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“ H e’s back.” Dovey came in from the garden, setting a basket of rosemary leaves on the kitchen table.

“Pen?” Gwen stirred a handful of salt into her copper pot and reached for the basket.

With her stove already hot, she’d steam the oils from the rosemary and add it to her soap.

It would make an aromatic blend, and she could sell or trade with the town merchants and finally get a new set of boots for Tomos.

“The solicitor from Bristol,” Dovey said with a grim set to her mouth.

“ Coc oen ,” Gwen swore, and for once Dovey didn’t laugh that she’d adopted one of Mother Morris’s curses.

She used her kerchief to wipe the sweat on her brow from hours of standing over the stove, then wiped her hands in her shawl and followed Dovey to the front porch of the church. There stood Mr. Barlow in his black wool suit and hat, glaring at her from beneath bushy white brows.

“Mr. Barlow.” He was as menacing as she remembered. She’d had dreams that he’d appear just like this to turn them out. They woke her sweating and ready to scream, like Pen and his nightmares. A sick sensation slipped and slid around in her belly. Where was Pen?

“Would you—like to come in?”

“I bear a message from the Viscount Penrydd. The owner of this property,” he reminded her, as if she didn’t recall that very well, every moment of the day.

St. Tybie’s tears. Pen had regained his memory.

How had he set the solicitor on them so fast?

He’d departed with Evans that morning. He must have run into Mr. Barlow in Newport and all had been made clear.

And what was the first thing Pen did upon reclaiming his life?

Set his solicitor upon the people who had saved his life. She clenched her hands in her shawl.

“And what has his lordship to say to us?” She struggled to keep her voice steady. Dovey drew in a long breath, bracing herself for a blow.

Barlow consulted a slip of paper in his hand with an expression of haughty disdain. “His lordship will allow you to purchase the property of St. Sefin’s in its entirety, free of lien or any other obligation,” he said, drawing out the announcement, “for the price of—fifteen hundred pounds.”

“Allow us…purchase…?” She felt as if she’d tumbled off the roof and had the breath knocked out of her. Heavy and yet weightless at the same time. The miracle, the solution she needed—tossed in her lap. At a price she could never, given a lifetime, be able to afford.

Dovey reached out and clasped her fingers. Her palm was as cold as Gwen’s.

“How soon does he want the money?” Dovey asked.

“His lordship requests payment in full at the earliest possible convenience. Or he will tender the offer to other parties.”

What other parties? Gwen wanted to cry. No one else would love this place as she and Dovey did. No one else would keep its mission of gathering and tending lost souls.

“Pay…in full?”

Barlow attempted to look down his nose at her, a difficulty as they were the same height. He settled for a look of exasperation. “What is your answer?”

Gwen’s knees wobbled. Pen was gone. He was Viscount Penrydd again, a lord of the realm.

The man whose nightmares she’d soothed, whose wounds she had doctored, who had raised all those alarming and unwanted sensations within her, he’d disappeared.

She should be happy the danger was in focus now. She should be glad the lie was done.

“We do not have that amount at hand, Mr. Barlow. We would need to arrange some method of payment.”

“So you cannot accept.”

“We accept!” Gwen rushed to say. “But will his lordship not—can we not speak with?—”

She blinked. She could speak with Pen right now, for here he came up the hill to St. Sefin’s, larger than life and sturdy as a plow, pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. Evans limped beside him, carrying a sack across his shoulder.

The Viscount Penrydd, lord of the realm, pushing a barrow of dung, looking as hale and hardy as the day he was born. Gwen’s jaw unhinged.

Barlow glanced at the approaching men with the same expression of dislike that he cast over the empty bell tower, the centuries-old facade of the church with weeds growing along its base, and then Gwen herself.

“I will not vex his lordship with a petty counteroffer,” Barlow said. “What answer shall I take him?”

Gwen sent a look of appeal at Pen, despair tugging at her gut. She could not lose St. Sefin’s. But she could not buy it at this price.

“His lordship knows we wish to buy St. Sefin’s,” she said. “But he must also be aware we cannot produce fifteen hundred pounds at his asking. It will take time to collect the funds.”

Pen set the barrow down. “Fifteen hundred for what?”

She stared at him.

Bewildered, Gwen glanced at Dovey to find her engaged in some swift and unspoken exchange with Evans. He read the tautness about Dovey’s eye, the tic of muscle in her cheek, as well as Gwen could.

“We’ve been at the King’s Head all afternoon,” Evans said in a bland tone. “Quiet day among the horse’s rumps. Fifteen hundred to buy St. Sefin’s then? That’s the offer?”

“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 think you ,” 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 changed that much 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.

Her lungs squeezed again, caught in that odd grip. Did he have someone in sight already? The mysterious Arwen?