Chapter 25
Payton sat rigidly in the high-back chair, her hands resting on the armrests on each side as she attempted to remain silent. Garrett, in opposition, toyed with the cloth napkin on his lap as they waited for Marce to join them for their meal.
Payton had been foolish to think that the situation she’d entangled herself in with Damon was the only debacle afoot.
In less than two full days, she’d witnessed a parade of men coming and going from Craven House: Mr. Adams, who handled Marce’s financial investments; a gentleman called only by his given name, Miles, who clearly worked in trade; and the tall stranger Payton had seen at a ball the previous year.
Something big was afoot, and Marce was tight-lipped as usual. Her eldest sister was also withdrawn and solemn, not seeming to notice that Payton hadn’t left Craven House since she’d arrived the previous morning.
For brief periods of time, Payton had even been able to put Damon from her mind as she slunk around the house, hoping to overhear her sister and learn what was going on.
“Good evening,” Marce said, her tone ringing across the room.
Payton glanced at Garrett, taken aback by Marce’s jovial mood after their difficult conversation the previous day, and the constant flow of guests in and out of Craven House.
“What has you in such fine spirits?” Garrett stood and pulled Marce’s seat out for her to sit. “You were quite dour when last we spoke.”
Marce retrieved her napkin and draped it across her lap, signaling for Darla to serve their meal—a light fare of duck soup, roasted pheasant, and fresh bread—before addressing them.
“I am never in a dour mood,” she retorted. However, her tone rose a note. “My place as head of this family is one of great responsibility.”
“Go on,” Payton prodded, tiring of her sister’s tendency to remain furtive when she suspected that Payton desperately wanted to know something. “Do not keep us in suspense. Who is the mystery man, and why have you been strange of late?”
“The man is of no consequence.” Marce glanced down into her bowl of soup, and Payton feared she’d not say another word on the matter.
“I wanted to share with you both that I am in the process of purchasing property near Kent. I will require your assistance packing up Craven House before it is time for the women and me to relocate with the servants.”
“Moving?” Garett sat forward, knocking his water goblet over, rendering his food inedible. “You cannot.”
Fear coiled in Payton’s stomach. She’d never wanted to face the possibility of not having Craven House to escape to or what she’d do without Marce close—though she’d longed for it often enough.
“Outside London? Where will I go when I need to”—Payton swallowed as both her siblings turned to her—“get away from the baron’s hellions? ”
“What of Jude and Sam when they return?” Garrett continued. “They will think we abandoned them. You will be gone, and they will have nowhere to go.”
Marce held up her hand to silence Garrett. “Yes, I’m moving. Payton, you can just as easily go to Ellie’s townhouse as this one. I will inform both Sam and Jude of the change. Besides, they are both wed now. They have no need to stay here, and neither do either of you.”
Payton hadn’t seen her friend—her only friend—Ellie, now Lady Ellington Chastain, since she took the position at Ashford Hall. How could she seek her out now only to beg for shelter?
“But—” they started in unison.
“This grand house is too much for me alone,” Marce cut off their protests. “The new property is surrounded by open land with a beautiful garden and even a small lake for rowing.”
Garrett pulled a frown of disgust. “You do not row.”
“Nor does she swim,” Payton added.
“I think I would like to learn how to row—and swim. I’ve always enjoyed baths.
Swimming cannot be much different.” Marce paused, her shoulders straightening with assurance.
“But that is beside the point. This new house will give the women I help a place to rest and heal from their pasts, and time to decide where to go from there. And it will also be somewhere you both can come when you need to be away from town.”
“I adore town life,” Payton argued, hollowly.
Marce snorted. “You enjoy the ready access to the gaming hells.”
“London is my home,” Garrett proclaimed, pushing his flooded plate away.
“Only because you’ve never known another”—Marce sighed—“and that is no one’s fault but mine.”
It had been one of Marce’s admitted faults from the day before.
Payton wanted to dispel her sister’s false belief.
Both she and her other siblings knew the extent of Marce’s sacrifices in raising them.
They rarely agreed on many things, but now, especially after her time employed at Ashford Hall, Payton truly understood what her sister had given up to keep their family together.
“Regardless, shortly, Craven House will no longer belong to me, and I’ve chosen a fitting location with adequate space for everyone.
You can choose to come with me or visit during the Christmastide season or whenever the time allows.
That is your choice to make, but neither of you will instruct me on my course. ”
Garrett had the good sense to at least appear remorseful for his outburst, but Payton couldn’t help but glare at her eldest sister.
“If there is anything of sentimental value here, I suggest you remove it promptly.” Marce pushed away from the table and stood. Her fingers gripped the edge until her knuckles turned white. “I will bid you both good evening. I have much to attend to elsewhere in the house.”
With a final hardened glare, Marce pivoted and stalked from the room.
“And she thinks I lack proper manners,” Garrett huffed before draining his wine goblet and pulling Marce’s plate to replace his ruined meal. “What plans have you tonight?”
“I will return to the baron’s house and—”
Payton suspected her ruse while working admirably with Marce due to her distracted nature, had not escaped Garrett’s notice.
His raised brow was enough to stop her lie.
“Lord Loughton is hosting a soiree this evening,” he mused. “I have heard the Earl of Haversham will be in attendance, as well as Chastain and Maddox. The tables will be plump and ready for us to ply our skills.”
Fear spiked within her, her palms growing moist at the possibility that Catherton could be in attendance, as well.
Payton pondered the amount of money she’d be able to collect if such endowed lords were indeed seated in the card room.
But a soiree? She hadn’t attended a proper society event since before Sam and Jude were wed.
Images of the cream evening gown with its lace overlay hanging in her dressing closet came to mind.
When would she have another excuse to don the dress?
If Marce moved, Payton had no doubt that she’d have little other choice but to accompany her, and there were not many balls held in the rural countryside.
“When are you leaving for Loughton’s?” she asked.
Garrett clapped his hands in triumph. “Ten o’clock sharp. There is little reason to arrive before the men at the card tables are rightfully and properly befuddled from drinking Drummond’s fine brandy…unless you want to dance or some other such silly thing girls do.”
If they’d been sitting next to one another and not across the table, Payton would have punched him in his arm; instead, she settled for throwing her piece of bread at this head.
Garrett, swift as usual, caught the crusty lump and tossed it into her soup bowl, splattering the front of her gown and her exposed neck with duck juices.
Payton leapt from her seat, brushing the front of her dress with her napkin as Garrett chuckled.
“You beef-witted buffoon!” Her outrage matched the sound of her chair toppling over. “You’ve ruined my dress.”
“Do not whine,” he chuckled. “You were going to change anyways.”
“I do not discard my gowns every time I change, Garrett,” she seethed. “I am not one of your wealthy consorts.”
“Am I to act affronted by your words?” Garrett pressed his hand to his chest and rounded his eyes. “Miss Payton Samuels, I will have you know that the ladies who occupy my time have sparkling personalities and are superb conversationalists.”
Her anger diminished as she tried to suppress her smile.
She missed Garrett’s witty retorts almost as much as she longed to be a part of Joy and Abram’s sibling banter.
“You are lucky I conduct myself with the utmost decorum, or I’d make certain the entire tureen tipped into your lap.” Payton stomped her foot and turned, heading for the door.
“Ten o’clock sharp,” he called as she neared the threshold.
She held her chin high as she flipped around to pin Garrett with her narrowed glare. “I’ll be ready, don’t you fear.”
The deep rumbling of Garrett’s laughter echoed through the house, drowning out her heavy footfalls.
Payton would have turned down Garrett’s invitation to attend Lord Loughton’s soiree were it not the perfect opportunity to put Damon out of her mind—and don the new gown he’d so aptly purchased for her.
Payton stared at her reflection in the mirror as she held the string of pearls around her neck and clasped the latch. The satin with the lace overlay hugged her body, creating curves that would rival Samantha’s and enhancing the fitted bodice of the gown.
Her hair was fashioned in the only style she was able to achieve without the assistance of one of her sisters; the top pinned back with her long, dark locks twisted in a single curl that hung over her bare shoulder.
She’d adopted the style two years ago when she saw a woman on a fashion plate with a similar face structure to hers.
It highlighted her creamy skin and catlike eyes.
She’d even overheard a duke comment to his wife how rare and alluring she appeared.