Page 75 of The Ladies Least Likely
He scowled, but his retort was drowned out by the man behind the table.
“You will address the court as Sir Robert or Your Worship, Mr. Vaughn,” Sir Robert said. “And you, Mr. Sutton, will stand back. This examination will proceed, considering the charges arealready written out and on the rolls.” He pointed to a tiny lectern where perched the clerk of the peace, scribbling across a scroll of paper.
“The evidence is false, Your Worship,” Gwen said. She stroked her fingers, the way she calmed herself when playing before a new audience. “It can only be false. St. Sefin’s is not what they say.”
“I am here to judge that.” Sir Robert glowered, and Gwen bent her head.
The clerk cleared his throat. “The charges include drinking.”
“Rhubarb cordial and dandelion wine,” Gwen said. “We cannot afford spirits.”
“Tippling,” the clerk continued.
“How is that different from drinking?” Gwen asked.
Sir Robert scowled. “Proceed, Mr. Lewis.”
“Carousing at all hours of the day and night,” the clerk read.
“We go to bed at dark.” Gwen’s cheeks tightened with a blush. “All of us.”
“Suspicious conversation?—”
“Suspicious to whom?”
“Miss Ewyas! Let the man do his work,” Sir Robert barked.
“Huh—ahem—whoring,” the clerk stuttered. Calvin Vaughn smirked. A hot wave of anger splashed through Gwen.
“Not once.”
Sir Robert gave her a stern glower. “You deny the charges?”
“All of them. Particularly the last. We are not—that kind of house.” Gwen managed to keep her temper, though she wanted to rain Welsh curses down upon their heads.
The clerk hid behind his roll. “There are accusations of men coming and going at all hours. A Mr. Stanley?—”
“The vicar,” Gwen said, scandalized.
“A young, stocky man, fair-haired?—”
“That’s Tomos. He is grown like a man, but in his mind he’s as a boy. Five, six years old at most.”
“There are reports of keeping company with boys as well, leading them into a path of vice and sin.”
“Does he mean Ifor?” Gwen stared. “Our goat boy?”
“And there has been of late, under your roof, a particular person, origins unknown—a large man, very rough-looking, who has roamed at large about Newport, engaged in fighting, drinking, and general disruption of the peace?—”
“That’s Penry—Pen.” She chopped off his title, not sure if Pen would want it known that he’d spent weeks cloistered with the unfortunate souls of St. Sefin’s in a rough, tiny town in Wales. The hind-end of Britain, he’d called it. A hard thread twisted around her heart and pulled tight. She hadn’t heard from him since he’d walked away, nearly two weeks ago. She hadn’t dared send to him, not even when the writ appeared, for she recalled the cold look on his face when he left.
What if he regretted his time with her? Thought it shameful. What if all they had shared had meant nothing to him?—
“What have you to say to these last charges, Miss Ewyas?” Sir Robert demanded.
This whole spectacle was a farce. They didn’t even know her real name. At least it couldn’t shame her father, and her poor mother too, to have the Carews on the rolls with such ridiculous charges. When Gwen had done so much worse in her life.
“Who was keeping company with me?” she asked.
