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

by Christina McKnight

  “I will repay my debt to you,” she proclaimed, lifting her chin, yet the action did not hide the glisten of unshed tears in her eyes. “You can begin by keeping my final wages.”

  “Payton, I do not…” Damon didn’t want her bloody money, nor any pledge to settle her debts. This was why he’d kept to himself all these years. This was why he’d never taken another wife as his sister had pushed him to do. This was why he kept distance between himself and his children.

  With connection, came dependence. With care, came attachment.

  And when that connection and care were severed, only loss remained.

  He and his children had mourned the loss of Sarah all these years, and the most important thing he’d taught Abram and Joy since then was that distance saved the heart. Governesses came and went. No attachment, no loss.

  He’d held on to his misguided notion for so many years, it was difficult to let it go. But since Payton had come into their lives, he’d lost sight of his long-held belief.

  When had he—and the children—accepted Payton as part of their family?

  When had they decided, without vocalizing it, that this dark-haired woman was different from all the rest?

  Despite his best efforts, she had indeed become part of their family. A significant portion if he were being truthful. And they would all suffer from her absence. He’d fooled himself into believing that he needed her for the children.

  The truth was, Damon needed Payton for himself.

  He’d told himself, year after year, that he’d learned his lesson. He’d given himself entirely to Sarah, reveled in their love, and he’d lost her. She’d left him and the children behind. She’d died and taken his heart with her.

  Or at least that was what he’d thought.

  But letting Payton go, allowing her to walk out of his home, was something he was unprepared to face.

  “You can collect your things, but, I beg of you, allow me to tell Joy and Abram.” The words came out like his last wish.

  At her slight nod, Damon knew it was for the best—for both him and his children.

  When Payton hesitated, new hope sprang up within him, and the words begging her to stay nearly tumbled from his lips. He would apologize, and she would forgive him. They could move past it all and forget. Everything would return to normal. She would reprise her position as the Ashford governess, and he’d return to his place as the sulking lord. He would not dwell on their kiss. He would not languish over their severed attachment.

  If he promised, would she remain at Ashford Hall, or was she determined to leave him?

  Not him, this was not about him. Joy and Abram would be devastated if Payton left. It was for them that he clung to the small sliver of hope.

  “I will repay you, Lord Ashford,” she bit out, her tone cold.

  “That is not necessary nor needed,” he replied, his hands trembling as he held himself back—from going to her, from holding her close, from not letting her leave. He wanted to keep her but wasn’t sure how. He’d thought settling her debt with Catherton had been the right thing to do, but she’d seen it as a presumptuous act intended to form a new debt. If he begged her to stay, to reconsider, would she see it as him overstepping his place once more? He hadn’t paid her debt as a means of controlling her. The thought had never crossed his mind.

  “Unfortunately, I must.” She turned, her single curl falling over her shoulder to hang down her back as she strode from the room.

  Damon listened to her retreating footsteps as they disappeared when she climbed the stairs.

  He’d made a colossal mistake; however, he wasn’t sure if it was bringing Payton into his home all those weeks ago or allowing her to walk out now.

  It took all his willpower to move to the sideboard and pour himself a drink before slumping into his chair in front of the fire. He set his scotch on the table, forgotten, as he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the seat.

  He knew what he listened for—even though he begged himself not to.

  The light footsteps of her leaving…for good.

  Would she pause in the foyer? Would she return to give him a final goodbye?

  Was he strong enough to let her go? Or sufficiently weak if he begged her to stay?

  Bloody hell…he wanted her to stay, no matter the cost to him.

  He was a fool to think he could fix whatever had gone wrong between him and Payton. At each step, it only grew worse. He made it worse; with his words and his actions.

  Damon sat frozen and waited until he heard her coming down the main stairs. Her attempt to slip from the house silently was made impossible as he heard her struggling with her trunk as she slowly made her way down.

  To halt himself from rushing from his study to assist her, he grabbed his tumbler and took a long pull. The scotch burned its way to his stomach as his insides roiled against the spirits so early in the day. Yet, with what was to come when the children awoke and learned of Payton’s departure, he shouldn’t turn away from the anesthetic provided by the scotch. It would undoubtedly diminish the ache that would remain after she was gone.

  The front door opened to several voices, both male and female.

  Likely Mr. Brown and the other servants giving the governess a final farewell.

  What seemed like an eternity later, the door closed, and his household fell silent once more.

  Miss Samuels was gone.

  Relief should lessen the tension in his shoulders. Annoyance at Payton’s sudden departure from her position should flare his anger. It was over, she was gone, and he no longer need fight the urges within him, the draw to take her into his arms, and the desire in his heart to hold her tight.

  Yet, he could neither grasp his relief nor anger.

  The stark realization that he’d need to start his search for another governess was enough to have him draining his glass.

  “My lord?” The partially ajar study door opened behind him. “The Duke of Catherton is here to see you.”

  “Tell him I am still abed,” Damon mumbled, massaging his temples.

  “I do not think that will do.”

  “Tell him I have already departed for a morning meeting.”

  “Again, my lord, that will—"

  Damon slammed his empty tumbler on the table, refusing to turn toward the butler. “I am in no mood to see the vile man. Get rid of him.”

  “Vile man?” The sound of the duke’s Hessians rang across the floor until he stepped on the carpet. “I think I shall endeavor to embrace your words as a compliment, though I dare say they were not meant as one, Ashford.”

  “What do you want, Catherton?” Damon stood, turning to face the unwanted duke. “You have your money. We have no other business together.”

  The duke gave a gruff laugh before waving Mr. Brown from the room. “I have my money but not the masked lady’s name.”

  “What does that matter?”

  “It is the only thing that matters, Ashford,” Catherton hissed. “I will have her name and see her punished.”

  “We have been over this, Catherton. You have your money…the woman will not be allowed in my home again. It is the best you can hope for.”

  “You are more of a simpleton than I thought if you assume this is only about money.”

  “I do not know the woman’s identity.” Damon strode to his desk, putting the large expanse of the surface between him and the duke. “If I learn it, you will be the first to know.”

  The duke paced farther into the room, picking up Damon’s empty glass and smelling it. “Scotch? This early, Ashford?” His tsk-tsk was as disapproving as possible. “Who was the woman I passed when I arrived?”

  The hairs on the back of Damon’s neck stood on end, but he managed to keep his stance from showing his alarm. “My children’s governess.”

  “Early to be departing without the children,” Catherton mused. “Not that I am afflicted with children…or the need for a governess.”

  “Just as my actions
are none of your concern, neither are those of my servants or children.”

  “The trunk she carried appeared quite cumbersome.” He set Damon’s glass back on the table, trailing his fingertip along the rim before turning toward the door. “She was very familiar. Perhaps we are acquainted. What is her name?”

  Damon would rather shave a pound of his flesh than give the duke so much as Payton’s first name. There was no trust between them nor any kinship lost by denying the duke’s request.

  “I think it best if you depart before your line of questioning offends me further.” Damon sat at his desk in an attempt to hide his fury.

  “I will have the swindler’s name, Ashford,” the duke said, pivoting back toward Damon. His nostrils flared, and he narrowed his glare on his supposed adversary. “Even without your help. I do not take kindly to being bilked, especially by a woman.”

  Damon flipped open a folder on his desk and lowered his head as if to read, signaling that their meeting had come to its conclusion. “I wish you all the luck in your endeavor to locate the mystery woman. Again, I will send her directions to you immediately if I discover her identity.”

  “Did she attend your gaming night last eve?”

  “No.” There was no reason for Damon to share that he hadn’t been of a mind for cards either and had remained in his room while his guests enjoyed themselves. “I do not think she’d risk it if she has any sense.”

  “Women are not known for their sense,” Catherton chuckled snidely.

  “The same is true for many men I know.” Damon didn’t bother looking up at the duke. His meaning was clear. “I do wish you a good day, Your Grace.”

  Damon was likely to get an earful from Flora if she heard about him giving Catherton the cut direct. But the pompous lord deserved far more than just being dismissed.

  The clip of Catherton’s Hessians as he stalked from Ashford Hall rang through the empty house, and Damon could only exhale once the front door slammed in the duke’s wake.

  Payton was back from whence she came, and hopefully, that place did not overlap with Catherton’s circle of acquaintances. Damon should be furious with Payton for putting him in such a predicament, yet he couldn’t muster the energy to be upset with her.

  No, anger was not what filled him, making his entire body heavy and sending his mind into a dark, deep dive.

  Damon’s head fell into his hands, and he squeezed his eyes tight against the coming pain he was sure to cause his children. His own discomfort at Payton’s departure would not compare to the agony of Joy and Abram’s loss.

  Chapter 23

  Payton stumbled down from the carriage and into Craven House—her sanctuary, her home, her place of utter rightness. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against the scarred wood as her legs shook beneath her and tears streamed down her face. Never did she allow herself such an unguarded moment of pure despair. She begged her heart to slow its beat and her face to cool. To make matters all the more daunting, she’d nearly run headlong into the Duke of Catherton during her final moments at Ashford Hall.

  Thankfully, she was able to lower her head and scramble to her waiting carriage.

  Now, she was home—her true home, though she was loath to admit it.

  No one would be in residence at this hour. The women who lived at Craven House would be out and about for their day. Garrett would still be abed at the Albany.

  Payton could only pray that Darla, their cook and housekeeper, was at the market and would not stumble upon her.

  Her tears were useless and unfounded. Useless for the simple fact that no matter how many she shed, they would not bring about change. Unfounded because she’d known all along that her place at Ashford Hall was only temporary…a stepping stone of sorts until she moved on. Even if it had lasted several years, at some point, Damon’s children would have been too old for a governess.

  The position had been taken on a lark anyways—a means to escape Craven House.

  And yet, here she was…

  Back where she began without a shilling to her name and debt surpassing what she could hope to earn in an entire year of genuine work. Not that she’d fare so well again with her luck securing a suitable position.

  “Payton?” Marce’s familiar voice floated down the hall from her private office. “Is that you? What in heaven’s name are you doing home at this hour?”

  Her entire body stiffened, and she hurriedly brushed the warm tears from her cheeks, rubbing her palms down the front of her dress to dry them. Her eyes were likely swollen from crying, and her cheeks hot to the touch. One look at her and Marce would know something horrible had transpired.

  “It is I, Marce,” she called, praying her sister did not rush from her office. A moment or two, and Payton could compose herself enough to face her eldest sibling. “Give me a moment, and I will come see you. I simply must hear all about your travels.”

  She infused the last few words with excitement she did not feel.

  Especially since Marce was always tight-lipped about where she went when she was away from Craven House. If Payton didn’t know Marce so well, she’d think her eldest sibling had a secret family she hid from her brother and sisters—or perhaps a fine gentleman suitor.

  It was an unspoken rule that they allowed Marce to keep that small part of her life hidden from them.

  Would her sister give her the same courtesy?

  I’ll soon find out, she mused as she made her way down the narrow hall to the back of the house, a warmth infusing the abandoned corridor and teasing at her bare neck. Though Payton had visited the office several times over the last several days, it was different with Marce present. Calming…soothing…solid.

  Tangible, in a way. If a feeling could be grasped and held onto.

  It had been much the same when their mother had commanded the room.

  Why had Payton fought so tirelessly to be away from the place, to stake her independence and leave it all behind?

  No matter what transpired, who came and left their lives, they were always a family. Together. Craven House, its four sturdy walls and adequate roof, was their anchor.

  If it were within her power, Marce always endeavored to make things right.

  But how could her sister right something Payton wasn’t convinced was wrong?

  Everything with Damon—no, the baron—was too sensitive to be spoken aloud. What had transpired between them was just that: something for them alone. There was no remedy to the mess Payton had created for herself. No number of bribes or amount of intimidation could make any of it go away, disappear as if it had never happened.

  Payton had gained an affection for Lord Ashford. She’d allowed herself to be drawn in to the point where she’d thought her value and worth far exceeded what it actually was. The baron had told her not long ago that he merely tolerated her presence, that she was replaceable. Why hadn’t she heeded his words and kept her longings buried deep inside?

  Instead, she’d allowed him to draw her into a false sense of security that had led to their intimate moment in the hall just outside Joy’s darkened bedchamber.

  Payton forced a smile to her lips—though inside, she frowned—and stepped into the red and gold office. Oddly, they were the same colors she’d nearly selected for the gown the baron had commissioned for her, but she’d settled for cream with a lace overlay. It would match the string of pearls Payton had borrowed from Sam before her sister wed and moved out of Craven House.

  “How was your trip, dear sister,” she said, lying on her favored lounge with more reserve than usual. So many times, her fits of anger or irritation had sent her casting herself heavily onto the chaise.

  “It was...” Marce’s brow furrowed, and the corner of her lips dipped into a grim frown. “Eventful, yet uneventful at the same time.”

  There was an openness in her sister’s expression that Payton had never witnessed before. Her normally guarded demeanor seemed to have cracked ever so slightly.

  “Is that a good thing?
” Payton prodded.

  “Only time will tell, unfortunately.” Marce’s blue eyes met Payton’s. It was one of the few things they shared, a gift from their mother. Where Payton was tall and willowy, Marce was shorter with the curves of a woman; curves Payton could only dream of one day possessing. Payton’s dark hair was a startling contrast to her sister’s pale, curly tresses, though they favored the same long length. Marce smiled, but Payton knew enough to realize that her sister’s thoughts were elsewhere. Her mind preoccupied with business not concerning Craven House. “What are you doing here? It isn’t your day off.”

  There were so many ways Payton could answer her sister’s question. However, the stark truth would only bring her back to being the dependent babe of the family who needed everyone, especially her eldest sister, to care for her, to right her mistakes, and to coddle her as if she were a helpless child.

  Payton lowered the back of her head to the lounge and stared at the ceiling above. For a moment, she stalled answering as she counted the cracks in the plaster and followed them to where they trailed to the corner of the room. If she were going to lie to her sibling, it was best not to allow Marce to see the truth in her eyes. “Oh, the baron decided to take the children on an outing. It was the perfect time for me to take an afternoon for myself.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie, yet not an outright truth either. It had actually happened when Damon took the children to the museum. There was a glimmer of truth in her tale.

  Payton longed for nothing more than to be open with Marce but doing so would equal giving up what little independence Payton had created for herself.

  “Very good.” Marce glanced down at the stack of work on her desk that had piled high while she was away from London. “However, I would not think Craven House would be your first choice of destination.”

  True enough. There had been no qualms made, no words minced, when Payton had demanded that Marce allow her to take the position as the Ashford governess. She’d longed for freedom, time to discover what life would hold for her without her family’s crushing oversight, though her sister masked it as guidance.