The Gambler Wagers Her Baron: Craven House Series, Book Four

by Christina McKnight

  “Only my first stop.” Perhaps her last one, as well. What if she never had the means to leave her sister’s home? She’d truly muddied everything up with Damon. The chance to go out on her own had been ruined by a single kiss, and then she’d left without so much as asking for a reference. Not that she’d settled on finding employment in another household as yet. Perhaps it was best she follow in Sam’s and Jude’s footsteps and secure a husband. The thought made her shudder. To go from her family’s control to that of a husband was not what she longed for.

  “May I ask you something?” Payton glanced over to see Marce reading over a document on her desk, clearly distracted. That suited Payton well enough, for Marce would be less likely to see her younger sister’s dark mood and possibly allow slip something Payton had yet to know.

  Her fair-haired sister set the paper aside and, for the first time, Payton noticed the heaviness—and exhaustion—in her sister’s gaze. The subtle wrinkles that marred her pale skin at the corners of her lips and eyes.

  “I suppose,” her sister sighed.

  “Do you think a person should wallow in their sadness indefinitely?” It wasn’t what she’d planned to ask. “I mean to say, if something occurs, perhaps good or bad, shouldn’t one look past it and plan what is to come next?”

  It was what their mother had done her entire life. A man left her, disappointed her, treated her unfairly…she moved on. Madame Sasha, their mother, always had a plan. And a backup plan. She knew what she wanted, and she stopped at nothing to get it. Perhaps this was the reason their mother always seemed at peace with what had transpired in her short life.

  “Is this about the baron and his wife’s death?”

  Payton thought about the question. “I suppose it is.”

  …yet, also so much more.

  “Death—and loss, in general—is not something so easily moved on from.”

  “And yet, Mother never floundered in despair.”

  “What does Mother have to do with this?” Marce’s pensive stare settled on Payton, and for a split second, she was sorry she’d brought up the subject at all. “The baron could not be more different than our mother.”

  “It is just, all the time I’ve worked for Lord Ashford”—Payton had to still herself from calling him by his given name—“he’s seemed lost in the depths of despair, unable to see any future for himself, not even to provide for his children.” It had been the case…before their kiss. “He shuts himself in his study and ignores his entire household day in and day out. When he does venture out, he is irritable, gruff, and downright contradictory.”

  Marce’s brow lifted. “But he is taking his children on an outing today.”

  “No—I mean, yes, but he will retreat once more, I am afraid.” She’d nearly misspoken. “I am certain his wife meant much to him, and he’s become a near recluse since she passed. He barely knows his children, and they know him not at all. I suppose my question is, how did Mother deal so wonderfully with loss? After your father died, Mother quickly purchased Craven House with her dowager settlement. She went on to have Jude and Sam…and, eventually, me. All this after losing her husband so suddenly. She did not hide away from us. She did not give up on life or her future, but she moved on. Why cannot others do the same, especially when they have been afforded the means to do just that?”

  “What means does the baron possess that you think Mother lacked?”

  “A title…healthy coffers…a nice home.” She ticked off the list on her fingers. “And much more. He even has a sister in town, though she doesn’t visit often.”

  “Mother had a title and a small allowance, though she lacked a home and had no relations to speak of. At least, none who would assist her and two small children.” Marce sighed. “I do not think she so easily moved on.”

  Payton scoffed at her sister’s absentmindedness. “Your father, Lord Beauchamp, my father, and the Duke of Harwich—and likely more that we never had occasion to meet. What of them?”

  Lord Buckston, Marce and Garrett’s father, had died long before Payton was born. Viscount Beauchamp, Sam and Jude’s estranged father, had only been spied across a crowded ballroom and lurking in the shadows at Sam’s wedding. Even Payton’s own father, Nigel Samuels, was unknown to her. The only suitor her mother ever allowed near her children had been Julian Delconti, the Duke of Harwich, and after all these years, Payton had trouble bringing the lord’s visage to mind as he’d disappeared as suddenly as the men who came before him.

  Payton noted her sister flinch at the name Harwich, but she continued anyways. “Certainly, she must have loved them all at some point, but when they no longer fit into what she wanted in life, she moved on. I never noted her retreating into herself, she was never in the throes of despair or so sad she slept her days away. She was no stranger to the cruel realities of life…and society. But she had the strength to move on. I remember her always with a smile and a laugh.”

  “Yes, life is unpredictable. Many obstacles landed solidly in Mother’s path; however, that did not mean she did not mourn each man when they left, or when she had to push them away.” Marce inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly, her eyes landing on something over Payton’s shoulder. “Mother kept us close because family is the only thing that is certain. That did not mean she did not suffer immensely from bouts of loneliness. She was a single woman with a horde of children to raise and not many funds to do it. She did what she thought was best and, in the end, she suffered because she’d died, essentially alone. And you, Sam, and Jude suffered for never having the opportunity to know your fathers.”

  “I am certain there was a reason Mother kept my father away,” Payton said with mild indignation. “And we know Lord Beauchamp for the fickle man he is. He told Sam he chose another woman, a suitable match, over his twin daughters.”

  “The fact of the matter is that Mother kept such a tight hold on us so she wouldn’t be utterly alone.” Payton saw the immense pain that entered her sister’s eyes at admitting such a thing. “It is why I have never fought any of you when you set your mind to a future. Sam and Jude selected fine husbands, and Garrett moved to the Albany. When you came to me with the notion of taking a position in the baron’s house, while I was hesitant to allow it, I acquiesced because I knew you were ready for such responsibilities. To be fair, I am looking forward to a future of my own choosing now that all of you have set out on your own.”

  “What will you do?” Payton asked, though her chest ached to think of a day when Marce would not be waiting at Craven House, her arms wide for Payton to return home.

  “Oh, I have not given it much thought.” Marce glanced back at the stack of papers on her desk. “There is plenty of time…plenty of time.”

  Once more her sister, while only a few feet away, was not at Craven House—or, Payton suspected, even in London.

  “Do you think I made a wise choice?”

  “You have made many choices, Payton,” Marce said. “What choice in particular?”

  “To undertake the position as the Ashford governess.”

  Marce’s eyes settled on her youngest sister, and Payton couldn’t help but lean closer as if whatever her sister said next would hold the key to solving all her dilemmas.

  “You have been the baby in our family—” When Payton made to argue the term, Marce held up her hand to silence her. “I was referring to your age, nothing more. While I had my reservations about you taking the post—truth be told, I still have reservations—this is a time for you to spread your wings and discover what makes you happy. There is much to life that you were unable to explore while living at Craven House. I fear that is my fault for keeping such a tight hold on you. I think I found myself to be much like Mother in some ways.”

  The loneliness in Marce’s eyes was enough to bring Payton nearly to tears. How had she never noticed her sister’s isolation at Craven House?

  “But none of that matters overmuch as you are doing well in the baron’s employ and remaining out of troub
le.” Marce smiled. “I suppose my fears were for naught.”

  Payton longed to share all her troubles with her eldest sister, but something kept her from voicing anything. Perhaps it was Marce’s exhausted slump over her desk or the hollow way she gazed across the room at her. Something was troubling Marce, and Payton would not complicate things any more than they already were.

  She would have to admit at some point that she’d quit her post and would be remaining at Craven House indefinitely, but not today. Today, she’d allow herself some time to grieve—and readjust.

  “I will let you return to your work.” Payton stood and hurried to give her sister a peck on the cheek before departing the office to return to her private chambers.

  Damon and the children would go on as they always did. Payton had never been part of their family despite everything. In quick order, he’d hire another governess, and it would be as if Payton had never been there. Her room, next to Abram’s private chambers, would be filled with another woman’s possessions. The baron would, hopefully, at some point allow his guard down and dine with the children, perhaps even go so far as to invite the new governess to his study after Joy and Abram found their beds.

  Payton quickened her pace as she climbed the main stairs, keeping her head low as she passed Darla, their housekeeper. Only a few more steps and she’d be in the safety of her bedchamber.

  Payton needed to focus on what she’d been meant to do all along: find her own future, forge her own path, and discover what happiness awaited her.

  Her time as a governess had served her well to help her determine what that future would entail and the strength she’d need to achieve all she desired. Missteps, mistakes, and hardships would come her way. However, one day, when she found a home of her own, she’d look back and know it was all worth the journey.

  Chapter 24

  “Mr. Brown.” Damon strode down the hall after his butler. “A word, please.”

  The servant turned with an even smile, his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, my lord?”

  Damon sat in his study for nearly an hour after Catherton had left, worrying over Miss Samuels and whether the duke was skilled enough—or perhaps, paid enough—to have Payton located and brought before a magistrate. Until his plan solidified.

  As the governess had so kindly thrown in his face, her personal dealings were not his concern. She was no longer part of his household; therefore, he shouldn’t fret over her.

  What he should do and what he actually did were two very different things.

  “I would like to host a gaming night tomorrow evening.”

  The butler’s brow rose in alarm. “It is not your usual night.”

  “Is that a problem?” Damon gritted his teeth, immediately regretting his harsh tone.

  “Of course, not, my lord.” Mr. Brown glanced past Damon, his welcoming smile returning. “Master Abram and Miss Joy, you are both looking wonderfully rested this morning. Mrs. Brown has laid out your morning meal in the back salon. The gardens are lovely right now.” The man’s stare hardened when he turned back to Damon. It was highly uncharacteristic of the butler to take any liberties with decorum. “I will arrange everything for the gaming night—tomorrow.”

  His butler certainly knew of Payton’s resignation and departure…and he blamed Damon.

  It appeared he also blamed Damon for changing his usual gaming night.

  But he was committed enough to him and Damon’s children to soften the blow by allowing them to dine in the sunny salon that was usually reserved for esteemed guests. Not that there had been any noteworthy guests in years—with the exception of Payton, that is.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brown.” Damon paused for a moment, wondering if his plan would be seen to fruition or bring Catherton to his boiling point. “One last thing.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Can you have a footman deliver this to the Duke of Catherton’s residence?” He held out the personal invitation addressed to the duke and signed by himself. Damon had to convince Catherton his plot to chase down Payton would get him nowhere.

  The butler collected the letter, followed it up by giving a curt bow, and hurried toward the kitchens. His bow was not as deep as it once was, and his hurried steps were more of a shuffle nowadays.

  Once the butler had departed, that left Damon to face his children.

  Alone.

  “Good morning,” he greeted, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs. Joy’s hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days, while Abram wore two stockings that didn’t quite match. “May I join you for your meal?”

  Joy giggled. “Of course, Father.”

  Abram ignored his greeting and pushed past his sister, starting for the back salon. “Where is Miss Samuels? I have something of grave importance to speak with her about.”

  Damon took Joy’s tiny hand in his as they followed Abram. Her grip was tighter than he’d expect for such a young child.

  He’d hoped to put off speaking about Payton’s absence, at least until he could determine a reasonable explanation that did not include gaming debts and late-night kisses, not to mention scotches in his study. He couldn’t bear the children laying the blame at his feet.

  There was no denying that he was the cause of Payton’s resignation.

  Admitting as much to Joy and Abram was something he longed to avoid. It would be wise to find an explanation that fit his reasoning: that it was for the best that she’d left his employ. He would hire a new governess, perhaps one with a more impressive background in history, while Miss Samuels would find a household she was better suited to serve in.

  “Miss Samuels has fallen under the weather,” he said as they entered the back salon, the windows were open, and light streamed into the room, brightening every corner. He wished the morning sun reached within him, not only kissing his skin. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Abram halted and turned toward Damon, a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Do you know William Drummond?”

  “The poet?” He searched his memory for any other Drummond, but none came to mind.

  “Yes,” Abram said as he sat. “Miss Samuels thought it best I expand my educational goals and study poetry. I thought it nonsense, as there is little reason for a historian to study such things as literature; however, I promised her.”

  “And how are you faring at the task?” Damon pulled Joy’s seat out for her to sit and then pushed it in when she was ready.

  “Admirably, I assure you. Though I find literature is unlike history. Or science.”

  Damon took his own seat, and a footman hurried forward with an extra place setting for him. “How so?”

  “Well, in the poem To The Nightingale, I suspect Drummond is not speaking of a feathered bird at all, but something wholly different…and scandalous.” Abram’s cheeks flushed red at his insinuation, and he glanced nervously toward Joy as if he’d misspoken in mixed company. “But I cannot think of any reason Miss Samuels would think I have something to learn from poets and their convoluted, misleading poems.”

  Damon averted his stare by filling his and Joy’s plates with fruit tart pastries and plump cherries with pudding.

  Pastries and pudding instead of boiled eggs and toast. There was little hope that the news of Miss Payton’s departure had not already spread through the servants’ quarters. Cook was coddling the children in preparation for the disappointment to come when they learned of their governess’s departure.

  “When will Miss Samuels be well again?” Joy asked.

  “Soon, I hope,” Abram replied, filling his own plate.

  “I shall visit her after our meal.” Joy turned to look out the window at the garden below. “Mayhap a bouquet of posies will brighten her day.”

  Damon’s spirits sank further. “I am afraid Miss Samuels is not at Ashford Hall. She is resting at her own home.” At least Damon hoped she had a home to return to.

  “Where is it?” Joy prodded. “After I fell into the pond and nearly dro
wned—”

  “Do not be overdramatic, Joy,” Abram chastised. “You merely swallowed a bit of water when you thought yourself an adequate swimmer.”

  Joy stuck out her tongue at her brother before continuing, “As I was saying, when I nearly drowned, Miss Samuels remained by my bedside. I should do no less for her. Isn’t that correct, Father?”

  Her shining, green eyes looked up into his, and Damon was hesitant to extinguish the light in the girl’s face.

  “That will not be possible.” Damon shook his head, all his nerves failing him at Joy’s upturned face. They couldn’t be there to comfort Payton—Payton had left them. However, breaking his daughter’s heart would be his undoing. “Miss Samuels’ note said the sickness is contagious, and we mustn’t visit for fear of falling ill ourselves.”

  The lie fell from his lips far too easily, though that did not stop the guilt from pooling in his stomach. At some point, sooner rather than later, he’d need to tell them the truth—hopefully, before they overheard the news from one of the servants.

  Yet, Damon lacked the courage to speak the words, for when he did, things would be final.

  He’d thought he would feel a sense of relief with Payton’s parting. No longer did it matter what had transpired between them—and what hadn’t. What had been said, and what remained unsaid. As was always the case, it was only him and the children. Their small family of three.

  The children had gotten on well with Flora and her lady’s companion the day before when they dined together. They’d appeared happy and content, while Flora had taken an interest in Joy’s love of horses and Abram’s habit of comparing anything and everything to a battle from years past.

  In time, Damon would find a new governess for the children, and it would be like Payton had never come into his household. She’d been their governess for a mere six weeks. Certainly, that was not enough time for the children to form such an affection that they would mourn her.