Chapter 13 #3
Payton glanced down at her cards with an amount of confidence she hadn’t felt since her disastrous game with Catherton.
Despite her steep loss at Lord Ashford’s card table, this night, she was ahead.
Winning one more sizeable pot would mean replacing nearly all the money she’d lost to the duke.
With another couple of weeks of luck, she could collect the twenty pounds to repay Lord Catherton.
Then, and only then, would she be able to consider her future plans once more.
Perhaps she could gain a position as a lady’s companion. The responsibilities would surpass those expected of her by the baron, but if she chose her mistress wisely, there would be many nights spent enjoying house parties and entertainments.
With that came the opportunity for more elusive card games.
Sir Galment’s nightly salon gatherings, while a successful enough place to find a rousing game of cards, did not put Payton in the company of London’s elite lords. It was mostly a gathering of lonely wives who fancied themselves in need of spirited conversations and time away from their families.
Payton had become accustomed to the serene gatherings.
No one bothered with her name—nor asked questions about her arrival and departure.
She did not partake of the libations nor fall prey to the spats regarding governmental overreach or the romantic movement currently enthralling most poets.
She stayed only long enough to win a few rounds and depart into the night without bringing notice to herself.
Her gown was simple, though refined. Her dark, mahogany hair was pinned tightly, not so much as a single curl breaking free. Payton kept her voice low and calm and avoided their host at all cost.
This evening’s game was vingt-et-un—the most basic of card games that relied solely on Payton keeping track of the cards played and reading her opponents.
A house full of ladies with endless funds and no ability to hide their enthusiasm at a winning hand meant Payton knew exactly when to hold and when to double down.
This particular game only had her besting the dealer, a Galment servant who’d been charged with the task.
With a triumphant smile, Payton flipped her card, showing a twenty-one value between three cards. The dealer had held at eighteen.
Another twenty shillings added to her stacks.
It was time to depart.
After less than two hours, she’d managed to win over four pounds. She’d suspect the dealer was losing on purpose had it not been for their host’s disapproving glances as Payton, as well as two other women, collected their coins.
Payton took in the room, reassured that no one paid her any mind.
However, her stare settled on a matron across the card room.
The woman’s name eluded her; however, the resemblance was evident.
Lord Ashford’s sister stood in the far corner and spoke animatedly to an elderly, robust gentleman.
As she flapped her hands, the man squinted and nodded vigorously.
How did Lord Ashford’s sister know of Lord Galment’s salon?
While Lady Wittenbottom was wed to a lord, she did not seem the type to frequent either gaming parties nor intellectual gatherings.
Payton had never encountered the lady at the baron’s weekly gatherings or at Galment’s townhouse previously, though Galment’s parties were not a secret or exclusive in nature.
Would Lady Wittenbottom recognize Payton if they came face-to-face? Payton had seen the woman from afar during her infrequent visits to Ashford Hall. She could not risk being discovered by the baron’s sister.
Deftly, Payton collected her winnings and slipped the notes, as well as the small stack of coins, into the pocket sewn into the exterior layer of her skirts.
The many layers and undercoats hid the pocket adequately enough.
Next, Payton stood, nodded to her host, and made her way to the foyer to collect her cloak and muff for the walk back to Ashford Hall.
When she left for the evening, she’d been focused only on escaping the baron and his children.
With each day, she sensed the tie binding her to Ashford Hall growing.
At first, she’d felt pity for the baron and his children, but as time passed, those feelings changed and evolved into something far more powerful.
An unmistakable kinship to children who’d experienced a loss much like her own.
No matter how fervently Joy and Abram—and even Payton—fought against the draw, it was still there.
Despite their pranks and Payton’s irritation.
Even before she’d rocked Joy to sleep, reassuring her that the baron loved her, the change had begun.
And now, Lord Ashford was to accompany them on their outing the next day. If she had any sense, she’d claim ill and send the trio on without her; however, the baron would likely cancel the entire excursion, leaving Joy and Abram hurt and upset.
It would not be their father letting them down, but her.
The butler helped her slip into her waiting cloak and held her muff out to her.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said as he opened the door for her to depart.
“Good evening to you, too.” She didn’t correct his use of the word lady before stepping into the night.
The air had grown even colder than when she arrived.
The sky overhead was devoid of clouds, allowing the moon to shine brightly as she started her return trip to Ashford Hall.
Her skirts, heavy with her winnings, bounced against her thigh, but thankfully, the coins did not clink.
No carriages or pedestrians loitered in her path as she crossed Grosvenor Street and turned onto Saint George.
Few candles were lit in the townhouses bordering the street. The hour was late, and the lack of lighting didn’t surprise Payton.
Keeping her head lowered, she quickened her pace—only four townhouses to go.
She slipped her hand from her warm muff and wrapped her fingers around the key in her cloak pocket.
Shuffling sounded behind Payton, and her feet faltered.
Was she being followed? Of all the nights she’d come and gone from the baron’s home, never had she encountered any trouble.
This street was one of the safest in all of London, far safer than her own home where it sat nestled on the fringes of a suitable neighborhood.
With time, Craven House would not be considered situated in an area fit for polite society, while Saint George Street would only grow in respectability.
She couldn’t dwell on that. The footfalls behind her echoed, breaking the silence of the hour.
Whoever was pursuing her did not bother to keep their presence a secret.
If the thug thought her an easy mark, he was gravely mistaken.
If she, along with her dear childhood friend, Ellington, had learned anything, it was how to protect themselves when walking the streets of London.
Attaining the upper hand was vital. Throwing the lout off guard was a close second.
Thirdly…get away.
Payton knew the likelihood of remaining safe majorly diminished if the man gained a hold of her. She was tall, but her slender frame didn’t hold as much muscle as a grown man.
Unfortunately, gaining the upper hand and remaining out of reach sometimes conflicted with one another. With the rapid movement behind her, there might not be the option to get away without a struggle.
Everything Garrett and Marce had taught her came to mind at once.
Upper hand. Keep him off guard. Run.
Simple enough, at least when you weren’t in the middle of being accosted.
The blood rushed in her ears as her heart beat erratically. She fingered the key in her pocket, positioning the metal object to be used as a dagger of sorts.
It had been easy enough to learn to defend her person, but when an imminent threat lurked a few feet away, courage was difficult to muster with any amount of conviction.
Payton took a deep breath, sent a quick prayer to the heavens above—not that she deserved anyone’s benevolence—and pulled the key from her pocket as she pivoted to face the man who pursued her.
“I am armed, sir,” she yelled into the open air behind her. “Come out and state your business.”
Upper hand gained. Whoever stalked was now aware Payton had spotted them.
When no one stepped into the lighted walkway, Payton retraced her steps until she heard breathing coming from up ahead. Whoever it was stood in the doorway to her right, sunken into the shadows, waiting.
“I can see you,” she prodded, hoping to throw the man off guard. “Come out before I raise the alarm for the night watchman.”
She was deluding her pursuer. Certainly, the night watchman patrolled the area. However, Payton had never spotted the man during her nights out.
The man’s heavy, labored breathing broke the silence of the night.
“I said, come out.” When no one answered her call, Payton knew it was time to run.
If she hurried, Payton would make it to the baron’s townhouse before the man, but what if the key did not turn quickly?
No, she would be caught and taken before she could open the door.
Why had she insisted that Mr. Brown not wait up for her?
She watched, fist poised with her key for defense, as her pursuer stepped from the shadows into the dim light that barely lit the walkway.
Confusion coursed through her as her hand fell to her side.
It was only then that the tremendous fright sent wave after wave of shivers through her.
She could have been gravely harmed, taken, made to disappear without anyone the wiser, all because she’d not told anyone at Ashford Hall where she was going.
“Lord Ashford?” Payton resisted the urge to fling herself into his arms, her relief was so overwhelming. “What in the heavens are you doing out”—she forced the final words—“at this time of night?”