in a defensive tone. “I just gave him a little push. He
insulted you, and I won’t have that.”
The viscount had
simply made a veiled reference to Antonia’s eye color, an unusual golden-amber
and the exact match of her father’s. Normally, one might take such a remark as
a compliment. And given that she was rather ordinary looking, they counted as
her best feature.
But though she’d
inherited Papa’s eyes, he was technically her stepfather. Antonia’s parents had
been childhood sweethearts and then young lovers until tragically separated by
unfeeling relatives. Papa had been thrown out on his ear without a shilling,
while Mamma had been hastily pushed into marriage with a wealthy baronet.
Convinced the love of his life had abandoned him, Papa had set sail for the
Americas, where he’d made his fortune in shipping.
Mamma had been forced
to pretend she’d become pregnant by her new husband, not Anthony Barnett.
Eventually, Sir Richard Paget had deduced Antonia was another man’s child.
While he’d been decent enough to go along with the charade until he died, Sir
Richard had never shown a scrap of affection to either his wife or Antonia.
When she was a
little girl, she had always wondered why her father didn’t like her, and she’d
never been able to shake the sensation that the fault rested with her.
A few short weeks
after her twelfth birthday, Captain Anthony Barnett returned to London, seeking
revenge against the woman he was convinced had betrayed him. To say he’d been
stunned when he first set eyes on Antonia was an understatement. It had been a
shock for her, too. All the questions of her life had been answered in the
moment when she gazed into the eyes of the man who was obviously her real
father.
Matters had been
fraught for a day or two, but eventually Papa accepted that Mamma had been
trying to protect everyone by her deception. They had married almost
immediately, and Papa had adopted Antonia. To avoid scandal, they still
pretended he was only her stepfather, and the polite world mostly went along
with the fiction.
After all, Papa
was very rich.
But only a
particularly credulous person could fail to notice that they shared the same
unusual eye color, not to mention, for all intents and purposes, a first name.
It had the unfortunate effect of making Antonia less than respectable, and
sometimes even the object of unfeeling gossip. She only gave a fig when Papa
did something like tossing a would-be suitor into a pond.
“Lord Totten was
just making an observation,” she said.
“One that has
been made numerous times over the years,” Mamma reminded him. “I would think
you’d be used to it by now, Anthony.”
“I will never
grow used to anyone insulting my daughter. Or you, for that matter,” he said,
taking his wife’s hand. “Anyone who does will regret it.”
When he gallantly
kissed the inside of her wrist, Mamma blushed. Mrs. Keane giggled and fluttered
her handkerchief like a debutante. Although Antonia rolled her eyes, it was
hard not to admire her parents. They were like characters out of a novel—larger
than life, with a love to match.
“Lord Totten
certainly came to regret it,” she said.
“He caught a
dreadful cold,” Mamma said ruefully. “His poor mother told me it was quite a
violent taking.”
Antonia sighed.
She’d rather liked Lord Totten, despite his occasionally smirking attitude. At
least he made an effort to speak with her.
“That’s
ridiculous,” her father protested. “He barely got wet.”
“He got soaked.
The point is, Papa, if you keep threatening the few suitors I have, I’ll be an
old maid in no time.”
She had yet to
receive a decent offer in three years. There’d been a few young men who’d
proposed, but it was clear they simply wanted her fortune. Antonia would never
be so desperate as to accept an offer from a man whose only interest was in the
state of her purse, not the state of her heart.
“I only threaten
the ones who don’t respect you,” Papa said. “Nor am I responsible for the fact
that most men are buffoons. You are exceedingly smart and nice, and you’re the
prettiest girl in London. You take after your mother, so it’s no wonder.”
Antonia wasn’t a
patch on her gorgeous mother. Still, Papa believed every word he said. It was
terribly sweet of him, of course, but also painful because she was letting him
down.
Richard poked her
in the arm. “He’s right, Tony. After all, you’re lots of fun, and you never nag
a fellow. You’ll make a splendid wife.”
“Just not for
you,” she joked. “Or did I get that wrong?”
Mrs. Keane leapt
in like an acrobat. “Of course my son would love to marry you. Just name the
day, my dear.”
“Confound it,”
Richard muttered.
“I repeat,
Antonia and Richard do not suit,” Papa said to Mrs. Keane. “And your husband
agrees with me.”
The older woman
snorted. “As if Simon would ever disagree with anything you said. You quite
dominate him.”
“I do nothing of
the sort. I simply explain things in a rational manner, and then Simon agrees
with me.”
They all rolled their eyes. Papa and Mr.
Keane were partners and great friends, but no one doubted who ruled the roost
at Nightingale Trading. Antonia’s father was a force of nature, always
convinced he knew best. The fact that he was usually correct didn’t make the
characteristic any less annoying.
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 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.
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