Page 42 of The Ladies Least Likely
That night, when she heard the hoarse shouts in the wee hours, Gwen curled her fists into her pillow and pulled it over her head. She would not go to him. There was nothing she could do for him, she told herself.
If she went it would prove nothing but that she wanted him. Wanted to touch him, soothe him, be near him, and every time she drew close to him, it was harder to pull away. But she couldn’t risk exposing herself. She had far too much to lose.
CHAPTER TEN
Gwen would have enjoyed the opportunity to chat with some of Lady Vaughn’s guests at Greenfield, but Calvin Vaughn stuck to her side, regaling her with his various grievances, which primarily consisted of how tedious he found Newport and its environs.
“No entertainments whatsoever,” he complained. “Not the least bit civilized.”
“I take it the Viscount Penrydd has not made good on his promise to visit.” Gwen strove to keep her tone light, disinterested. “Have you heard aught of his whereabouts?”
She knew it troubled Pen that no one from his life had yet located him. It troubled her, too, for people must be searching—his secretary, if no one else. She could not hide him much longer. An English lord would not be allowed to simply disappear.
“Penrydd? He’s buried in drink and women in Bristol or somewhere else, that’s my guess.” Vaughn leaned back in the rout chair he’d placed beside Gwen’s harp. “I told Turbeville to come anyway, but he had a tangle with some local blokes who left him in rather bad shape. His secretary, Penrydd’s that is, told Turbeville sudden business called the viscount away.” Hesneered. “Wager he tupped the wrong woman and took to his heels when her husband set out after him.”
Gwen hid her face behind the glass of lemonade that a circulating footman had brought her. “So no one has seen him,” she probed. “Not his solicitor, or anyone?”
Vaughn narrowed his watery blue eyes at her. Gwen sweated beneath her lace neckerchief. The spring evening was warm already, and with the smoke of many candles and oil lamps added to the perfume drenching the guests, the room was suffocating. She longed to open the window beside her harp, but Lady Vaughn was a firm believer in the dangers of exposure to outside air.
“Speaking of business,” Vaughn said. “Don’t set that blowsabella on me again.”
“I beg your pardon,” Gwen said, chilled by his shift in tone.
“Our old chambermaid. Mrs. Harries said she’s at that place you run. The home for idiots and thieves and those the workhouse won’t take. She came here today, wailing that I’d made vows to her. Turned her off with a few firm words, and I won’t take kindly to future visits.”
“Mathry?” Gwen tried to remember if she’d seen the girl that day. Mathry had been lackaday about chores from the beginning, often complaining of fatigue or overwork, but the last few days she’d been subdued in her manner. She hadn’t even flirted with Pen.
“If she’s putting about that I’m the father of her child, it won’t speed my suit with the Sutton family,” Vaughn said. “And we need their money.”
Gwen struck a discordant note on the harp and pressed the strings between her palms to stop them vibrating. Her face heated as others glanced their way. Lady Vaughn frowned at her son, chatting in the corner with Gwen instead of charming their guests.
“Su—Sutton?” Gwen stammered.
“Yes. Daughter’s a prosy bore, but a large dowry covers a multitude of flaws.”
“Where—where does she live?” Gwen, fumbling with her tuning pin, gave up and shoved it back in her pocket with trembling fingers.
He frowned. “Vine Court in Llanfyllin. You wouldn’t know it.”
“How could I,” Gwen echoed in a faint voice. “And Anne is—coming here?”
“We’ll marry there, I s’pose, and then roam abroad for the wedding trip. She wants to go someplace heathenish, like Scotland or Ireland. Her brother’s a prime buck, always ready to sport his canvas, so at least—how did you know her name is Anne?”
“Oh—didn’t you say it? Anne Sutton. Of Vine Court.” Gwen licked her lips, sticky and sour with lemon.
“You’re not about to flash the hash, are you? You look peaky.”
“It’s—dreadfully hot in here. Won’t your mother open a window?”
“Come.” He stood abruptly. “We’ll take a turn about the garden.”
“I—I shouldn’t. They’re expecting music.” But her head was spinning. Far better to be sick outside than here in the drawing room. Sir Mark Wood had engaged her to play at Pencoed Castle a few nights hence in honor of his daughter and her new husband. She desperately needed a down payment toward the price of St. Sefin’s when Barlow—or Penrydd—came demanding it.
The medieval Greenfield Castle had been destroyed in the rising of Owain Glyndwr and rebuilt as a late Tudor manor house, sturdy in its walls of local red brick. Vaughn led her down a dark hall to an outside door opening on a high walled garden,hemmed by tall hedges of hornbeam and English holly. Light spilled from a first-story window, but the garden was close and dark. It was air, however, and Gwen drew deep gulps of it.
“Ah,” she said after the cool evening air had done its part to calm her. “I am better now. I should return.”
“Something to confess.” Vaughn blocked the narrow path. Behind him stood the door to the house and the light and safety of the crowd. Fear darted through her. Oh, why had she been such a fool to come here alone with him?
