Page 72 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

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?