Free Ashlyn Macnamara by A Most Devilish Rogue

your second. We were coming to the inn for a drink, but perhaps you wish to decline the invitation. You’ll need the time to walk home.”
    “That’s quite all right. I can use the drink.” He glanced at the others. Revelstoke’s brother and brother-in-law, the Marquess of Enfield and the Earl of Highgate respectively, flanked Leach. “If one of you happens to have a pack of cards, that wouldn’t go amiss, either. What do you say?”
    A slow grin spread across Leach’s features. He reached into his topcoat and pulled out a small packet. “Thought you’d never ask.”
    Revelstoke nudged him. “About the card games.”
    “What’s that?”
    “My wife’s decided she doesn’t want any deep play at the house. Too tempting for her father.”
    Leach frowned. “That’s going to leave us with nothing but parlor games for entertainment.”
    The lines about the marquess’s eyes deepened as he laughed. “If you’re fortunate, the older ladies will look the other way for Kiss the Candlestick.”
    “Knowing my mother,” George said, “she’ll encourage it, and then claim I’ve compromised some young miss.”
    “That decides it, then.” Leach replaced the pack in his topcoat and patted the pocket. “The morning’s exertions have left me decidedly parched. What say we sample the local brew? And perhaps any other delights this village might hold?”
    Highgate raised his brows. “What sort of delights might those be in a place this size?”
    “Good God, save me from the parson’s trap. Has marriage completely coddled you?” Leach let out a bark of laughter. “You can’t tell me the inn doesn’t house a willing wench or two.”
    “I can’t say that it does,” Revelstoke said.
    “Yes, another one caught. It only means you haven’t looked hard enough, I daresay. I wouldn’t want to wager Upperton here has beat us to what pickings there are.” He elbowed George in the ribs. “Eh? What about it? Have you been sampling the local talent while the rest of us jounced about working up a thirst?”
    George stepped back. Ordinarily, he’d be in the thick of such speculation, if only for a bawdy laugh or two. Not now. For some reason, Isabelle’s image floated through his mind. He’d caught a glimpse of her house when she flounced in—tidy, yes, but tiny. Whatever her station had been—and her manner of speaking told him it was high—her circumstances now were far reduced.
    And what if, out of sheer desperation, she resorted to the sort of undertakings Leach hinted at? What if she already had sold herself to any who might have a few coins in order to feed her son or maintain the roof over their heads? Such a risk, and if she attracted the wrong man …
    That, Mr. Upperton, is precisely the sort of man I intend to avoid
.
    What if she already had?
    The notion hit him like a blow to the gut and forced the air from his lungs. Not if he could help it. But what could he do? For now, at any rate, Leach didn’t know anything about her. He need only ensure such remained the case.
    “It took me half the morning to reach here on foot, I’ll have you know.” He hoped the others would interpret the edge to his voice as simple injury at having hishorse unseat him. Buttercup, indeed. “Now what about that drink?”
    Anything to get them out of the street.
    Arse aching from his spill, he led the way into the inn. The common room lay dark beneath heavy-beamed ceilings and a few high windows. A fitful fire burned on the hearth, pumping more smoke into the space than heat. Grayish wisps floated through the weak shafts of sunlight slanting down from the eaves. A broad-bosomed woman glowered at them from behind the bar.
    George nudged Leach and pointed with his chin. “There’s your local talent.”
    Leach frowned and flopped into the nearest seat. “Let’s get on with it.”
    A few hours later, George was cheerfully willing to overlook any lingering ache in his nether regions in favor of concentrating on heavier