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E ngland 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.

There were 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. How dare she?

“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’d ruined him.

“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.”

“I made inquiries, sir,” Ross said, stung.

“The Vaughns could tell me nothing, as they hadn’t seen you.

Remember, though, you hadn’t told me you were setting out for Newport that morning.

I thought you were going to Weston-super-Mare with Mr. Turbeville.

He also asked around about you,” Ross added, “and ended up getting rather badly beaten for his efforts. I gather he fell afoul of the moneylender’s men. ”

Pen paced across the room. He neared the grog, then veered away. He had no appetite for it any longer. Even the smell was vile.

“I have a notion of how to deal with the Black Hound,” Pen said. “But I left everything I was working on at sodding St. Sefin’s.”

“You’re not limping any longer,” Ross observed with surprise.

Pen had grown so accustomed to feeling at ease in his body that he’d nearly forgotten the constant pain that had been his companion since Tenerife. In tending him after his various thrashings, Gwen had healed those old wounds, too.

His time with her had transformed him in so many ways. After all she had shared with him, how could she simply let him walk away?

He’d make her regret that. He would find an appropriate response to her treachery. It would involve having her in his bed, stripping off every piece of her clothing, moving his mouth over every delicious inch of her body until she was mindless and quivering and begging him to fulfill her.

She’d known he was a viscount and that hadn’t moved her. She’d known he held St. Sefin’s, and she’d still not chosen to come away. What would make her want him ?

Pen handed the glass of grog to Ross and gestured for him to send it away. He ran a hand through his hair and glared toward the mountain of correspondence.

“The first order of business is to put down the Black Hound. Send for Lydia and Prunella, and tell them to leave Miss Who’s-it where they found her. I’ll deal with them next.”

If Gwen were his viscountess, she would deliver him from matrimonial schemes.

She would save him from dealing with women in general.

See the viscountess , he would say to his stepmother and sister-in-law and every other woman who importuned him.

And in return he would give her splendid houses, carriages and gowns, jewels and horses—as soon as he could afford them, anyway.

He would ensure she wanted nothing, that she need never work again.

Would it be enough to win her?

Perhaps she had merely thought he meant for her to be his mistress. She didn’t know what he could offer her. Somehow, he had to make her trust him. Choose him. Put her faith in him, instead of thinking she could do everything herself, all of the time.

Pen stared out the window, across the Bristol Channel to Wales and its dark hills. “The hound, and the women,” he decided. “And then I will call Miss Gwenllian ap Ewyas to account for her crimes.”

“Next case,” the clerk called. “Gwenllian ap Ewyas of St. Woolos parish, Newport. Accused of keeping an ill-governed and disorderly house and entertaining diverse men and women of suspicious and ill repute, to the common nuisance of her neighbors.”

The bailiff motioned her forward, and Gwen obeyed, sweating beneath the blonde lace. The bodice of her redingote felt tighter than usual. This justice, Sir Robert, controlled her fate.

Mr. Stanley had explained the workings of English law, after the constable came to St. Sefin’s with his writ summoning her to appear.

Her case fell under summary justice, in which case the justice of the peace could act alone, examining the evidence and pronouncing what sentence he wished.

At a whim he could convict her and demand a fine, imprisonment in the workhouse, or a whipping, and it was unlikely he would be challenged.

If he found her guilty and there was an indictment, her case would go to the petty sessions.

There she would come before two or more magistrates, and the punishment could be harsher, a steeper fine or imprisonment of six months or more.

And if the offense were considered a serious threat to public peace, her case would move to the quarter sessions and the assizes, held every three months.

There her sentence could be much worse, perhaps transportation. The thought turned her blood to ice.