“That much?” Pen looked with disbelief upon the pile of stone. “Is there gold hidden in the foundation?”
Gwen stared some more. Would he be generous and lower the price to a figure far more within her reach? Or was he here to watch them all turned out with whatever poor possessions they could carry?
“I don’t thinkyou,” Barlow said with a look of the greatest contempt at Penrydd, “are in any position to challenge his lordship. I wouldn’t expect a rough-hewn rustic to know the worth of this land or the rents it might obtain.”
What game was this? Gwen reeled with confusion. Surely the solicitor recognized his employer. Pen hadn’t changedthatmuch in two weeks.
Pen slapped his hands to his hips and scowled, every image of affronted masculinity. “Rough hewn? Rustic?”
He acted as if he didn’t recognize Barlow, either.
“His lordship can’t be persuaded to a lower price?” Evans, the peacemaker, jumped in.
“Lower? He ought to demand more for what has been taking place on his property without his knowledge or consent!” Barlow glared at Dovey. “Harboring runaways and no doubt other stolen goods.”
Dovey sucked in a whistling breath. Barlow turned his sneer on Gwen. “Very like there is drinking and no doubt gambling taking place here. You’re fortunate the parish hasn’t complained before this about disturbances to the peace. But what can one expect of guttersnipes best left to die in the street.”
Pen stepped forward, his face dark with menace. “Guttersnipes! You will apologize to the lady.”
“Lady!” Barlow stumbled backward, huffing with outrage and clapping a hand to his hat. “Keep your hands off me, you filth! Or I will have you in the parish lockup so fast your illiterate head will spin.”
“Filth!” Pen roared. “I’ll dip your jobbernole in my wagon and we’ll see who’s filth then.”
The solicitor turned and bolted down the drive, moving as fast as his polished boots could carry him. Pen wiped his hands as if he’d won a fight. “Showed him, didn’t I?”
Gwen groped for words. “Jobbernole?” she finally asked.
“Jolly knob. Crown office.” Pen pointed to his head. “Called me filth, he did!”
Tomos wandered up to them. “Twll din pob Saes,” he observed.
Pen returned to his barrow and hoisted it with a grunt, favoring his left shoulder. “You said it, boy. He’s a cod’s head.” He paused before Gwen. His jaw was set with anger, his eyes alight with righteous wrath. “Don’t fret, Gwen. We’ll deal with this arse of a lordship, and anyone else who dares complain about you.”
She had the insane urge to take him by the face and kiss him. She conquered it.
“Cod’s head,” Tomos said, falling into step with the men.
“Yes, very good.” Their voices retreated toward the garden with their load of fertilizer. “Can you say numbskull?” Pen asked.
Gwen gripped Dovey’s hands. “He didn’t recognize Penrydd,” she hissed. “Because of the way he was dressed?” It wasn’t the cleverest disguise, though most city men wouldn’t see past a wheelbarrow full of manure, whoever held it.
“More like Barlow has never clapped eyes on his lordship,” Dovey guessed as they hurried toward the kitchen. “All their correspondence could take place through his secretary.”
“So Mr. Ross would have written to Barlow about the offer,” Gwen reasoned. “Did Penrydd decide to sell before he set out for Newport? Maybe he wasn’t coming to turn us out, but to negotiate.” No pitchfork. No snarl. No devil at all, as she’d feared.
Widow Jones hummed about the kitchen, pouring soap into molds. The scent of fresh rosemary warmed the air. Gwen’s heart darted like a swallow in her chest.
“And Barlow is simply dispatching his business.” Dovey tied her shawl as an apron around her waist. “Does he even know the viscount is missing?”
“Did he understand we did not decline? We simply don’t have that money.” Gwen’s breath clenched painfully as she selected a knife to chop rosemary leaves. “Will he offer St. Sefin’s to someone else?”
“But he’d need Penrydd’s approval, and Penrydd is here.” Dovey kept her voice quiet so Widow Jones didn’t hear.
“With no idea who he is.” A wild giggle bubbled up. “Did you see the way he went after Barlow?”
Dovey’s eyes danced with shared laughter. “He did not take kindly to the insult!”
Of course he wouldn’t. In his proper life he was a viscount. Men bowed and scraped and licked his boots, seeking his patronage, influence, favors. Women vied for his attention, hoping to become his viscountess.
