Page 34 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Lord Ashford cleared his throat, his smile thin with unease. “Yes, I thought it would be a nice change.”

The children gaped at her from across the table, and she merely shrugged. She could no more explain their father’s change in behavior than predict when the first snows would fall come winter. As if sensing their father’s unease, both children sat quietly as a footman delivered a steaming tureen of soup, followed by roasted pheasant with hearty vegetables, and finally, fragrant, spiced pudding.

Everyone ate in silence with only a murmured “thank you” here and there in appreciation of the servants’ work.

Payton barely touched each course as she waited for the baron to make his announcement.

Instead, he focused on his plate, finishing each course with gusto only rivaled by Abram.

Joy and Abram glanced in their father’s direction as if they could not believe their eyes. How long had it been since the baron had shared a meal with his children? She’d always assumed they dined together on her day off each week. It was apparent how wrong she’d been.

Thinking back to her own youth, Payton remembered every morning and evening meal taken with her mother and all her siblings. They spoke of their days, laughed at Garrett’s outlandish jests, and commonly discussed much more serious topics when the need arose. After her mother’s death, while they still ate together regularly, it was not every day as her brother and sisters forged their own paths in life. Garrett moved to the Albany, while Marce was often too busy to join Payton and the twins.

The baron’s children did not have such fond memories to hold close.

“Abram,” Payton said, breaking the silence in her eagerness to spark their conversation. “Why don’t you tell your father about the book you’ve been reading.”

The boy’s fork clinked against his plate, and he looked at his father.

“I—I—it is an analysis of the Ottoman wars, starting with their strike against the weakened Byzantine Empire.” Abram paused, glancing at Payton. With her nod of encouragement, he continued. “I’ve only made it as far as the wars in Venice, but I cannot stop myself from moving ahead to read about the conquest of Cyrus.”

It was a subject the father and son should bond over, yet Payton doubted the baron knew the depth of Abram’s interest in the subject.

“I am reading a picture book about ponies,” Joy chimed in, not to be outdone or overshadowed by talks of wars and ancient battles. “I’ve decided that when I am older, I am going to have an entire stable full of ponies—white ones, grey ones, and even midnight-black ones.”

Their father smiled, and as quickly as that, the tension fled the room.

“So many ponies? How will you remember all their names? And who will feed all those horses?” the baron asked with mock seriousness.

“They are ponies, Father. Ponies,” she said the word slowly. “And I shall care for them myself. I am going to be a grand opera singer. I will make more money than Prinny himself and hire a stable master who will assist me.”

“A singer and a pony collector?” Payton marveled aloud. “I had no idea you’d set your cap on two such prestigious aspirations.”

The girl had never so much as mentioned a love for ponies or singing since Payton had been at Ashford Hall.

“My mother was a grand singer,” Joy continued, a measure of pride in her voice. “Wasn’t she, Father?”

The trio turned to the baron, who trained his gaze toward the far end of the table, drawing deep, measured breaths. She knew Lady Ashford’s death affected not only the children but also the baron; however, she’d never been confronted with the reality of it all—and neither had the baron, it appeared.

“I am certain she had the voice of an angel,” Payton replied, taking the children’s attention off their father. Lord Ashford appeared frozen in his seat, his body present but his thoughts somewhere far away—and likely long ago.

“She sang me to sleep every night.”

“You can’t remember that,” Abram cut in. “You were just a babe, still in nappies.”

Joy’s tiny face reddened. “I do so remember. Tell him, Father, Mother sang to me all the time.”

Payton held her breath when the baron remained silent, his eyes unfocused. She wasn’t sure that she nor the children would be happy to see him revert to his distant, dour mood.

As if a candle had been lit, the baron turned to his children, his smile returning, though a bit more forced than before. “Yes, Joy, your mother sang to you often, but that was the only time I can remember her singing.”

“She didn’t sing to me?” Abram asked, his expression clouding.

“No.” The baron shook his head. “You would wail so loudly when she sang. To you, my son, your mother read. Books filled with adventure—pirates, explorers, and faraway places.”

“That must be why I love stories about battles,” the boy mused.

“I think it is,” his father replied.