Page 69 of The Ladies Least Likely
She rounded the corner of St. Sefin’s church to find Mother Morris glaring down the front drive, hands on her thick hips. She and Widow Jones had run out of bushes in the back, so were draping linens over the strawberry tree that grew near the old stone wall that outlined the property. Gwen spotted two of Pen’s shirts and an image streaked through her mind of helping himdress that morning, scattering kisses and caresses over all that splendid bare skin and muscle before she had to hide it from the world.
She wasn’t ready to lose him. She never would be.
“Twll din pob Saes,” Mother Morris muttered.
Barlow stood beside the low front porch, as if it were beneath him to set foot on it. Next to him was a younger man in a brown riding coat and breeches with thick cinnamon-brown curls crammed beneath his hat. Panic slammed through Gwen as she recognized him. Penrydd’s secretary.
He was saying something in English to Barlow but stuttered to a stop as the three women approached. Gwen twisted her hands in her shawl to hide her tremors.
“Miss ap Ewyas.” The secretary’s eyes widened.
“Prynhawn da, Mr. Barlow, Mr.—”
“Ross,” he supplied. He watched her with fascination, as if she were some exotic plant he’d discovered. He’d been there at the interview, this man, laughing up his sleeve as Gwen tried to barter for St. Sefin’s and Pen tried to make her his mistress. Had he come with Barlow to turn them out at last?
“Mr. Ross.” She gulped and addressed him in English. “We are grateful for your offer to buy St. Sefin’s. We are collecting the fifteen hundred pounds. I hope you can allow us more time. It is a—substantial sum for us, as you might guess.”
“Er—yes. I was rather hoping you had the funds already. His lordship is eager to see the transaction concluded.” Ross glanced at Mathry as she strolled up behind Gwen, then sheared his eyes away as if the sight burned him.
“His lordship?” Gwen asked, confused.
“Will gladly be rid of it,” Barlow said with irritation. “Particularly if the Vaughns bring a suit.”
Gwen’s throat went dry. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Calvin Vaughn has gone before the justice of the peace saying he has evidence you are running a disorderly house out of St. Sefin’s.” Barlow glared as if he had no doubt this were true.
“Who is the other accuser?” Dovey spoke up. “For there must be at least two.”
“Mr. Daron Sutton, gentleman,” Ross said.
“He’s not even a resident of this parish!” Mathry squawked. Ross’s eyes shifted back to her and stuck.
“This is not a disorderly house,” Gwen said, clenching her fists in her shawl. “There is no drinking, no gaming here, and certainly no—nothing of what he implies. We have separate dormitories for men and women.” The only person engaged in bawdiness was her.
Ross knew of the proposition Pen had made her. And here she was, enjoying Pen’s bed. What must that look like to Ross? Or to Pen?
“The judge will make that decision, should Mr. Vaughn decide to bring a suit. He gave me the impression he could be persuaded from pressing the case, with good enough reasons.” The solicitor frowned. “We will find it difficult to sell the property if you have made it notorious.”
“I will confer with his lordship to see if he will make a concession on the price,” Ross said loftily. “Though you must give him time to reply.”
Gwen reached to take Dovey’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
“We can ask him now,” she said, feeling the earth shift beneath her. “Here he comes.”
Pen stalked like the master of the land across the overgrown lawn that led from St. Woolos, matching his strides to those of Ifor, who rambled beside him. Gafr bobbed between them, munching on a cluster of grasses. Pen and Evans were deep in conversation with the vicar, while Tomos trudged behind them clutching a handful of daisies.
They paused in the shadow of the looming stone porch. Evans fell silent. Pen stood calmly, weight on his heels, shoulders square. Lordly.
He looked at the men as if he knew exactly who they were.
“M-m-milord!” Ross stammered. His expression was priceless, a Trojan scout counting the Greek armies massing on the shore.
“Lord?” Barlow’s bushy white eyebrows flew toward the brim of his hat.
“Penrydd,” Pen said.
Gwen’s stomach splashed into her shoes.
