The Gambler Wagers Her Baron: Craven House Series, Book Four Page 6

  Miss Samuels spread her cards before her. “Quint.” Her eyes narrowed behind her mask as she tallied her score. “Fifteen.”

  One hundred and twenty-three, to one hundred and thirty-five.

  “Declare.”

  “Quatorze,” Catherton proclaimed.

  Damon’s guests exhaled. It would be a difficult declaration to best.

  “How much?” Miss Samuels called, sending several women into fits of laughter behind their raised fans. A woman besting the Duke of Catherton at the piquet table would certainly cause a fair amount of gossip among the ton.

  Could she have it?

  The conviction in her tone clearly made the entire gathering think the mystery woman behind the gold mask had vanquished the vile duke.

  “Aces.” Catherton laid his card face-up before him and pushed from his chair, issuing a curt bow to the many guests watching the players. “Even with adding the play phase points, I am the victor.”

  Damon quickly tallied the final phase points in his head. Six hands with three tricks per round equaled eighteen points. Neither Catherton nor Miss Samuels had won all eighteen tricks. No bonus points for rounds seven through eleven as neither had won all the rounds. One point for Catherton for winning the final trick.

  The duke was the victor with one hundred and fifty-seven points scored.

  He double and triple checked his addition, somewhere deep he was unwilling to acquiesce that she’d lost to the duke.

  Damon’s stomach twisted, and he turned to Miss Samuels, thinking to see dejection and dread, but her shoulders remained squared, her chin high, and her mask in place. His stomach roiled yet she remained composed. Did Miss Samuels utterly lack any hint of self-preservation?

  “If you will both join me in my study to settle your debts.” Damon stood. His only hope was that he could see the debt paid without Miss Samuels’ identity being discovered. “This way please—”

  When Damon started for the open double doors, two blond heads peeked around the frame. Matching sets of green eyes widened before disappearing from sight as two pairs of feet could be heard scurrying down the hall. Blessedly, the musicians launched into a new piece, covering the sound.

  Joy and Abram should be asleep in their beds, above stairs, and at the opposite side of the townhouse. He’d even glanced into both rooms before going downstairs to greet his guests. They’d been tucked in bed and fast asleep—a book lying open on Abram’s chest as if he’d fallen into slumber while reading. Joy had been curled into a tight ball on her side, facing away from the door.

  Damon increased his pace and exited the ballroom, but his children were out of sight. Behind him, the duke collected his winnings, and Miss Samuels stood from her seat, glancing about the room. His heart pounded in his chest when she watched the duke tuck a stack of notes into his coat pocket. A mere governess did not have the funds to pay such a steep wager, and neither was a woman of her ilk suited to care for his children. Without her position at Ashford Hall and the meager wages he paid, there was no possibility she’d ever repay her debt to the duke.

  He should have requested a private word with her as soon as he discovered her identity. It would have saved her from the fate awaiting her in his study. His throat tightened at the thought of what Catherton would do if he learned the woman could not make good on her wager.

  “My lord?” Mr. Brown cleared his throat at his elbow. “Can I be of assistance?”

  Damon had never been more relieved to see his butler. “Yes, yes,” he said, glancing down the hall towards the main stairs. “Can you see the Duke of Catherton and the golden-masked woman”—he’d nearly divulged her ruse to his servant—“to my study? Ask them to await my arrival.” He needs must see to his misbehaving children before taking up the matter of the large sum owed the duke. “Do not leave the pair alone together.”

  Despite Miss Samuels’ provocative words and the duke’s accusations, Damon would not tolerate any woman within his home being the recipient of Catherton’s wrath. If only he could have a few moments to speak with the governess and assess her capability—and willingness—to fulfill her debt, Damon would be able to dispel his unease.

  But first, his children were in need of proper discipline.

  He should have seen to their unruly behavior earlier in the day after they’d ruined Miss Samuels’ dress. As the years passed, he found it easier and easier to keep his distance from the pair. It was as if he resided in a completely different house. Damon took his meals in his room or after the children had gone to bed. He locked himself in his study during the day or remained at his club in the evenings to avoid Joy and Abram.

  It was the simplest way to assuage his guilt. His children had lost their mother because of his carelessness—his previous tendency for moments of impulsivity.

  Impatience coursed through him. He should be focused on the matter between his guests; instead, he was distracted by his offspring. His backwards thinking was not lost on him—he knew he focused on the trivial in hopes it would distract him from the important.

  Damon took the stairs two at a time and started down the hall that housed the children’s rooms—along with Miss Samuels’—just as the pair disappeared into Joy’s chamber. The door slammed in their wake.

  The sound echoed in his head as he stalked down the hall.

  Damon rubbed the back of his neck to dull the ache before pushing the door open.

  It took him only a moment to spot Joy and Abram in the dim light where they ducked behind the unmade bed.

  “Come out, now!” His command boomed in the larger room.

  The pair stood behind the bed and crawled over the unkempt bedcoverings and then eased themselves to the floor several feet in front of Damon. Abram’s mussed hair stood in every direction, and his long nightshirt hung open at his throat, his stare solidly leveled on Damon, while Joy kept hers trained on her feet.

  “Have I not told you to remain upstairs when I am hosting guests?” he demanded, keeping his voice low, but stern.

  “Yes, Father,” they chimed in unison.

  “Than what, may I ask, were you doing below, sneaking about the ballroom?”

  “We wanted to see—” Joy halted her explanation when Abram poked at her.

  Abram’s stare hardened, barely noticeable in the light given off from the dying fire and the candelabra next to the bed. “We wanted to see what occupied so much of your time, if it is not us.”

  “Pardon?” Damon wondered where the steel in his son’s tone came from at the same time his every decision over the last four years flooded him.

  Both children remained silent, but hostility fairly filled the room. After a few moments, Joy’s lip trembled, and Damon’s breath hitched at the sight of her hands clenched tightly before her. For possibility the first time, Damon realized his children were hurting as much as he was. They felt his pain despite the distance he’d created between them.

  “Do you not miss her, Father?” Her strangled cry dispelled his irritation. “Do you not think about her at all?”

  Damon searched their matching green eyes, at a loss for what to say, how to react, and utterly devoid of ideas for how to flee the room. While Abram’s glare held only reproach and scorn, Joy’s were filled with hurt.

  Why now?

  Of all nights, why had the pair brought up Sarah tonight?

  “Did you love our mother?” Abram set his fisted hands on his slender hips. “Huh? We deserve an answer.”

  A million moments spent with Sarah—many including his two small babes—floated through Damon’s mind. Days spent on the expansive lawns at his country seat, Falconcrest, with the sun shining brightly overhead. Nights spent with his arms wrapped securely and comfortably around Sarah. Afternoons attending dreadful and boring London musicales at Flora’s behest—but having his wife by his side had made the long hours bearable. The time their carriage had broken a wheel an hour outside of London proper when Sarah was heavy with child.

  Every moment had held one
thing above all else…love.

  After a childhood shrouded by a lack of love and affection, Sarah had come into his life and changed it all. She’d made the impossible possible.

  How could his children question his feelings for their mother? She was all he thought about, all he dreamed of at night, and the only person he longed to see again.

  He fell into fitful sleep every night, only to wake suddenly and reach out for something—someone—to hold close. But Sarah’s side of their marriage bed would forever be empty.

  And they dared ask him if he loved their mother?

  Yet, they knew nothing of his struggles, his nights spent in dark musings, or his days barricaded in his study. They were not privy to his innermost thoughts, his great regrets—or his immense guilt.

  His throat tightened, but he refused to allow his children to see the weakness that afflicted him every time he thought of Sarah, remembered their many years together…and how unexpectedly she’d been taken from him.

  Damon swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat and pinned Abram with his hard stare. “You will both find your beds and not leave them again until you are called down for breakfast.” He turned to Joy, her stare once again on her tiny, bare feet poking out from under her long, white nightgown. Her twin golden plaits hung over her shoulders. “Am I understood?”

  Reluctantly, Abram nodded.

  “Miss Samuels has tomorrow off,” Damon continued. “I expect the pair of you to look after yourselves and not cause another scene like this morning.”

  Without another word, he pivoted and strode for the door.

  He needed to be away from his children and locked in his study before the waves of anguish, hurt, and loss overtook him. Only alone would he give in to the memories, relive the moments, and cry until there were no tears left.

  As he closed the door, Abram shouted after him, “You act as if she never existed. That you are better without her!”

  Damon’s steps faltered. Better without her?

  No one was better without Sarah. There was no more joy to be had now that she was gone from his side. Damon had simply adjusted to a life that didn’t require him to live within it.

  Chapter 6

  Payton huddled in the shrubs bordering Saint George Street in Hanover Square, waiting for Mr. Curtis to arrive and collect her. The dew from the leaves soaked the satin of her gown—borrowed from Samantha’s dressing closet—ruining the delicately sewn fabric. Not that it mattered overmuch as her sister had bid Payton take whatever she wanted after she wed a most wealthy lord and purchased a townhouse full of satin, silk, and muslin gowns. It did not stop Payton from worrying over the expensive garment, however. It cost more than she’d earn in an entire month at Ashford Hall, and she would not be able to replace it easily.

  The bitter night chill seeped into her bones when a gusty wind pushed between the three-story townhouses flanking her on either side of the street. She’d had to depart Ashford Hall without her cloak or risk being caught by Catherton sneaking off without settling her debts.

  Her bottom lip trembled, and she bit down to stop the sob that crept up her throat. It was the way of things, she reminded herself. The flip of a card, a bad hand, or the skill of another took her coin as often as she won. It was disheartening to be set back another month, but life was not always easy, and moving on to something better would undoubtedly have its setbacks. Things hadn’t been easy for her mother, and Payton was not deluded enough to think that her own independence would be easily won.

  Carriage wheels sounded on the cobblestone street, and Payton peeked from the bushes, only to pull back sharply, gaining a poke to the back of her head. Another pointy branch pricked her elbow. Whistling drifted on the breeze as yet another coach traveled away from Ashford Hall, taking their occupants home for the night for a few hours rest before they started the day anew.

  Bloody bugger. Yellow-livered cod monger. Caper-witted bounder.

  Payton thought of every insult she’d heard in her short, sheltered life. Mutterings she’d overheard at the market or in the mews that ran behind Craven House. She’d even gained a few unladylike retorts from her dearest friend Ellington, now Lady Chastain. Suddenly, they were all too tame to express her feelings for a certain duke.

  Because of that dull-witted, arrogant dandy, Catherton, she’d lost everything. All her hard-earned wages and the coin she’d won at other gaming tables. She wasn’t sure if she was madder at him for besting her or allowing him to bait her into such a high-stakes hand.

  Either way, it was gone. All of her winnings and salary…gone.

  And the duke had dared accuse her of cheating.

  Cheating!

  If she’d employed her deftness at card counting, she would have taken the pompous duke for far more than a mere ten pounds—and a lot quicker, too. Truth was, she hadn’t needed to bamboozle him. The Duke of Catherton was a dull-witted, arrogant dandy who thought himself above all others just because some ancient ancestor had garnered the approval of a long-dead king.

  The worst part of it all was that she’d no longer be welcome at Ashford Hall, at least not during the baron’s weekly gaming nights. She would most certainly have no other recourse but to return to the townhouse as Miss Samuels, governess to Ashford’s quarrelsome children.

  Perhaps angering Catherton hadn’t been her wisest decision. However, the man was insufferable. Why had he been permitted into Lord Ashford’s townhouse with his sordid reputation in the first place? Payton had never seen the man in attendance before. Despite the masks every guest wore, she recognized several lords and a few ladies from her limited outings among the ton. The guises were more of a lark, not to properly hide one’s identity.

  The wind whipped through the underbrush, twisting her skirts between her legs and sending a draft between her thighs. If she’d had a few shillings to her name, she would have hurried down the block and hailed a hackney cab.

  She cursed the Duke of Catherton once more.

  The moon lay hidden behind dark, ominous clouds, ready to let loose a torrent of rain. Hopefully not before Payton made her way back to Craven House.

  “Damnation.” Why hadn’t she thought to hide within Ashford Hall until closer to dawn when Mr. Curtis came for her? She could have scurried to her own room and hidden there until more of the guests departed—or at least until the duke took his leave. But she’d seen Lord Ashford stalk up the stairs and couldn’t risk him discovering her nighttime masquerades.

  Or her embarrassment at losing to Catherton.

  The baron would release her from her duties without a moment’s thought.

  And then how would she ever earn the funds she needed?

  Twenty pounds.

  Payton Samuels owed the Duke of Catherton twenty pounds.

  Her hands shook, and her head spun with dizziness at the sheer amount. She rarely possessed such large sums of money—and when she did, it usually went to pay her other debts.

  She’d had no option but to flee Lord Ashford’s house. The duke was persistent enough to have the entire house searched for her. Marce had remained steadfast that she would never settle Payton’s debts again. Any notion of earning a sum that large without risking her own skin by bilking players at a gaming hell was out of the question. Payton needed funds, but not at the hefty price of her safety.

  At least neither the baron nor Catherton suspected her true identity.

  If she were lucky, as she hadn’t been tonight, the duke would never again make the acquaintance of the woman in red and gold, and her employer would never learn that his children’s governess had a weak spot for high-stakes card games.

  Payton wrapped her arms around her midsection in hopes of trapping her waning body heat as her teeth chattered and her skin prickled with goose pimples. She could feel her mask, safely hidden in the folds of her gown. To keep from thinking about the cold dampness soaking into her dress and skin, Payton trained her eyes on the townhouse across the street. When she’d taken to her
hiding spot earlier, there had been five upstairs windows alight. Now, there was only one. Soon, it would be snuffed, and there would be no candles casting a faint glow on the street before her.

  How late had the night grown?

  Midnight had surely come and gone. Carriages had been departing Ashford Hall for over an hour now. There could not be many guests remaining. Had Mr. Curtis forgotten her? Perhaps he’d fallen asleep in the stables and would awaken in the morning with the lingering thought that he’d forgotten something of import the previous night.

  If there were anything Payton knew, it was that every circumstance was only temporary and open to change. At the moment, she was crouched in the shrubs in London’s finest neighborhood. But tomorrow would be a new day with new experiences. Not long ago, she’d been lorded over by her eldest sister with no freedom to do what she desired, and no ability to be the woman she longed to be. Marce was to be admired for her dedication to her siblings. However, her way of showing her love left much to be desired. If Payton needed proof of all she believed, she needn’t look any further than her own family. Both of her sisters had accomplished exactly what they wanted with no help from their eldest sister.

  Judith had been apprehended as a thief by the night watchmen only a few years prior. Now, she was wedded to Cartwright. Samantha had been labeled a ladybird by the London gossips, and now she was a marchioness. Even gaining the position as a governess in the baron’s home was a huge step up for the illegitimate daughter of a madame and a lowly country blacksmith.

  Not that Payton knew much about her father besides his name, and how he earned his living.

  Her own mother had changed her circumstances for the better after her husband had died, and she’d been cast out of her home with two small children: Garrett and Marce. In the end, she’d had a fine home and five children who loved her dearly.

  The clopping of hooves and the turning of carriage wheels sounded in the opposite direction of the baron’s home. The familiar creak and groan of Craven House’s neglected conveyance was a sweet melody to Payton’s ears—her freezing ears. She said a quick thank you to whoever was watching over her as she leapt from the bushes, gathered her skirts, and sprinted across the street, her mask hidden in the generous folds of her gown.