The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

by Christina McKnight

  Sarah was gone. His children and his home were without a mother.

  And Damon had only himself to blame.

  Though he need remind himself, he had not been charged with teaching Abram and Joy the proper decorum and manners befitting the children of a baron. He glanced at his elbow, resting upon two single-pound notes. He’d agreed that every month, he’d pay his children’s governess two pounds—to educate them, to school them in the art of decorum and manners, and to prepare them for their future in society. Most of all, he was willing to pay twice the normal rate for a servant of her status with the expressed instructions that he not be bothered—and in turn, not be responsible for any future failures. However, the racket echoing throughout Ashford Hall in that moment made it vividly apparent that someone was not earning her keep nor suited to her elevated task.

  It was customary for the lady of the house, or a housekeeper when the position was not occupied, to distribute the household wages. Though, after losing seven governesses in four years, Damon had made the decision that his sanity was worth two pounds per month. And how could he explain to Mrs. Brown, who happened to be wed to his butler, that a mere governess was collecting a higher wage than she?

  He could not risk having another governess flee the position, however. Word had long ago spread through the agency’s gossip mills about the heathens that resided at Ashford Hall in Hanover Square. He’d had to contact his solicitor to secure a governess from a highly dubious location—the famed Craven House. The rumors had spread through London many years ago that the house no longer acted as a brothel, catering to the illicit needs of men, but was operating as a staffing agency—and a safe haven, of sorts.

  Not that Damon was one to buy into town gossip. Besides, he’d had little other option. He’d had no other choice but to hastily write the proprietress of Craven House the previous month and had since been rewarded with the appearance of an adequately dressed young woman of obvious genteel upbringing.

  Miss Samuels, though Mrs. Brown had told him she barely looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom, came highly recommended and was, in fact, nearing her nineteenth year. The exact age his Sarah had been when they wed ten years prior. He’d never thought Sarah too young and unprepared for marriage, so there had been no need to believe Miss Samuels not adequate to serve as a mere governess.

  Memories pushed to the forefront of his mind, and Damon’s head pounded anew as he tried to keep them from overtaking him. It had been four years since his beloved Sarah passed, leaving their children to grow up without a mother.

  To be raised by a succession of obviously unqualified and easily frightened governesses.

  The agreement was simple enough—Miss Samuels would care for the children in a befitting manner, and he would leave them to their tasks. So far, in her month of residing at Ashford Hall, he’d not come directly face-to-face with the governess. He’d watched them pass his study when he neglected to close the door all the way, he’d happened by their schoolroom and took in the sight of his children’s heads lowered over their studies with the governess’s back to him.

  Avoiding the governess was becoming increasingly difficult as the days passed.

  Bloody damnation.

  Damon craved a drink, his parched throat begging for a long swallow of scotch; however, he was well aware that his aching head was not entirely attributed to the ever-increasing volume of his children but also because he’d imbibed one—or three—too many tumblers the previous night. It had been a rare moment of weakness for Damon…a day when the memories had been too overwhelming, and he’d given in to the dark past that tried at every turn to pull him back into the black days directly following Sarah’s passing. He didn’t deserve the escape too much drink provided—not after all he failed to do.

  A loud thump, followed by Joy’s melodic giggle, and Abram’s deep, hysterical laughter, shook the windowpanes in their frame as the pair raced past his study once more. At least they were no longer arguing and bickering. Their feuding of late was becoming increasingly worrisome, and though he had listened from afar since their new governess took command, Damon was uncertain how long he could refrain from stepping in to halt their quibbles.

  Glass shattered from somewhere near the foyer, and a blood-curdling scream tore through the house, abruptly halted by a deathly silence that descended in its wake.

  His entire body coiled with tension, Damon pushed from his seat and strode to the door. It slammed against the doorframe, and he stalked into the hall, his shoulders stiff with a reprimand ready to be shouted at the offending party—or parties.

  There was no need to go far to discover the source of the commotion.

  A vase had shattered, and its splintered glass lay covering the polished floor with Miss Samuels standing perfectly frozen in the middle of the mess. Though her back was to him, Damon noted the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. It appeared he would no longer be afforded the luxury of avoiding the woman.

  “What is going on here, Miss Samuels?” Damon did his utmost to keep his tone level as he spoke her name aloud for the first time. “Please, tell me that is not my dearly departed mother’s prized vase shattered on the floor…and that you are not ruining my hardwood with pooling water.”

  Damon took in the mess littering the foyer. He didn’t care a whit about the broken vase, the ancient thing was atrocious and should have been tossed away a decade before; however, he also did not relish the notion of things being broken and destroyed at will within his home.

  His children’s muffled laughter rained down from the landing above the foyer as Miss Samuels’ fists clenched at her sides, and her shoulders straightened, but she remained quiet, his question going unanswered.

  “Miss Samuels?” Damon prodded, his tone turning severe at the woman’s continued silence.

  With aching slowness, the governess turned to face Damon as another round of laughter burst from above. His pointed glare pivoted to his children to keep from settling on Miss Samuels’ clinging, soaked bodice.

  Joy and Abram hastened from view and moved into the shadows of the first-floor landing.

  He brought his glare back to the governess as he took in everything about her. Her eyes lit with irritation, and her long, dark tresses were matted and wet hanging over her shoulder.

  Damon wasn’t certain what he’d find when he came face-to-face with the woman for the first time, but this was nothing close to what he’d expected. It was as plain as his white linen shirt that she was young—though not too young to take on a position in a baron’s household; however, something in the way she glared at him, her chest laboring as she breathed deeply in and the air gushed from her lungs with each exhale, had him taking notice. She was far taller than he’d thought, her hair not a simple dark brown but laced with both lighter strands and hints of red that should seem out of place but only accentuated the blue of her eyes.

  His immediate instinct was to avert his stare and return to his study; however, his better judgment won out, and he remained stoic with the precise amount of disdain lingering in his stare.

  When her eyes finally met his, the woman was barely restraining her fury as her face burned red with a mix of what could only be deemed shock…and a healthy dose of embarrassment. Her eyes sparkled in a way he hadn’t thought possible before that moment.

  “Do explain what is going on,” Damon gritted through clenched teeth.

  “Your children”—her fists tightened at her sides with each word—“thought it comical to drop a vase full of—”

  “We thought it downright hilarious, actually,” Abram all but sang from above. “Cook had red cabbage brought in from Suffolk, and the color was—”

  “Quiet!” Damon slashed his hand through the air, cutting off his children’s latest burst of giggles. His glare never left Miss Samuels where she stood doused in blue dye from her bodice to the toe of her half boots, peeking out from under the hem of her morning gown. Her white apron was sat
urated, and droplets of blue-colored liquid fell to the floor from her tightly clenched fists.

  He could not halt his appraisal as his stare landed on her bodice and slowly traveled to her waist. Her dress was stained and soaked and clinging to her shift below as the distinct stench of ammonia travelled through the air. Apparently, his son had taken heed of his chemistry studies and was employing the lessons learned.

  With much effort, Damon lifted his eyes, thankful that despite the havoc wreaked on her dress and boots, her face was stain-free. Her dark tresses were pinned high atop her head with a single curl hanging over her shoulder, luckily impervious to the blue coloring.

  Despite his children’s many governesses, none had even remotely resembled the lady before him. Miss Samuels was far younger than any governess he’d had as a child or any he’d employed for his own children. And the uptick of her chin as her eyes held his, said that she belonged in a ballroom instead of his foyer.

  Clearing his throat, Damon was hard-pressed to determine who was more deserving of his reprimand: his wayward, unruly children or the woman who’d been hired to make certain his children were not wayward and unruly. He did not risk the wrath of his other servants to pay a governess twice the normal wage for a job that was not being successfully accomplished.

  It was not his responsibility to tame his children. Bloody hell, that was exactly why he’d hired a string of governesses after his wife’s death. Sarah had tended to Abram and Joy as if it were her lifelong dream to raise children. She had provided them with love and nurturing, holding their small family together. And after she was taken from them, Damon had struggled to find his way. Raising a family without Sarah had never crossed his mind.

  As with any hired post, there were certain expectations to be met—both his and society’s. Joy and Abram were far from the orderly, polite children of other ton members. And as much as he could be blamed for their lack of decorum, Damon was unwilling to accept censure.

  Damon’s deep breaths mirrored the governess’s labored inhales and exhales.

  “Miss Samuels,” he said before pausing to think through his next words. He could not, would not, allow the woman—as inept as she appeared—to flee her post before he’d secured another governess. “I would’ve thought twice the going wage would be incentive enough to handle two small children.”

  Her fists landed on her hips. “Twice the going wage for each would not adequately cover it.”

  “I hadn’t thought our first opportunity to meet would be under such circumstances, Miss Samuels.” Damon worked hard to keep his tone even, reminding himself that this was not a conversation to be had before his staff, and certainly not with the children present.

  “I hadn’t thought to take a post for an absent lord, either. If you took any interest in your children, perhaps employed a firmer hand with them, there would be no need for such a meeting between us.” Her chin lifted a notch, and her blue eyes darkened. “Certainly, they would be better behaved, at the very least.”

  “Are you criticizing my position as their father?”

  “I have never witnessed you in such a role, however—”

  “How I conduct myself, care for my children, and hold my place in this household is none of your concern, Miss Samuels,” he retorted. “I love my children very much. You…I must merely tolerate for the time being. They shall go nowhere, while governesses come and go.”

  Indignation widened her stare before she lowered her gaze to the floor.

  His severe tone was necessary. There were important issues that needs must be voiced, matters to be addressed and edicts adhered to. If not by his children, then at least by this staff. “It is your responsibility, as their governess, to teach them manners and decorum. If they possessed such skills, they would not be acting the heathens they are at present.”

  Joy and Abram had not evolved into the troublesome beasts they were under her watch, but rather his own. The knowledge of that fact did nothing to diminish Damon’s ire. His temper flared when he came face-to-face with his own failures. As simple as it would be to cast the blame at Miss Samuels’ feet, his children’s behavior had been something of a thorn in his side for some time, and chastising the governess as he was, was not the ideal first conversation for them.

  “Joy…Abram…you will come down here at once and clean up this mess. Next, you will apologize to Mrs. Brown for sullying her freshly polished floor,” he said, mustering every ounce of sternness he possessed. His tone softened with his next words, and he pinched the bridge of his nose as the ache in his head pounded ever more insistently. “Miss Samuels, you will join me in my study for a private word.”

  Why was his household, and everyone under his roof, not as easily maintained as his business endeavors?

  Chapter 2

  Miss Payton Samuels closed the baron’s study door behind her—with a bit more force than necessary or proper truth be told. However, she refused to add any further embarrassment to her situation. Was it not enough that Lord Ashford had spoken harshly to her in front of her charges? The last thing she desired was Abram and Joy overhearing their father lecturing her on the proper conduct of children and her duties as their governess. She’d been at Ashford Hall for an entire month, and this was the first time the baron had troubled himself enough to address her or interact with his children.

  Payton could only imagine what would have happened if her mother had left her and her siblings to fallow for such an extended period of time. It was surprising the children were not far more lawless than they were. When she took the position as their governess, it had been explained by the housekeeper that Payton would be responsible for the children from the time they woke until they found their beds each evening, with one day off per week. She’d viewed the post as a spot of fun. She’d be away from her elder sister’s watchful eye and staying in a grand London home.

  Unfortunately, spending most of her days teaching two young children was a chore she’d quickly discovered she was not exactly qualified to handle.

  The baron’s absence from daily life only seemed to make matters worse. He stalked the halls during the night and slipped unseen into his study during the day. Once, earlier that week, Payton had sensed someone watching her as she worked with Joy on her ciphering. When she glanced toward the open schoolroom door, a shadow had been the only thing she saw, but it too had disappeared in an instant.

  She glanced down at her saturated dress and apron, praying the blue dye hadn’t splashed higher to blemish her neck and face. Since taking the post, she’d tried to understand the baron’s children, to attain a companionable relationship with them; however, they resisted at every turn. After an entire month, she no more understood them than she did their absentee father.

  The troublesome duo was mischievous and exasperating. Her elder siblings would no doubt find immense satisfaction in the sheer amount of frustration—and the limitless problems—Joy and Abram inflicted on Payton on an almost hourly basis. Most nights, Payton barely made it to bed without falling asleep at their evening meal first. Forget all the evenings she’d thought to enjoy herself about London without having to answer to her siblings regarding her whereabouts.

  This morning, early as it was, had gone from unpleasant to completely dreadful, and all before they’d even settled down for their morning meal. First, Abram had tossed something at her as she escorted them toward the dining hall. Payton was one to anticipate such things, coming from a family of five children herself, and had deftly caught the object…only to discover it was a mud-soaked toad.

  Her skin crawled at the very thought of the large, lumpy, slimy creature wiggling from her grasp as it leapt to the floor and attempted its escape.

  Despite Mrs. Brown scooping up the toad and hurrying with it to the kitchen, the damage had been done, and her new gloves were utterly ruined by the mud.

  The children had taken off back up the stairs, laughing the entire time, leaving Payton to strip her stained gloves from her hands and tuck them int
o her pocket as she shouted for the children to return.

  In the next instant, glass had shattered at her feet, sending a cascade of wetness up the length of her.

  Payton wished to flee from her charges and escape her responsibilities at Ashford Hall, but she kept the picture of her future at the forefront of her mind. She would do her job, save her wages, and would one day be free to live where she wanted, do as she pleased, and answer to no one but herself.

  But now, Payton had to deal with Lord Ashford’s wrath. The baron’s anger was not that of most men she’d been told by several servants; instead, it was a quiet, seething disappointment. Much akin to Marce’s way of dealing with Payton when she misbehaved in her youth. Through the years, she’d learned how to deal with her sister, and Lord Ashford would likely be no different.

  Why couldn’t he still be abed? Or better yet, not home at all to witness her humiliation.

  Why had he chosen today, of all days, to leave his study?

  Joy and Abram were little more than children, and yet they foiled her at every turn. Even in the classroom, they openly and mercilessly jested and teased her. Payton had behaved no better in her younger years. However, her mother, and then her sister, had been there to chastise her unruly ways. The Ashford children did not have that—they only had Payton.

  She lifted her gaze to the baron as he took his place behind his desk, sinking into his chair, his head falling into his open palms. He sighed as he scrubbed at his freshly shaven face.

  Disappointment. As if it should be Payton’s sole purpose at Ashford Hall to not disappoint the baron. Yet, he’d not given her the benefit of a proper meeting before now, and she suspected that this conversation would not come close to the appropriate discourse.

  How was she supposed to keep from disappointing him when he’d never spoken of his expectations?

  But with him sitting still and silent, Payton had no choice but to wait, her bare hands clasped before her. How should one look in this situation? Contrite? Apologetic? Stern? Downright furious?