Page 1 of Virtue for a Villain

CHAPTER 1

LLANELLI SHIPYARD, WALES — 1828

Gwen

“I’m going to kill him.”

Gwen tore down the wooden slipway, reflexively dodging the half-rotten plank.

That blasted plank.

It had been on her list for as long as she’d had a list, but so had the algae coating the lower timbers and the iron fittings furred with rust until they no longer sat flush. Every time she thought she might finally get around to one of them, another problem shouldered its way to the front of the queue.

Gwen hadn’t had the best luck since inheriting Llanelli, and lately, that shoddy luck had taken up with an accomplice. An aristocratic nuisance from London, dead set on the purchase of her shipyard.

But she would handle him, and then… everything else.

“You’re not going to kill him,” Harry replied, with more conviction than Gwen could muster, before falling into stride beside her.

His eyes flicked across the yard as they passed, drawing hers as well. Beyond the slipways, the half-built hull of a merchant brig rose above the scaffolding, its ribs exposed like the bones of some enormous creature. Men worked beneath it, hauling timbers and fitting planks, while nearer the water the sawyers laboured over fresh-cut oak. The sail loft stood along one side of the yard, its doors thrown open to the morning, lengths of canvas and cordage piled within.

But the work had begun to falter.

In the sail loft, hands slowed over their stitching as the men looked out. In the planking bays, mallets stilled mid-strike and workers turned from their benches, drawn by the commotion. Even the labourers carrying timber seemed to hesitate, their loads balanced on shoulders as they watched Gwen and Harry pass.

For a moment, the whole yard seemed to hold its breath, expressions ranging from curiosity to concern.

When she looked back at Harry, he gave the barest nod. “Or if you’re dead set on killing him, and by him, I assume we mean Lord Michael, could we at least wait until we’re in the office, with the door shut, before discussing the particulars?”

He was right, of course. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in front of the men when Harry was only trying to help. That’s all it was: a completely logical suggestion. He wasn’t trying to take Llanelli Shipyard from her, and there was no reason at all to reject sound advice in favor of more solitary rage-stomping. It was simply that somewhere along the way, advice had begun to feel dangerously similar to being told what to do… to having choices taken from her. Walter had seen to that. He’d left her with an instinct to resist first and consider the merits later, but those instincts were wrong, and did not always serve her particularly well.

For what must have been the millionth time, she lamented her father’s choice of Walter.

If Da had been so determined to see her wed, surely he could have found someone better suited to her. A man who valued her knowledge of the yard, who was kind and forward-thinking, with a brain in his head. Failing that, she'd settle for the support of a man who, at her mere mention of aristocratic assassination, ran to fetch a garrote.

Of course, marriage to anyone likely would have meant losing control of her beloved shipyard, but at least Llanelli might not have been left so neglected, with every sharp autumn wind threatening to add another item to the list of repairs. The only thing Walter had managed to do right was die in a timely manner, before he managed to destroy the yard entirely.

“Fine.” She blew out a breath. “We should go to the office. You’re right, of course.”