Page 63 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Damon held his arms wide and boomed, “Are we ready?”

“Yes,” both children called.

Damon ushered the children from the room, throwing her an expectant look, his eyes begging her to stop him, to reconsider accompanying them. When she remained silent, he disappeared from sight, his footfalls matching his children’s pace as they headed for the stairs.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she leaned over and collected her book from the floor and slumped into Abram’s empty desk chair. There was little hope they could return to the way things had been. They’d crossed some invisible boundary, with no chance of negotiating their way back.

The slam of the front door below stairs signaled the family’s departure.

Perhaps she should spend the day outside of Ashford Hall. There was an errand she’d been putting off. She needed to collect the gown the baron had purchased for her at Madame DelFortaine’s Shoppe. She’d debated accepting the dress; however, after their recent situation, Payton had determined that the baron owed her. Joy and Abram had ruined her other gown, after all.

She hurried to her room and collected her cloak and handbag.

Perhaps after picking up her new dress, she’d call on Garrett at the Albany and insist that he accompany her to Paxton and Whitfield for afternoon tea. After that, maybe she’d convince him to continue on to 10 Mill Street as he was seen as an educated lord and his attendance at Galment’s townhouse was viewed favorably. Tomorrow was Sunday and her day off, after all.

Chapter 20

“My lord.” Mr. Brown stood at his elbow, a single letter on a silver tray in presentation. “This arrived for you only moments ago.”

Damon set the morning Post aside and retrieved the letter, holding it above his half-eaten meal. Flora’s bold, heavy-handed script was as familiar as his own across the missive as well as her stationery scent—roses. The offensive aroma of old flowers wafted about the room, and he slipped his finger under the wax to break Wittenbottom’s signature seal.

If anything, a note from his sister would distract him from musings about where Payton had gone. He’d given her the afternoon and evening off the prior day, and today was Sunday; however, he’d expected her to be around the townhouse. To his chagrin, he’d been informed by his butler that the governess hadn’t returned since departing the previous afternoon.

“Who is the letter from?” Joy tugged at his sleeve. She’d taken to sitting in Payton’s seat—formerly her mother’s seat—when the governess didn’t join them for meals. “I wish I could receive a letter.”

Damon smiled. “It is from Aunt Flora.”

His day with the children at the museum had been taxing but worthwhile. Abram and Joy had remained close to his side and listened to his every word as he guided them through the exhibits. They’d laughed many times. He and Abram had sat before a display of archaic, crude weapons and debated the merits of hand-to-hand combat versus ancient weapons. They’d even strayed into modern warfare. The discussion had been inspiring, at least for Damon.

Joy had been less talkative as she remained steadfast by his side while they traversed the museum. Damon suspected her quiet demeanor had nothing to do with boredom, but rather a sense of overwhelming interest.

They’d eaten a simple meal after returning home, and then Damon had walked Joy and Abram to their chambers for bed.

With the children asleep, he had naught to do but pace the halls as he attempted to hide his anxiety.

And now, the children flanked him at the table, with Miss Samuels nowhere to be seen.

Oddly enough, the children hadn’t asked after her either.

Could it be only he who noted her absence, or had the children grown accustomed to caring for themselves on Sundays? Most Sundays, Damon was busy preparing for his gaming evening.

“Open it, Father!” Joy said, falling into her chair as if the excitement of it all were too much for her tiny body to bear.

As soon as he unfolded the letter, she was behind his shoulder, attempting to read.

“Hmmmm,” he mused, holding it close. “Very interesting.”

“What? What?” Though she was behind him, Damon could sense Joy hopping from foot to foot.

“It appears that Aunt Flora has procured a tiger for Abram and an elephant for you, dear one,” he jested, making certain to keep his tone steady and without any hint of laughter.

“I am not interested.” Abram hadn’t taken so much as a bite of his morning meal as he scribbled in his notebook. “Tigers are dangerous and belong in their natural environment, not in London.”

Damon gave up and chuckled at the boy’s oblivious demeanor. Perhaps he’d done a disservice to Abram by not jesting with him more often.

“That is just silly.” Joy swatted his arm playfully. “An elephant and a tiger would never suit in the gardens. Where would they sleep, and what would Cook feed them?”

Damon turned to Joy with a smile. “I am happy to see at least one of you has a sense of humor.” Or more accurately, one of the three of them. Years ago, he and Sarah had often laughed at inane anecdotes and obtuse ton members. His merriment was another part of himself he’d thought long gone. “But, alas, Aunt Flora has not written about anything as exciting as zoo animals.”