Page 1 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

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.