Page 3 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Payton closed her eyes and leaned away from the wall, fearing to hear more, yet needing to know. The cold returned as if it had never left, and her head pounded.

“My mother is dying.” What other explanation could there be?

The worst part was that they all knew.

Marce, Garrett, Jude, and Sam. They knew, and they’d kept it from her.

As the realization sank in, Payton’s breathing became as labored as her mother’s, and the pain from her back and head moved to her chest.

Her breath hitched when her mother spoke once more. “No matter how many times it seemed—as if our lives would forever fall apart…” The bed creaked again, and Payton could nearly see her mother pushing up onto her elbows with her need to look Payton’s sister straight in the eyes. “We discovered something far better on the horizon. It will be—the same—for all my children. Each of you—shall thrive.”

Payton pushed to her feet, unable to listen any longer. She grasped the latch, throwing the door wide as she scrambled from the closet. The door slammed on its hinges and sprang back, nearly hitting Ellie as she followed Payton from the suffocating confines.

She would take any reprimand, any punishment, any lecture—over this.

“Payton…I…” Ellie set her hand on her arm, but Payton only shrugged away and fled down the hall toward her own chambers, her mother’s words echoing in her head until her sight blurred from tears.

“Move on…”

“Something far better…”

“Thrive…”

“Payton, wait.” Ellie’s quick footfalls sounded behind her, drawing Payton to a halt as she spun to face her friend, her chest heaving up and down from her run down the hall and the unexpected news from her mother’s chamber.

She couldn’t accept Ellie’s downcast eyes and soft words.

Payton did not need her friend to feel sorry for her—to comfort her in any way.

Rolling her shoulders back so straight they ached, Payton’s resolve hardened further. “Do not feel sorrow for me. We all lose people we love. It is a way of life, is it not? I will do as my mother bids…move on from this miserable house, find a life far better than my siblings can afford me, and I shall thrive. You will see, Ellie, I aim to do exactly that.”

Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, her nails biting in the palms of her hands until she clamped her teeth shut to avoid calling out in pain.

She hadn’t any idea what moving on would mean, if something better than her place at Craven House awaited her, or how to thrive without her family; however, if it were what her mother demanded of her, then Payton would do anything not to disappoint her.

Chapter 1

London, England

February 1820

Damon Kinder, Lord Ashford, pressed at his temples, attempting to massage away the endless pounding in his head as the shrieks and stampeding feet outside his study continued to assault the quiet he preferred in his home. Blessedly, the noise receded as his children moved farther down the hall and away from his closed study door.

Glancing down at his desk, Damon’s irritation ignited when he noted that everything was in its place, all household matters attended to, and all business correspondence addressed and ready to go out with the late-morning post. Even the missive that had arrived an hour before from his country seat at Falconcrest House was duly reviewed, his response outlining the specific repairs agreed upon by him and his steward.

Falconcrest—the bane of his existence. His country estate, in his family for generations, only caused his insides to churn with guilt each time he had the need to handle anything pertaining to the property. It wasn’t the house or even the surrounding land that opened a hole within him that was impossible to close. No, everything about Falconcrest signified his failure as a husband, a father, and a man. He had no interest in overseeing the maintenance of the property nor the repairs still needed for his enclosed carriage abandoned just within his lands all those years ago.

He’d purchased a new conveyance. He’d created a suitable home for his children at his London townhouse. And Damon was resigned to never see his family estate again.

However, that did not diminish his responsibility to the place. One day, his son Abram would inherit the estate, and it would be Abram’s decision whether or not to inhabit the languishing house.

Damon’s irritation abated at the thought, leaving only his perpetual sense of loss and sorrow—and his tidy desk before him.

To his chagrin, all his work was completed, and the sun had barely risen over the horizon. Most Londoners had just found their beds a few short hours before after long nights out.

The high-pitched, angry cry that pierced the air was one only mastered by that of a young girl. In this case, like many before it, the dreadful, ear-splitting wail was compliments of none other than his youngest child, Joy. A gruff bark of unrestrained laughter followed as Damon’s son, Abram, mimicked the tone of a man ten years his senior. At ages six and eight, his offspring were…spirited. At least that was what his sister called them while in polite company.

Damon longed for them to be spirited in another part of the townhouse, if only to allow his thundering headache the chance to subside.