And that would happen as soon as she saved enough money—for housing and…other things.
Working tirelessly for a mere baron with two quarrelsome, unmanageable children was not all her future held. Her sisters, Judith and Samantha, had wed an earl and a marquis respectively. While Payton hadn’t set her sights on marriage, she was confident that she would do better than living as a servant in a baron’s household. There were places she longed to see, people to meet, and experiences to have. Though she didn’t have it all figured out, Payton knew she longed for a place of her own, like her mother before her. She knew that living under the edicts of another was not in her future. But beyond earning enough to secure a suitable residence, Payton was still figuring everything out. Her mother had bidden her to strive for something better, yet she hadn’t imparted to Payton precisely what something better was. Was it mere independence? A home of her own? The means to travel the world at will?
She feared if she allowed herself to remain in Lord Ashford’s employ—to gain a sense of comfort—those accomplishments would be stifled and eventually forgotten altogether. Over the last month, a small amount of comfort had been found in the lavishness of Ashford Hall and the continued presence of Joy and Abram. Unless Payton sought out solitude, she was never alone.
The clock down the hall chimed, eliciting a startled yelp from Payton. She’d spent too long lost in her thoughts, staring at Lord Ashford. The baron pivoted toward the door just as she hurried by the opening and continued to the foyer and out the front entrance.
There was nothing better to regain her focus than the crisp, cold London air. As heavy with soot as it was, it reminded Payton of her goals. Much like her mother before her, Payton was confident great things lay in her future.
She pulled the collar of her cloak high to ward off the breeze as she hurried down the street to her waiting carriage.
Her time at Ashford Hall was not all her future held. It was merely a few hard months of work that would enable her to live the life she truly desired.
And that future would begin all the sooner if she could win a few sizable hands at the baron’s card tables tonight.
Payton didn’t try to temper her grin as she arrived at the Craven House carriage.
“Good even’n, Miss Payton,” Curtis called as he hopped down from his perch to open the door for her, a bit too agile for a man of his age. “How ye be this night?”
“Wonderful.” She gave her trusted servant a wide smile. Why could the mere anticipation of a night spent gambling fill her with such good cheer, even after her disastrous day? “Let us be off for”—Payton hesitated to call it what it had always been: home—“Craven House.”
Payton stood behind Marce’s desk in her private study where the madame of Craven House conducted all her business. The cabinet doors were all open, and the desk drawers nearly pulled from their places.
Her sister’s money box was gone.
The key not in the top drawer.
“Bloody bad nuisance,” Payton mumbled to the empty room. The red and gold chamber had always been a sanctuary of sorts for Payton. When her elder siblings had taken to teasing her during her childhood, she would escape to this very room. She would bring her deck of cards and practice her shuffling and dealing skills for hours. She’d play loo, piquet, and even vingt-et-un, challenging herself to be each player. When her brother, Garrett, stumbled upon her hiding behind the long, low lounge one day, he’d joined her and instructed her in the art of whist, though they needed another team of players to have a real game.
Today, Marce was gone, away on another of her mysterious trips, and Craven House was empty.
Payton had thought to borrow ten pounds from their household’s funds box kept in Marce’s desk, but after searching the entire room, it was nowhere to be found.
There was nothing left to do but collect her gold mask and be off on her way back to Ashford Hall. The four pounds and several shillings she’d managed to save over the last month would have to do. Perhaps a few well-won hands would double—or triple—her meager savings.
Payton hurriedly closed the drawers and doors on the cabinet.
The hour was growing late, and if she did not arrive soon, many of the men would have already lost their coin to other players.
“Whatever are you doing, dear sister?” Payton spun around to see Garrett, brow raised in question, standing in the open doorway. “I imagined you’d be at Lord Ashford’s by now.”
“I was hoping to borrow a few pounds from Marce, but Mr. Curtis told me she is not in residence.” There was no doubt that Garrett saw right through her lie; however, Payton would rather perish in a fire than admit any such fib. Besides, if she borrowed the funds for gambling, she always made sure to replace it before anyone noticed it missing. “I was just leaving, actually. Will you be joining me?”
She sincerely prayed that Garrett had other plans this evening, and her luck—the little she’d had of late—held.
“No, not this evening.” He glanced over his shoulder, and Payton couldn’t help but wonder what distracted him. “I have other matters to attend to this night.”
“Very well.” Let him keep his secrets, especially since Payton preferred to keep hers, as well. “I must collect my cloak and be on my way.”
She started for the door, prepared to push past Garrett and find her escape, but his hand landed on her elbow, halting her.
With a firm tug, she attempted to sidle around him, but his hold did not give. “Are you forgetting something?”
Payton turned, fearing she’d left open a drawer or cabinet, betraying her real purpose for being in Marce’s private study.
Her mask, gold with a red ribbon to keep it secured, lay on the desk where she’d forgotten it.
“Dear brother,” she smiled. “Whatever would I do without you?”
“Do not even speak the question.”
Collecting her mask, Payton gave Garrett a quick peck on the cheek. “Are you certain you cannot come with me?”
“Fear not, you will survive without me for one evening.” He stared into the room, and for the first time, she wondered what he was doing at Craven House. As a second son and therefore without benefit of a title and the coffers that came with it, Garrett had insisted upon setting up lodging at the Albany not long after he reached his majority. With Marce away from London and Payton living at Ashford Hall, there was no reason for him to be home. “Do enjoy yourself. I will come round tomorrow during your day off.”
It had been Garrett who’d told Payton of the baron’s masked gaming evenings, even risking Marce’s wrath to escort her to her first proper event. The night, nearly a year prior, had gone off without a problem, and Payton had returned with pockets brimming. Garrett’s only rule: no cheating. She would not use her card counting skills nor her sleight of hand tricks.
She’d promised and kept her word.
In return, Garrett had made certain Marce never learned of Payton’s late-night adventures.
“What is that on your arm?” He pointed to her elbow, where her glove had slipped when he’d held her arm. Blue tinted her skin, one of several spots she’d hoped to cover with her full-length gloves and wide sleeves. “Why is your arm blue?
Despite thirty minutes spent scrubbing the area, the dye had held fast to her skin.
“Just a small mishap.”
“A small mishap?” He chuckled, and Payton remembered her discussion with her sibling from the week before—an hour she’d spent in this very room complaining about Lord Ashford’s headstrong, rebellious children.
“Truly, brother, it is nothing of consequence.” Yet certainly something he would find great merriment in hearing. “A vase broke, and the contents splashed me. That is all. Besides, I must be off…or risk all the fat purses being won.”
He waved his hand as she moved past him, her mask in hand.
Glancing over her shoulder as she strode away, Payton watched Garrett enter the study and close the door behind him. She woul
d question him about his presence at Craven House when he visited her on the morrow. At the moment, she had a card game to attend—and money to win.
Or fear being stuck in the baron’s employ for far longer than she could bear.
Chapter 5
Damon walked the perimeter of his ballroom, noting that his guests were well cared for: no glass unfilled, the refreshment table laden with fruit, cheese, and pastries, and no group lacking friendly conversation. He’d applied himself far more tonight than most evenings when he hosted, mainly as a distraction, but partly to keep his attention from the Duke of Catherton where he sat at a table crowded by onlookers. The man was easily identifiable, if not by his finely tailored evening attire, then by his two footmen that remained close by at all times, proudly wearing the Catherton’s burgundy and blue livery.
The room was dim with the chandeliers above only at half-light, though bright enough to see one’s cards and the person sitting across the table. The terrace doors were thrown wide to allow in the evening air and help the music escape into the night. The gathering was slightly larger than usual, yet the room was big enough to host several dozen more guests.
A group of men debated the merits of ventures to the Americas. Another table, mostly women, conversed in hushed tones about a new musical instructor who was known to teach his pupils’ mothers far more alluring lessons than the harpsichord or the pianoforte. Each table was full. And, by all accounts, his guests were enjoying their evening.
Yet Damon lurked on the fringes, never taking a seat at a table nor joining any conversation, though he’d overheard many that interested him. His feet made no sound as he moved about the room unnoticed. It was one of the boons of hosting masked card games. Damon could remain unobserved unless there was trouble.
Would he ever enter a room and escape his misery in a friendly debate or idle chitchat? Would the sight of his offspring ever stop bringing to mind everything he lost—they’d lost? He’d managed to break free of his crushing troubles when he began hosting gambling parties, but the reprieve hadn’t lasted nearly long enough, and Damon soon found himself feeling more and more alone in his crowded ballroom, just as he’d been alone for the last four years despite his children’s presence.
Raised voices caught his attention as a chair skidded across the polished floor.
The Duke of Catherton stood and ripped his black half-mask from his face, his nostrils flaring as he held his gaming opponent with a pointed glare. The crowd made it impossible for Damon to see who was on the receiving end of the duke’s anger. This was exactly what Damon feared would happen if the duke took to attending the weekly Ashford affairs.
Damon stepped to the duke’s side when he arrived at the table.
“Is all as it should be?” He glanced at Catherton, focusing his efforts on calming the lord before his temper flared brighter, and the entire evening was brought to a halt—or, worse yet, fists were thrown. “May I do something for you, Your Grace?”
The duke didn’t take his glare from his opponent as he spoke. “This trollop…this uncouth harlot…this brazen-faced cheat has bilked me of ten pounds.”
A woman?
He turned towards the recipient of the duke’s scorn to see a woman he’d noted several times before at his parties. She had hair of the darkest, rich brown, always pinned at the base of her neck with a single curl hanging over her shoulder and down her low-cut bodice. This night, the lady wore a gown of the deepest red with gold beading. Perhaps it was due to seeing her several times at his parties, but he could not dispel the increased feeling of familiarity with the woman. He’d never attempted to look beyond the masks of his guests, just as he prayed they did not long to see past his.
To say she hadn’t caught his notice on several previous occasions would mean Damon was blind. He admired her for both her reserved beauty and her skill at the gaming tables.
“It is not my fault you are a bottle-headed ninny who has trouble counting his own cards.” She laughed with a wide smile.
Damon’s guests gave an uneasy chuckle, and he found himself smirking, as well.
Perhaps the duke would think twice about attending another game at Ashford Hall.
Catherton slammed his open palms against the table, causing coins to scatter, and the other players to reach for their winnings at the same time his two footmen stepped forward.
“Your Grace.” Damon attempted to shift the man’s focus—and rage—away from the lady. “May I offer you a drink in my study? We can discuss this matter privately and allow my guests to continue with their evening. I am certain this has all been a misunderstanding.”
Catherton scoffed, shrugging away from Damon as he began to move around the table.
“Your Grace, is it?” The dark-haired beauty’s blue eyes sparkled behind her mask. “I think we can solve this here and now before our host. One final hand. If I win, I will depart immediately with my coin. If you win, I will return your ten pounds plus the rest of my winnings from this evening”—she glanced at the stack of notes and coins on the table before her—“another three pounds and four shillings.”
“You, my lady, are a thief and a swindler.”
Damon couldn’t see the woman’s expression behind her gold mask; however, she seemed rather unaffected by the duke’s claims.
Did he have a grifter in his house?
“Come now”—she paused to glance around the table—“we have the eyes of everyone on us. I certainly cannot cheat with so much attention.”
Damon should put an end to their scuffle and ask the duke to depart.
She reached across the table, gathering all the cards, and held them out to Catherton.
“You may shuffle and deal, Your Grace.” When the duke didn’t make a move to return to his seat, she leaned farther across the table, her glove slipping down her arm. “We do not wish to disappoint our waiting audience…unless you are a coward.”
Catherton’s face flooded crimson at the woman’s prodding and, had his opponent been a gentleman, there was no doubt the duke would have challenged him to a dawn meeting in Hyde Park for the remark.
A hush fell across the room, even quieting the musicians as no one made any movements. The seconds ticked slowly on as the woman stared up at Catherton, her head tilted ever so slightly to the left.
Damon reached forward, determined to put an end to the debacle by taking the cards and announcing that their evening had come to its conclusion; however, something on her exposed arm drew his scrutiny. The cards were forgotten as Damon recognized what stained the woman’s upper arm. Blue dye.
Miss Samuels? His children’s governess?
“One hand, but I will have more than what you have wagered on the table.” Catherton’s voice was a low hiss as he collected his chair and sat. “My ten pounds, your three pounds and four shillings, plus an additional twenty pounds.”
The crowd erupted in applause.
Did they not realize the threat and consequences of Catherton’s declaration?
Miss Samuels did not possess twenty pounds. The woman had fretted over her ruined gown that very morning, demanding it be replaced if his housekeeper could not remove the blue dye from the fabric.
Damon should be utterly stunned beyond words and command her to his study; however, he also wanted her to best Catherton and send the man scurrying home…without his precious coin.
After a lengthy pause, Miss Samuels nodded. “An additional twenty pounds it is, Your Grace.”
“Piquet?” Catherton asked, not waiting for Miss Samuels to agree before shuffling the cards. “When partie is reached and six deals complete, the player with the most points wins the prize of thirty-three pounds, plus the shillings, forgoing the usual payout for scoring.”
The game was one of memory, skill, and strategy. His governess could not seem to muster the skill and strategy to handle two small children; certainly, there was little hope she’d best the duke at piquet. However, her history in his very card room spoke to the contrary. He�
�d witnessed her, week after week, besting some of London’s acclaimed gamesmen.
“I shall keep the scores,” Damon said.
The first hand was dealt in short order, and Miss Samuels laid down five cards and exchanged them for five from the talon pile. The duke scanned his cards, holding them close to his chest before similarly trading three of his cards from the remaining talon stack.
Damon listened closely as the players declared their cards, back and forth, paying special attention to the points, sequences, and sets.
After five deals, it was Miss Samuels who was ahead with ninety-eight points, while the duke wasn’t far behind with eighty-seven.
One last hand, and the match would be over. Both parties had agreed to adhere to the outcome, accept their fate, and continue the evening without another mention of cheating.
It was his governess’s turn to shuffle and distribute the cards—twelve each with eight in the talon stack. The crowd inhaled sharply when the duke exchanged five cards, leaving three for Miss Samuels. However, she didn’t exchange a single card for a new one. It was rarely done, holding the originally dealt hand.
What was the woman thinking?
She’d played a strategic partie so far, expertly knowing when to hold certain cards and when to play them to their best advantage. Her lead was not so great that she could risk allowing those cards to go unseen.
However, when her chin notched up an inch, she declared, “Carte blanche.”
Miss Samuels flashed her cards briefly to verify, and Damon noted her added ten points.
“Five,” Catherton declared, his smug grin giving off the impression he’d already determined himself the victor.
“Good,” she replied.
“Forty-eight,” the duke said, declaring his score.
Thankfully, the set was far from over, as the last declaration gave the duke a clear advantage.
“No sequence,” Catherton divulged, his stare trained on his cards.
The Gambler Wagers Her Baron: Craven House Series, Book Four Page 5
