The Gambler Wagers Her Baron
Craven House Series, Book Four
Christina McKnight
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Christina McKnight
Cover Design by Sweet n’ Spicy Designs
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-945089-37-4 (Paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-945089-38-1 (Electronic Book)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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Dedication
For you, my dear reader!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
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Also by Christina McKnight
About Christina McKnight
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgments
Prologue
London, England
December 1810
* * *
Hidden in the upstairs closet by the family bedrooms, Payton Samuels pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs as she listened to yet another set of feet enter her mother’s private chambers. These were most certainly those of a woman. They lacked the heavy tread of both her elder brother or the man she’d been instructed to simply call Julian.
It hadn’t been difficult, even for Payton’s nearly ten-year-old mind, to work out that something was amiss in her home lately. No one raised his or her voice, slammed a door, or laughed, which was peculiar for Payton and her four siblings.
For nearly four days, she’d been forbidden to enter her mother’s private chambers, and no one would say a word as to why. Arguing and pleading with her older siblings had garnered her only a stern rebuff and a reminder to be a “good little girl” and mind her business.
They, she silently seethed, had given her no other choice but to slip into the upstairs closet outside her mother’s chamber and wait, straining to hear what could possibly be keeping her mother locked in her private rooms day and night. Anytime Payton misbehaved or had a terrible row with one of her sisters, she’d sneak into this very closet and listen as her mother debated her punishment.
It was her siblings, Marce, Jude, Sam, and Garrett, who treated her like a babe, not her mother. Never her mother.
She was only two years younger than her twin sisters, Sam and Jude. If she were a babe, then so should they be treated as such.
She scoffed and clamped her cold hand to her mouth to halt the sound. The noise bounced off the wooden walls but drew no notice from within her mother’s room.
A sharp pain in her back shot up into her neck at the same time her legs ached from disuse. Tilting her head back and forth, she rubbed the curve on her neck in hopes the pain would recede.
Surely, it had been several hours since she’d snuck inside and hidden in the closet. The cold of the old house had seeped through her thin dress and stockings not long after she entered the tight space. She could not risk leaving her hiding spot to collect a shawl or a blanket—at least not with someone new entering her mother’s room. Her stomach growled at the same time a shiver ran down her hunched back, bringing to mind her missed meal.
It was an unwelcome surprise that no one had come in search of her. Not when she slipped from the schoolroom without completing her work, nor when she’d missed their evening meal.
Seven o’clock. Sharp.
The clock chimed, and they were all meant to be in their seats and ready to eat.
Yet, Payton had remained in her hiding spot, breath held, and her ear tuned to hear anything that might come from her mother’s chamber.
Perhaps she had not been the only one who’d neglected to arrive in the dining hall. One fact she knew was that her mother hadn’t left her chambers, although a meal might have been brought up to her.
Madame Sasha, the proprietress of Craven House—whatever that meant—had had two guests that evening. Both men…
Each had spoken in hushed tones, their words indecipherable to Payton before each had left after only a few short minutes.
Payton strained to hear anything happening in the next room.
She hated being cold. She despised being hungry.
But most of all, she loathed being commanded about and coddled as if she were still no more than a baby.
She was clever—her mother told her so.
She was precocious—Julian, whom the servants called the Duke of Harwich, had told her on several occasions when he came to read her stories.
She was vexing—Garrett had insisted more than once.
And she was steadfast. She’d come to learn from Miss Giles, her tutor, that steadfast meant adamant, stubborn, and unwavering in her resolve. Payton wasn’t certain what resolve was; however, if she had a bowl of it now, perhaps with warm milk, she’d eat a healthy portion.
Despite all this, no one would tell her what was wrong or allow her to see her mother.
She’d gone so far as to attempt to walk directly through her mother’s door; however, Mr. Curtis had turned her away with a kind smile and a regretful shrug. Payton had even mustered a single tear, but perhaps the Craven House servant was as steadfast as she.
Something prickled on her bare arms, and Payton brushed at it, refusing to allow a yelp of alarm to escape. She would have no hope of convincing her siblings that she was not a babe if she gave in to hysterics every time a spider landed on her in a darkened closet.
Lifting her chin from her knees, she pushed back against the frigid wall. Despite her shiver, her neck and back ceased to ache—as much.
She wondered who was in her mother’s chambers.
They hadn’t spoken in the long minutes since the woman entered, and Payton wondered if she’d departed as quickly as she came, and Payton just hadn’t heard the squeak of the hinges on the door.
Suddenly, light flooded the interior of her nook, and Payton’s hand rushed to cover her eyes as a single candle blinded her. Her hours in the dark had caused more than aches and pains.
Payton sat numbly, expecting a stern lecture from Marce, or for Sam to haul her from the closet, but the figure, made indistinct by the light, only pulled the door closed and blew out the candle before sinking to the floor next to Payton.
“Whatever are you doing in here?” Ellie leaned close to whisper in her ear.
The tension fled when she realized that it wasn’t one of her siblings come to fetch her, but her dearest, bosom friend. As
her eyes adjusted to the dark once more, Payton noted Ellie’s hallmark red hair, hanging loosely about her shoulders.
“It is dreadfully cold in here,” Ellie continued. “I arrived a few minutes ago, and Jude said she hadn’t seen you in some time. Mentioned you hadn’t been seen in the dining hall.” The girl giggled before continuing. “They are all inept, aren’t they?”
“What does inept mean?” Payton hissed.
“Oh, it is what my father calls me when I’ve spilt my milk or sullied a new dress,” Ellie said with a shrug. “Last week, he misplaced his jeweled letter opener, and I called him inept. He turned as red as a beet.”
“Ellie, you mustn’t say such things to him,” Payton argued. “You know how he—”
“Do not fret, I ran quickly, and he’d already had far too much to drink for a chase.” Ellie’s eyes lit with mischief, clear even in the darkened closet. “Besides, I took the bloody opener.”
Payton shook her head as concern for her friend’s well-being welled within her.
“Now, why are we hiding in the hall closet?” Ellie asked, keeping her tone low.
“It is my mother,” Payton confessed. “Something is amiss, and no one will tell me what.”
The scraping of a chair across the scarred, wooden floor drew both of their attention as Payton listened closely. She could see in her mind’s eye as the chair from close to the hearth was dragged toward her mother’s bed.
It was evening time, what was her mother still doing abed?
The creak of bed ropes had Payton’s heart beating so erratically, it echoed in her head. Thankfully, she was no longer cold.
She moved to press her ear to the wall, and Ellie followed suit.
“What are we hoping to hear?” Ellie whispered.
“Shhhhh.” She held her finger to her lips as Marce’s voice sounded in the other room.
Was she crying? Her eldest sister never cried. She lectured, she commanded, she rebuffed. But never had Payton heard Marce cry.
“…Mother, I cannot do this without you,” Marce said.
“What will she need to do without your mother?” Ellie asked before falling silent once more.
“What will I do with the children?” Her sister’s voice rose with concern.
“You—will—care—for them as—you always—have.” Her mother’s words were strained as if she were in pain. Perhaps she was hungry, as Payton was. “Keep them together—always.”
“But I am not old—”
“You are eighteen, my child.” Her mother coughed, and Payton heard several gulps, and the sound of a glass being set back on the table at her mother’s bedside. “Remember, you will—move on from this. You, and your siblings will be—strong for your loss. If you keep moving forward—things will be better. Do not give up, Marce.”
“What if I fail?” her sister pleaded. It was the first time Marce had ever sounded less than confident. “What if I cannot find the means to support us all?”
“Julian—he has promised to help you,” her mother’s labored breathing could be heard as if she were in the closet with Payton and Ellie. “As long as you—look to the future—always think about that, you will—do well—by all of them. With time, and distance, they will not miss—me.”
“Payton,”—Ellie set her hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently—“do you think…?”
Payton closed her eyes and leaned away from the wall, fearing to hear more, yet needing to know. The cold returned as if it had never left, and her head pounded.
“My mother is dying.” What other explanation could there be?
The worst part was that they all knew.
Marce, Garrett, Jude, and Sam. They knew, and they’d kept it from her.
As the realization sank in, Payton’s breathing became as labored as her mother’s, and the pain from her back and head moved to her chest.
Her breath hitched when her mother spoke once more. “No matter how many times it seemed—as if our lives would forever fall apart…” The bed creaked again, and Payton could nearly see her mother pushing up onto her elbows with her need to look Payton’s sister straight in the eyes. “We discovered something far better on the horizon. It will be—the same—for all my children. Each of you—shall thrive.”
Payton pushed to her feet, unable to listen any longer. She grasped the latch, throwing the door wide as she scrambled from the closet. The door slammed on its hinges and sprang back, nearly hitting Ellie as she followed Payton from the suffocating confines.
She would take any reprimand, any punishment, any lecture—over this.
“Payton…I…” Ellie set her hand on her arm, but Payton only shrugged away and fled down the hall toward her own chambers, her mother’s words echoing in her head until her sight blurred from tears.
“Move on…”
“Something far better…”
“Thrive…”
“Payton, wait.” Ellie’s quick footfalls sounded behind her, drawing Payton to a halt as she spun to face her friend, her chest heaving up and down from her run down the hall and the unexpected news from her mother’s chamber.
She couldn’t accept Ellie’s downcast eyes and soft words.
Payton did not need her friend to feel sorry for her—to comfort her in any way.
Rolling her shoulders back so straight they ached, Payton’s resolve hardened further. “Do not feel sorrow for me. We all lose people we love. It is a way of life, is it not? I will do as my mother bids…move on from this miserable house, find a life far better than my siblings can afford me, and I shall thrive. You will see, Ellie, I aim to do exactly that.”
Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, her nails biting in the palms of her hands until she clamped her teeth shut to avoid calling out in pain.
She hadn’t any idea what moving on would mean, if something better than her place at Craven House awaited her, or how to thrive without her family; however, if it were what her mother demanded of her, then Payton would do anything not to disappoint her.
Chapter 1
London, England
February 1820
* * *
Damon Kinder, Lord Ashford, pressed at his temples, attempting to massage away the endless pounding in his head as the shrieks and stampeding feet outside his study continued to assault the quiet he preferred in his home. Blessedly, the noise receded as his children moved farther down the hall and away from his closed study door.
Glancing down at his desk, Damon’s irritation ignited when he noted that everything was in its place, all household matters attended to, and all business correspondence addressed and ready to go out with the late-morning post. Even the missive that had arrived an hour before from his country seat at Falconcrest House was duly reviewed, his response outlining the specific repairs agreed upon by him and his steward.
Falconcrest—the bane of his existence. His country estate, in his family for generations, only caused his insides to churn with guilt each time he had the need to handle anything pertaining to the property. It wasn’t the house or even the surrounding land that opened a hole within him that was impossible to close. No, everything about Falconcrest signified his failure as a husband, a father, and a man. He had no interest in overseeing the maintenance of the property nor the repairs still needed for his enclosed carriage abandoned just within his lands all those years ago.
He’d purchased a new conveyance. He’d created a suitable home for his children at his London townhouse. And Damon was resigned to never see his family estate again.
However, that did not diminish his responsibility to the place. One day, his son Abram would inherit the estate, and it would be Abram’s decision whether or not to inhabit the languishing house.
Damon’s irritation abated at the thought, leaving only his perpetual sense of loss and sorrow—and his tidy desk before him.
To his chagrin, all his work was completed, and the sun had barely risen over the horizon. Most Londoners had just found their beds a few short ho
urs before after long nights out.
The high-pitched, angry cry that pierced the air was one only mastered by that of a young girl. In this case, like many before it, the dreadful, ear-splitting wail was compliments of none other than his youngest child, Joy. A gruff bark of unrestrained laughter followed as Damon’s son, Abram, mimicked the tone of a man ten years his senior. At ages six and eight, his offspring were…spirited. At least that was what his sister called them while in polite company.
Damon longed for them to be spirited in another part of the townhouse, if only to allow his thundering headache the chance to subside.
His fingers twitched as he pressed his palms flat against the polished mahogany of his neatly organized desk. Perhaps he should have remained in his private chambers and requested his morning meal be brought into the one room where no one dared disturb him. He could have had Mr. Brown, the Ashford butler, bring his paperwork to him there, and Damon would have escaped the nuisances currently bickering in the hall.
A sharp pain seized his chest. No man should insinuate, even silently to themselves in the privacy of their study, that their children were bothersome and that they incited headaches even before he’d taken his morning repast. There had been a time when he hadn’t seen the pair as bothersome or so much as an inconvenience—but those days were gone, and no matter how hard he fought to return to that time…he couldn’t.
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