Page 73 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Punish me,” Gwen said, bowing her head. “But not them.” She waved a hand toward the others, a helpless gesture.
Pen’s eyes flicked to Barlow, then away. “I must confer with Ross about the state of my finances,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
He meant to keep her in suspense over what he intended to do with St. Sefin’s? With her? The world spun around her. Barlow waddled off, muttering something about reporting to the constable, but Gwen paid him no heed. It took everything in her not to crumple to the ground as Pen gave her one last, cold look, and then turned away.
She watched him stride out of her life, his back straight and strong, his stride again the confident swagger of a lord of the realm. He held the bag of assorted trinkets he’d gathered during his stay, but she didn’t doubt the Viscount Penrydd would dispose of them at the first opportunity, just as he’d shed every other association of his time with them.
He was gone. She’d never see him again.
Her knees folded to the hard-packed earth and she stared down the hill where Pen had disappeared. She had left all her tears in the cold ground where she’d buried her daughter. She had none left for a man she’d duped and betrayed.
Gafr reached her first, snuffling her cheek, his fur tickling her ear. Then Ifor’s hand came to her shoulder, stroking softly. The others came too, offering her comfort. Her family. At least she had them. And her home, until Pen decided what to do with her.
But he had taken her heart with him, and she would have to live the rest of her days without it. Without him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
England wasn’t as lovely as Wales, Pen thought as his ship sailed up Bristol Channel, bearing him first to the offices of Mr. Barlow, solicitor, and then beyond to the rooms Ross had kept for them at the Green Man.
True, the plunging sides of Avon Gorge were a more dramatic frame for the river than the flatter hills that sloped down to the Severn. But atop Stow Hill, the view spread for miles, following the Usk as it meandered into the great oak forest of Wentwood. From Brynglas one could see the hills that rose with their ores of coal and gold into the rich Welsh midlands, or look south to the gleaming mouth of the Severn where it stretched to the sea. At St. Sefin’s, a man could fill his lungs with deep breaths. Sailing up the Avon Gorge, Pen felt boxed in, his future a mummy’s casket closing around him.
The minute they entered the inn, he ordered that a glass of grog be sent to his rooms. He could practically taste the sweet, mind-erasing alcohol already. Gwen would be disappointed in him, but he didn’t care. If she were concerned about his welfare, then she ought to have come with him, rather than spurning him in front of everyone at St. Sefin’s and Vicar Stanley, too. Therewere only so many blows to his pride that a man could be asked to sustain.
“How desperate am I for money?” Pen asked, throwing himself into the upholstered chair of the private sitting room. The chair he’d occupied when Gwen had first approached him, seeking to buy St. Sefin’s.
He’d fallen for her snares when he knew who she was, and he’d fallen for her snares when he didn’t. While she had been true to one thing throughout all her dealings with him: Everything with her was about how to keep St. Sefin’s. Damn her eyes.
Ross sighed unhappily, regarding the pile of correspondence on his desk that had quadrupled in Pen’s absence.
“If we can be rid of your brother’s debt with the moneylender, you won’t be destitute. I’ve been looking into improvements we can make on the estates that will allow us to raise the rents. You can lease the hunting box and perhaps Penrydd, if you’re not going to use it, and?—”
“I plan to open the house at Penrydd,” Pen said. “In fact I think I’ll make it my primary residence.”
Ross opened his mouth and then shut it. Pen knew what he had been about to ask—because of the girl?
No. His decisions from now on would have nothing to do with Gwen. How dare she let him walk away as if he meant nothing to her.My place is here, she’d said. Not with him. He had nothing she wanted. She’d lied to him, dallied with him, wrapped him in her heady spells, and then handed him his things and sent him on his way as if she’d forget about him the moment he walked down the hill. Howdareshe?
“It’s an interesting house,” Pen said. “I fancy living there a while.”
“Of course, sir,” Ross said, his tone bland and polite.
A lad delivered the grog, and Pen reached for it eagerly. This was going to taste so good. A salve for all that he had been deprived of the weeks without his memory, and then the weeks after. But as he brought the glass to his nose, the sour scent made his stomach turn over. He set the glass aside for the moment.
“Speaking of which,” Pen said. “I want you to make inquiries about a Carew family from Llan—Llan Festiniog.” His Welsh was improving, though Gwen probably wouldn’t care. She ought to. “He was a farmer, and his wife’s family ran the inn. Penguin Arms or something. Find out everything you can.”
“Very well. Carew.” Ross smoothed away an expression of surprise. “Anything else, sir?”
So many things, Pen thought. He wanted to make inquiries about the death of Dovey’s husband and see if the Dutch Navy had made any provision for her as a widow. He wanted to find the miner who had worked Mother Morris’s sons to death and lock him in a cavern. He wanted to buy a funeral monument for Evans’s wife and children and set up an annuity for Widow Jones. He wanted to ensure that Tomos and Ifor would be taken care of, and he wanted to make a fat donation to St. Woolos church so the vicar could make all the improvements he wanted.
Besides that, Newport was a city on the cusp of expansion, so many opportunities. He could buy shares in the new stone bridge they were planning to build to replace the wooden one over the Usk where he and Gwen had been accosted by Gap-tooth and Minikin. He could invest in the tramways being built to ferry coal and ore from the inland mines to the Monmouthshire Canal. He could build a proper school in the town so the Gossett and Trett children had somewhere to learn their letters. And refurbish St. Sefin’s. It needed so many repairs, and if she saw he meant to take care of her, perhaps Gwen?—
That way lay madness. Pen reined in his thoughts. He brought the glass of grog to his nose, and again his stomach rebelled. He couldn’t stand the smell of it.
We’re drying you out, Pen.
The infernal woman had turned him off rum. She’druinedhim.
“Why did you never find me?” he asked Ross, uncurling from the chair and stalking toward the table to sift through the yards of parchment. “Did you make no inquiries? I wasn’t that far away.”
