The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

by Christina McKnight

  Lamplight from the row of townhouses on either side of Saint George Street cast a hazy glow on the walk, making it easy to spot Miss Samuels walking briskly toward the main street. Her steps were sure, and she kept her eyes trained straight ahead as if she hadn’t a care in the world. It was entirely possible that she departed his townhouse each evening and embarked on these suspect walks about the square every night. Merely strolling to and fro, no matter the time of day, was not the gravest sin one could commit.

  Hanover Square was as safe a neighborhood as to be found in London proper; however, that did not mean that cutpurses and thieves did not lurk in the passageways, waiting for an unsuspecting victim to happen down their walk.

  Did the woman not possess even an ounce of self-preservation? And why hadn’t his butler insisted that a footman accompany her?

  Damon waited until she reached the sixth townhouse down from his before he began his pursuit, hoping the noise from Grosvenor Street would be loud enough to drown out the ring of his boot steps on the walkway.

  His apprehension lessened when she reached the main street and didn’t hail a hack but instead turned right and continued on down Grosvenor Street on foot. When Damon reached the corner, he paused as she crossed the street at the next intersection and disappeared between a row of houses on Mill Street.

  Where in the bloody hell was she going at this time of night?

  As the hour grew later, so would the frigid London cold settle across the town, burrowing into every alley and thoroughfare. She’d been in his employ only a short time, did she know her way about the area? Would she grow lost or be targeted by a vagabond up to no good?

  He darted down Grosvenor and hurried between two slow-moving carts to the corner of Mill Street, where he lost sight of her. Pushing up against the stone facade of the corner house, he crept along in the darkness, making sure to keep his steps light.

  As much as he kept to the shadows, the governess walked in the little light that could be found from the street lamps and uncovered windows to her right—no hiding, no sulking, no fear.

  Damon could never imagine allowing Joy to traverse the dangerous London streets, no matter her age. The risk, even in Mayfair, was too great—the late hour notwithstanding.

  Miss Samuels slowed her pace, forcing Damon to crouch low to remain unseen.

  Glancing up at a townhouse, she pulled something from her pocket and held it close in the dim lighting before returning it to her cloak and walking up the two steps. Before she even had a chance to knock, the door opened, casting a bright light over the governess and onto the walk below. Whoever resided inside had been expecting her.

  “A simple walk,” Damon scoffed.

  Common sense told him to turn around and return to Ashford Hall.

  His ineptness at listening to his own good sense had Damon moving swiftly down the walk to stand before the townhouse at 10 Mill Street. It was nothing as grand as the townhouses in Hanover Square or Grosvenor Square, with no overhang and only an unlit sconce above the single door. The rough stone wall was worn from years of London drizzle, marred by the soot from the tall chimneys dotting the tops of every home. All in all, this townhouse was no different than the ones that flanked it on both sides.

  A voice cleared behind him. “Pardon, my lord.”

  Damon pivoted to catch an elderly gentleman approaching on foot from behind him, his smile wide and his footfalls matching the strike of his cane against the walk. When he stepped to the side, the man continued up the steps to 10 Mill Street and, once again, the door opened without the newest arrival knocking.

  This time, Damon was afforded a quick glimpse inside as the footman paused to take the gentleman’s coat. The interior was lit by a massive silver chandelier, the walls covered by rich, orange silk swaths trimmed in silver. A servant passed the open doorway, a platter held close to his chest. The newly arrived guest took a flute and moved farther into the townhouse.

  Miss Samuels had already moved out of view, deeper into the dwelling.

  Laughter and music floated out into the night before the door swung shut.

  Damon was left alone, in the cold of night.

  He hadn’t but a moment to wonder what his children’s governess was doing at 10 Mill Street before an expensively adorned, enclosed coach halted at the curb. With two footmen at the rear, a driver high atop his perch, and four blazing lamps swinging at each corner, the conveyance’s occupant was undoubtedly a lord of means. Damon’s own unkempt, wrinkled attire was not only unsuitable for the chilly night but also made him appear the ruffian. He pulled the collar of his great cloak high to mask his lack of neckcloth and to hide his wrinkled linen shirt.

  The driver remained on his perch as the footman at the coach’s rear hopped to the ground, straightened his coat, and brushed the dust from his uniform before opening the carriage door.

  A lady grasped the footman’s outstretched hand as the servant assisted her to the walk.

  “Flora?” Damon asked.

  “Brother?” His sister’s stare met his, and her face paled as if she were seeing a ghost—or, more accurately, as if he’d spotted her in a place she was not supposed to be. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  She looked him up and down, her stare settling on his bare neck.

  “I was—am”—he swallowed, collecting his senses—“I thought a brisk walk would do me well before bed.”

  “It is several blocks to your townhouse.” She couldn’t disguise her suspicion.

  “Yes, well, once I was out of Ashford Hall, I continued to walk. The evening air does wonders for my mind.”

  Flora’s gaze traveled over Damon’s shoulder to the door of 10 Mill Street.

  “Where is Wittenbottom?” Damon made a display of glancing toward his sister’s waiting carriage. “I should say hello before I am on my way.”

  “He, um,” she said, “he is having a meal at his club before meeting me later this evening.”

  Damon glanced over his shoulder to where the door stood ajar, waiting for Flora to enter. “I can accompany you inside,” Damon offered.

  “You hardly appear presentable,” she retorted. “Besides, it is not necessary. I am only here for an hour or two, then I will be on my way to meet Wittenbottom.”

  Miss Samuels had said the same thing to his butler. That she should be gone for only an hour or two.

  “Whose residence is this?” he asked. “Someone I know?”

  Flora huffed, her patience with his questions expired. “Sir Galment hosts a few select…ladies…for evening entertainment. Music, lectures, and the like. Wittenbottom, as you know, is not the most educated man.”

  Educated, no.

  Wealthy as a Prussian prince, yes.

  “And the evening is for women only?” he prodded. A man had entered directly after Miss Samuels. He waited for Flora to deceive him and for a reason as to why his governess would attend such an affair, let alone who she secured an invitation from.

  “Heavens, no,” Flora laughed. “There are spirited debates and cultured conversations. Sir Galment invites several scholarly men to lead the discussions.”

  “Ladies attend such gatherings?”

  “With zeal, I can assure you.” She waved her hand as she said, “As a boon, Galment offers a spot of cards for those interested. I do not waste my time or funds at the gaming tables but find interest in the conversations to be had.”

  Gaming tables.

  Damon should have suspected as much. However, what Miss Samuels chose to do during the hours she was not caring for his children should not concern him. If she were determined to set upon such a path, it was hers to take. Squandering her meager earnings at the card tables only involved him so much as it interfered with her duties as the Ashford governess. If he’d known her tendency to frequent the tables before his children grew attached to her, Damon would have relieved her of her position. But now, what option did he have but to overlook it?

  “I must get inside, Damon.�
� Flora stepped forward and pressed her lips to his cheek. “I will call on you and the children in a couple of days.”

  He was helpless to do anything but watch as his sister entered Galment’s townhouse, and the door closed in her wake. He’d done his best to keep his position on the outskirts of those around him, and now Damon had the sense to realize that he’d achieved precisely what he set out to do. Any malcontent with his life was solely due to his choices. He worked tirelessly, pushing others away—and now, it appeared, he’d succeeded.

  Slipping his hands into the warmth of his coat pockets, he stared up at the house before him. A home he would not enter. A place that did not want him.

  Joy and Abram had one another.

  Flora had society involvements and her husband.

  And Miss Samuels had her secrets—not well-kept secrets, but secrets all the same.

  Payton glanced down at her cards with an amount of confidence she hadn’t felt since her disastrous game with Catherton. Despite her steep loss at Lord Ashford’s card table, this night, she was ahead. Winning one more sizeable pot would mean replacing nearly all the money she’d lost to the duke. With another couple of weeks of luck, she could collect the twenty pounds to repay Lord Catherton. Then, and only then, would she be able to consider her future plans once more.

  Perhaps she could gain a position as a lady’s companion. The responsibilities would surpass those expected of her by the baron, but if she chose her mistress wisely, there would be many nights spent enjoying house parties and entertainments.

  With that came the opportunity for more elusive card games.

  Sir Galment’s nightly salon gatherings, while a successful enough place to find a rousing game of cards, did not put Payton in the company of London’s elite lords. It was mostly a gathering of lonely wives who fancied themselves in need of spirited conversations and time away from their families.

  Payton had become accustomed to the serene gatherings. No one bothered with her name—nor asked questions about her arrival and departure. She did not partake of the libations nor fall prey to the spats regarding governmental overreach or the romantic movement currently enthralling most poets. She stayed only long enough to win a few rounds and depart into the night without bringing notice to herself.

  Her gown was simple, though refined. Her dark, mahogany hair was pinned tightly, not so much as a single curl breaking free. Payton kept her voice low and calm and avoided their host at all cost.

  This evening’s game was vingt-et-un—the most basic of card games that relied solely on Payton keeping track of the cards played and reading her opponents. A house full of ladies with endless funds and no ability to hide their enthusiasm at a winning hand meant Payton knew exactly when to hold and when to double down. This particular game only had her besting the dealer, a Galment servant who’d been charged with the task.

  With a triumphant smile, Payton flipped her card, showing a twenty-one value between three cards. The dealer had held at eighteen.

  Another twenty shillings added to her stacks.

  It was time to depart.

  After less than two hours, she’d managed to win over four pounds. She’d suspect the dealer was losing on purpose had it not been for their host’s disapproving glances as Payton, as well as two other women, collected their coins.

  Payton took in the room, reassured that no one paid her any mind. However, her stare settled on a matron across the card room. The woman’s name eluded her; however, the resemblance was evident. Lord Ashford’s sister stood in the far corner and spoke animatedly to an elderly, robust gentleman. As she flapped her hands, the man squinted and nodded vigorously.

  How did Lord Ashford’s sister know of Lord Galment’s salon? While Lady Wittenbottom was wed to a lord, she did not seem the type to frequent either gaming parties nor intellectual gatherings. Payton had never encountered the lady at the baron’s weekly gatherings or at Galment’s townhouse previously, though Galment’s parties were not a secret or exclusive in nature.

  Would Lady Wittenbottom recognize Payton if they came face-to-face? Payton had seen the woman from afar during her infrequent visits to Ashford Hall. She could not risk being discovered by the baron’s sister.

  Deftly, Payton collected her winnings and slipped the notes, as well as the small stack of coins, into the pocket sewn into the exterior layer of her skirts. The many layers and undercoats hid the pocket adequately enough. Next, Payton stood, nodded to her host, and made her way to the foyer to collect her cloak and muff for the walk back to Ashford Hall.

  When she left for the evening, she’d been focused only on escaping the baron and his children. With each day, she sensed the tie binding her to Ashford Hall growing. At first, she’d felt pity for the baron and his children, but as time passed, those feelings changed and evolved into something far more powerful. An unmistakable kinship to children who’d experienced a loss much like her own. No matter how fervently Joy and Abram—and even Payton—fought against the draw, it was still there. Despite their pranks and Payton’s irritation. Even before she’d rocked Joy to sleep, reassuring her that the baron loved her, the change had begun.

  And now, Lord Ashford was to accompany them on their outing the next day. If she had any sense, she’d claim ill and send the trio on without her; however, the baron would likely cancel the entire excursion, leaving Joy and Abram hurt and upset.

  It would not be their father letting them down, but her.

  The butler helped her slip into her waiting cloak and held her muff out to her.

  “Good evening, my lady,” he said as he opened the door for her to depart.

  “Good evening to you, too.” She didn’t correct his use of the word lady before stepping into the night. The air had grown even colder than when she arrived. The sky overhead was devoid of clouds, allowing the moon to shine brightly as she started her return trip to Ashford Hall. Her skirts, heavy with her winnings, bounced against her thigh, but thankfully, the coins did not clink.

  No carriages or pedestrians loitered in her path as she crossed Grosvenor Street and turned onto Saint George.

  Few candles were lit in the townhouses bordering the street. The hour was late, and the lack of lighting didn’t surprise Payton.

  Keeping her head lowered, she quickened her pace—only four townhouses to go.

  She slipped her hand from her warm muff and wrapped her fingers around the key in her cloak pocket.

  Shuffling sounded behind Payton, and her feet faltered.

  Was she being followed? Of all the nights she’d come and gone from the baron’s home, never had she encountered any trouble. This street was one of the safest in all of London, far safer than her own home where it sat nestled on the fringes of a suitable neighborhood. With time, Craven House would not be considered situated in an area fit for polite society, while Saint George Street would only grow in respectability.

  She couldn’t dwell on that. The footfalls behind her echoed, breaking the silence of the hour. Whoever was pursuing her did not bother to keep their presence a secret. If the thug thought her an easy mark, he was gravely mistaken. If she, along with her dear childhood friend, Ellington, had learned anything, it was how to protect themselves when walking the streets of London.

  Attaining the upper hand was vital. Throwing the lout off guard was a close second.

  Thirdly…get away.

  Payton knew the likelihood of remaining safe majorly diminished if the man gained a hold of her. She was tall, but her slender frame didn’t hold as much muscle as a grown man.

  Unfortunately, gaining the upper hand and remaining out of reach sometimes conflicted with one another. With the rapid movement behind her, there might not be the option to get away without a struggle.

  Everything Garrett and Marce had taught her came to mind at once.

  Upper hand. Keep him off guard. Run.

  Simple enough, at least when you weren’t in the middle of being accosted.

  The blood rushed in her ears a
s her heart beat erratically. She fingered the key in her pocket, positioning the metal object to be used as a dagger of sorts.

  It had been easy enough to learn to defend her person, but when an imminent threat lurked a few feet away, courage was difficult to muster with any amount of conviction.

  Payton took a deep breath, sent a quick prayer to the heavens above—not that she deserved anyone’s benevolence—and pulled the key from her pocket as she pivoted to face the man who pursued her.

  “I am armed, sir,” she yelled into the open air behind her. “Come out and state your business.”

  Upper hand gained. Whoever stalked was now aware Payton had spotted them.

  When no one stepped into the lighted walkway, Payton retraced her steps until she heard breathing coming from up ahead. Whoever it was stood in the doorway to her right, sunken into the shadows, waiting.

  “I can see you,” she prodded, hoping to throw the man off guard. “Come out before I raise the alarm for the night watchman.”

  She was deluding her pursuer. Certainly, the night watchman patrolled the area. However, Payton had never spotted the man during her nights out.

  The man’s heavy, labored breathing broke the silence of the night.

  “I said, come out.” When no one answered her call, Payton knew it was time to run. If she hurried, Payton would make it to the baron’s townhouse before the man, but what if the key did not turn quickly? No, she would be caught and taken before she could open the door. Why had she insisted that Mr. Brown not wait up for her?

  She watched, fist poised with her key for defense, as her pursuer stepped from the shadows into the dim light that barely lit the walkway.

  Confusion coursed through her as her hand fell to her side. It was only then that the tremendous fright sent wave after wave of shivers through her. She could have been gravely harmed, taken, made to disappear without anyone the wiser, all because she’d not told anyone at Ashford Hall where she was going.

  “Lord Ashford?” Payton resisted the urge to fling herself into his arms, her relief was so overwhelming. “What in the heavens are you doing out”—she forced the final words—“at this time of night?”