The Gambler Wagers Her Baron Page 4

  Forevermore, his desire would lay dormant. No, not dormant, extinguished completely. Snuffed out as a candle was before bed. Yet, the fire of his passion and desire was never to be lit again, not even with a new day dawning.

  Perhaps it would be wise to heed his sister’s advice and return to society, if only for a distraction. Anything to calm his melancholy and pass the years as swiftly and painlessly as possible. However, the pitying glances and murmured condolences would start once more. No doubt every Londoner with even the most basic amount of humanity would be remorseful with regards to Damon’s loss. Yet, reminding him of his wife’s passing at every turn would not bring her back, would not give his children a mother, and would not repair the massive void left within him. And if Damon did agree to venture out more, how long would it be before Flora was parading a new crop of young debutantes before him? His sister, Viscountess Wittenbottom, had good intentions—somewhere deep, deep inside. Her way of expressing her love for her younger brother verged on parental dominance, however.

  His own heart notwithstanding, Damon would not risk causing his children more hurt by bringing any woman into their lives who would eventually be taken away. Governesses, yes. Any woman who meant more, never.

  Light footsteps, followed by a set of heavier ones, rushed past the open ballroom doors.

  Damon ducked farther into the room as Joy’s laughter rang out in the hall, followed by Abram’s irritated shout. When the pair continued on, their voices receding, Damon relaxed.

  Their governess would soon see them to their rooms and ready for sleep, leaving him to his own devices and free to move about the house without being waylaid.

  He hadn’t crossed paths with the trio since that morning, and he’d come to the ballroom knowing his children wouldn’t stumble upon him there.

  “Master Abram,” Miss Samuels’ stern yet exasperated call followed in the children’s wake. “Miss Joy. How many times must I instruct you to walk whilst indoors?”

  Likely another ten thousand times, he thought to himself.

  His children had been born running, at least that was how Damon remembered it.

  He inched closer to the door and caught a glimpse of his children’s governess stalking by the ballroom. She didn’t pause to glance into the room. Before she strode out of sight, he noted that she’d donned a fresh, simple, peach gown and let loose her long waves of hair, pinning the fall at the base of her neck.

  Massaging his temples, Damon suppressed the urge to think back to the brief years of happiness he’d known within these walls—and this room. If he’d known it would be all he had before his entire world crumbled, Damon would not have worked so tirelessly, visited his club so often, or spent as many hours away from home and his family. He’d grown accustomed to the leisurely way of ton life, and it had come back to hurt him.

  Any hope Damon had for a happy, content future was gone. The sound of Sarah’s uninhibited laugh on Joy’s lips, or the toss of Sarah’s glossy, golden curls on Abram’s willful head were knife-sharp reminders that his beloved wife was gone forever.

  The best Damon could hope for was a present that was not altogether intolerable.

  To achieve that, he’d need to keep clear of Miss Samuels and her contrary nature. As long as she watched over his children, attended to their education, and stayed out of his way, she would do for the time being. And, as every governess had before her, Miss Samuels would eventually move on to another house, another family. And when that occurred, Damon would charge his housekeeper with the task of finding a replacement.

  For now, he need only concern himself with preparing for this evening.

  One long night at a time—followed by an even longer day.

  During the gaming parties held at 14 Saint George Street in Hanover Square, Damon was not the widowed baron with two small, motherless children. He was simply a lord enjoying himself, at least that was the image he attempted to portray. For those limited hours, no one saw behind his mask to the empty shell he’d become. And he could act normally, despite never feeling it.

  “Ashford!” A familiar, shrill voice thundered down the hall and into the ballroom. “Ashford? Where in heavens are you hiding?”

  His stomach tightened, dread coursing through him. Damon had managed to convince himself that the worst of his day had passed. Yet life—and its cruel irony—seemingly hadn’t been able to afford him even a few hours of peace.

  As if his simple musings about society had conjured her, his sister’s labored breathing drifted toward him as she stomped down the hallway.

  Lady Wittenbottom swept into the ballroom, her assessing glare scanning the room before finding him in the shadows. Her pungent, floral perfume permeated the air and would have likely announced her arrival long before he saw her. It was the smell of his childhood—an offending odor that drove away anyone that came near.

  “Why are you hiding in the dark?” she snapped, flipping her fan open and waving it a mere inch from her face. Over a decade older than he and wedded since her seventeenth birthday, Flora had long ago assumed the role of the matronly and dour lady, feeling the need to impart her wisdom upon her younger brother and chastising him for every small infraction—actual and perceived. “Are you not going to offer me a refreshment?”

  “I am not hiding, I am overseeing my household,” he retorted. “And you can well see that we need to retire to the salon for refreshments.”

  “Certainly, if you had any sense in you, you’d wed and run a proper household.” Her chin notched higher, causing her headpiece to tilt precariously to the left. “It would serve everyone well. You would have a companion, and the children would have a mother. I simply do not possess the time nor the energy to run this household and my own.”

  As if it were that easy. Everything being mended by marrying again and replacing the one lost after a mother died. Replacing someone of that importance in one’s life was not at all similar to securing a new governess. Though his sister likely thought there was no difference.

  Damon scoffed. However, it sounded more like a strangled cry.

  Flora slipped her fan into the bag on her wrist and hurried toward him. “You know I only care about you and the children, Damon. Despite my feelings for Sarah, it is you I think about. Poor Wittenbottom says I fret in my sleep, I am so plagued by worry for you. I simply cannot imagine you being alone”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“forever.”

  It was always the children, never Abram and Joy.

  Similarly, it was always despite my feelings for Sarah, never that the world had been a better place while Sarah was in it.

  “We manage well enough, Joy, Abram, and I—“

  “But the children need a mother,” his sister retorted.

  “I was unaware that you had any notion what children—mine or otherwise—were in need of.”

  Her stare narrowed, and she took a step back as if he’d lashed out physically and not vocally. “Simply because Wittenbottom and I never longed for children, does not mean I am ignorant to their ways and needs. You know perfectly well I did my best raising you.”

  She appeared affronted, not hurt by his words in the slightest, confirming what Damon already held as truth where his sister was concerned.

  “Please excuse my manners.” Damon leaned forward, placing a light kiss on her cheek. “I fear I am a bit unnerved. Joy and Abram have once again decided to test the merit of their new governess.”

  “Perhaps we should revisit the topic of boarding school,” Flora mused. “St. Agatha’s in Dorset, and Winchester Boys Academy in Manchester have places reserved for both of the children.”

  We.

  As if Flora had had any hand in raising his children, any interest in their studies or their preferred pastimes. If it weren’t for the long list of governesses he’d employed, the children would be left fallow.

  “They are not old enough to be away from home,” Damon responded, shaking his head. “I may one day reconsider, but not today…nor tomorrow.”
And he hoped by then, his sister would have taken to other interests and no longer think of him and his children as her charity project, a good deed that would see her raised further in society as a pillar of kindness and compassion.

  “I implore you to keep my suggestions in mind. My dear friend, Lady Carmichael, has fifteen grandchildren, and as soon as they no longer required a nursemaid, they were sent to live at a boarding school. The two eldest, both girls, were both wed before the end of their first Season.” Flora nodded, further dislodging the pins that held her hat in place. “However, as you so kindly reminded me, I am not one to know about children and their upbringing.”

  “As I said, I promise to consider it once they are a bit older,” Damon agreed.

  “See that you do”—she patted his cheek as if he were a good boy worthy of a reward and not a thirty-two-year-old widower—“now, where are the children?”

  The way her shoulders hitched and her brow furrowed, Damon suspected that she didn’t actually care where Joy and Abram were, nor would she remain long enough to see them.

  Despite his sister being their only living relative besides himself, the children were not fond of Flora, and the familial bond was non-existent on both sides. “They retired for the evening a few minutes ago.”

  Flora exhaled. “Well, I would not wish to interrupt their sleep.”

  “That would not be wise.” Did he so readily agree because he didn’t want to journey above to his children’s side-by-side rooms, or that his sister had only asked after her niece and nephew because it was proper? “Is there a reason you came?”

  It was after evening meal, and most of London was preparing for their nightly outings: the opera, Covent Gardens, routs, or even Ashford Hall for a night of gaming. His sister, ever the esteemed lady, would likely be attending a ball with Wittenbottom before retiring early because, as she was wont to say, “Only heathens and ne’er-do-wells would dare be caught out after the witching hour.”

  “Certainly, yes.” Her lips pulled back into what Flora likely thought was a genuine smile; however, her thin lips and narrowed eyes gave off no warmth. “You remember the Duchess of Catherton, my dearest bosom friend?” Flora barely paused for him to nod. “Of course, you remember Her Grace. Well, her husband asked after your famed game evening.”

  “I do hope you did not issue an invitation without speaking with me first.”

  Catherton was the type of lord Damon should want in attendance at his gaming nights: deep pockets with many friends who wagered vast fortunes on a regular basis in seedy gaming hells. Yet, the man’s cruel reputation made him someone Damon did not wish to host in his home.

  “I would never—”

  “However, you did?” Damon prodded.

  Flora picked at the string on her reticule as she avoided Damon’s glare. “I may have…well, the duchess—Evangeline—she said her husband had heard word of your entertainments and desired to know when you would hold your next gaming evening. He is a duke, Damon, a duke! With a son little older than Joy. Think about a match made between our families.”

  Damon took several deep breaths as his hands clamped tight behind his back. “Joy is six. Six, Flora. I am not—nor will I in the next ten years—be promising her to any man, duke or otherwise.”

  “Of course, not.” Flora attempted light laughter, though it sounded a bit shrill to Damon. “Nevertheless, I gave Evangeline your directions and let her know you’d be hosting this very evening. I assumed”—she glanced around the ballroom as several servants continued preparations—“tonight would be no different than last Saturday night.”

  Damon tensed. “You did w—?”

  “As always, very good to see you, Damon.” She nodded before her eyes grew round. “Wittenbottom is awaiting me in the drive. We are dining at Wiltons. Wiltons! I dare say, I cannot believe we may very well sup at the very same table Queen Caroline favors. Well, before all the divorce nonsense began, that is.”

  She clapped her hands in excitement, her unease at angering Damon forgotten as she spun around and headed for the door.

  “Enjoy your evening.” He remained in the shadows of the Ashford Hall ballroom until he heard his butler close the door behind Flora. Only then did he allow his exasperated sigh to escape.

  His children were unruly, his governess had the audacity to rebuff his place as their father, and now the Duke of Catherton, known for his ruthlessness in both business and his personal affairs, would be joining his gaming night.

  Damon’s cherished few hours outside the hell that was his life suddenly vanished before his eyes, turning into a nightmare of his own making.

  Chapter 4

  Payton crept from Joy’s room on silent, slippered feet, careful not to disturb the slumbering child. With her golden tresses and moss-green eyes, the girl would one day be a true beauty, a diamond of the first water. London—and likely all of England—would know Miss Joy Kinder. Whether for her beauty or her hellion ways, Payton was not certain. Often, she wondered how a child so peaceful at rest could cause the sheer amount of chaos Joy did while awake. Had Payton been the same in her youth? An angel while abed but a hellion when awake?

  She couldn’t help the hint of a smirk that pulled at her lips. Likely, she and Joy had more in common than either thought, though the difference was that Marce had known how to deal with Payton, while Payton was still learning how to handle Joy and her brother.

  Pulling the door closed behind her, Payton hurried toward her own room, pausing outside Abram’s chambers to listen. No sound escaped. Both children were tucked in and had found their rest. Payton’s duties for the day were complete, and it was now her turn to escape, though not into slumber. She had a long night ahead of her. Thankfully, the following day—Sunday—was her day off.

  The room next to Abram’s had been assigned to Payton when she took the position as the Ashford governess. The chamber was sparse, previously given to Joy’s wet nurse, but it suited Payton well enough. They were her own quarters, and no one intruded on her. The most welcome advantage to her room was the view.

  The drapes hadn’t been drawn for the evening, and Payton hurried to look out the double windows to the street below.

  Saint George Street, nestled in one of the finest squares in London, was nearly always quiet—unlike her own home, Craven House, which resided in the far less desirable neighborhood of Leicester Square. The carriages coming and going in the Saint George Street area were well maintained and driven by livery in the colorful uniforms of the local households. Her windows faced the street, giving her ample view in both directions. This night, she did not linger at the window, relishing the sights of the cityscape, nor did she focus on the clouds drifting in to cover the moon.

  She searched for only one thing; namely, the Craven House carriage.

  As it was each week, the enclosed landau with Mr. Curtis holding the reins, waited outside the townhouse three doors down from Ashford Hall. Mr. Curtis, the only male servant employed by Craven House, was tasked with all duties ranging from tending the grounds to attending the door and even driving Payton and her sisters about London in the family’s decrepit coach.

  Payton collected her cloak and her wages for the week and rushed from her room, heading down the servant’s stairwell and out into the hall leading to the foyer, which kept her far from the baron’s study. She paused outside the ballroom, watching as two footmen adjusted palm plants close to the dais. In a few short hours, the room would be teeming with lords and ladies—and some wealthy businessmen—as Lord Ashford hosted an evening of cards. Nothing about the baron’s townhouse felt the same during those hours when its normally empty halls filled with the sounds of merriment, laughter, and good cheer. Once a week, this was not a home shrouded in despair and eerie silence.

  A shadow shifted in the recesses of the large room as the baron himself came into view.

  Payton took a step back, the frame from the doorway blocking her as she watched Lord Ashford assess the room. He appeared as out of pl
ace here as he had in the foyer that morning. Odd that he could give his time to something so trivial as preparing his ballroom, but couldn’t be bothered to see to his children’s upbringing.

  In fact, after she’d left the baron’s study that morning to change her dress, Payton hadn’t seen him again. She’d fully expected him to seek a word with his children, perhaps during their morning studies or at their noonday meal, but he hadn’t come. Things had continued as they had each day before: she tended to the children, and he retreated to his study.

  Lord Ashford had proven gruff, contrary, and distant. At times, Payton wondered if he even remembered that he had children. Despite her mother’s early passing, Payton had never gone a day unloved by her older siblings. Marce had also seen to their discipline and upbringing. If not for Payton, who would take responsibility for Joy and Abram?

  It appeared she needed Abram and Joy as much as they needed her, despite everyone acting to the contrary. She could at least give them a bit of the notice that should come from their father, not a governess.

  As he walked around the ballroom, the baron called instructions to the footmen, pointing out a lopsided table and questioning the placement of the refreshment stand. The men hopped to each task given by Lord Ashford, each seeming happy to do the baron’s bidding.

  The servants at Ashford Hall had made no attempt to gain any familiarity with the baron’s new governess, and she’d overheard the whispers surrounding her presence more than once. Payton would tend the children for several weeks, perhaps a couple of months at most, and then she would leave—either relieved of her position by the baron or run off by the children. That was what everyone at Ashford Hall predicted for her.

  Payton had little doubt she would see the same fate as the last half-dozen governesses; however, she planned to leave of her own accord.