Ashlyn Macnamara Read Online Free

“Commendable of you. Never thought I’d say this, but it’s noble.”
    “Hardly.” George let out a harsh bark. Some other man might have thought it laughter, but Revelstoke knew him too well to mistake the sound. It was pain, pure and simple. “I mean to ruin every last one of them, starting with the Earl of Redditch.”
    Revelstoke let out a low whistle. “Summersby involved himself with that crowd?”
    “Unfortunately.” While he might be one of the wealthier men of the
ton
, Richard Marshall, the Earl of Redditch, could seemingly never get his hands on enough blunt. If a man fell afoul of him at the card table, the earl called on the entire family’s power to ensure repayment of any debt. And that was precisely where Summersby dug his hole too deep.
    “You might be aiming a bit too high there. If you came here with the intention of meeting him, I’m afraid that family is too well connected for the likes of us.”
    George had suspected as much. “No matter. If you can spot me some funds, I can work on turning them into more. That way when I go back to Town, I’ll be ready for the bastards.”
    “I’m afraid you’re in for some difficulty there.” Revelstoke clapped him on the shoulder once more. “Julia’s father, you see. She doesn’t want him tempted, so she’s asked me to let all the gentlemen know she’s prohibited deep play for the duration of the party.”

CHAPTER TWO
    G EORGE STALKED down the path bisecting beds of trailing flowers and shrubs. No deep play. Ridiculous, but he might have guessed. Julia’s father had nearly ruined his family four years ago with his debts. Well, George would find a way around the restriction, if he could interest anybody—preferably someone with deep pockets—in a few hands of piquet. They could retreat to the nearby village.
    Pea gravel crunched beneath his Hessians, but not loud enough to drown out the infernal racket coming from the ballroom. Catherine hit yet another off note, and the keening jangled through his brain.
    He didn’t even bother wincing anymore. The action was fruitless. Once his sisters started rehearsing, the best remedy for the pain was a large bottle of brandy, preferably taken in Wales. If he set off walking now, he might arrive in Cardiff in a week or two, but that wouldn’t solve his financial woes.
    A carriage hound, white with black spots, ambled toward him for a sniff. George scratched the beast’s neck absently while more musical atrocities assaulted his ears. The dog let out a plaintive whine.
    Damn it all, was nowhere safe? If he didn’t escape soon, his head would begin pounding worse than if he’d drunk several bottles of Whitechapel gin the previousevening. Another false note, and the hound threw back its head and howled.
    “I know how you feel, old boy,” George muttered.
    He raised his fingers to his temples and rubbed. God, he needed to get away. Already the pulse-like current was throbbing in his head, faint for now, but it would not remain so for long. The floral-scented air did nothing to hold off the next twinge. He strode off at a faster pace.
    The garden ended abruptly at a high hedge. On its other side, mares grazed in the middle of rolling pastureland while their foals nipped at each other and kicked up their heels in raucous circles. He followed the hedge to the cliff where a path wound its way down to a sheltered cove.
    There, at least, the roar and hiss of the surf would cut off the caterwauling from the house. There, he might find a touch of peace for a few hours if he was fast enough to forestall a vicious megrim.
    His booted feet had just reached the flat strand of pebbles when he saw them. Sunlight glinted off a pair of golden heads. A child, a small boy of no more than six, ran through the waves, squealing when the cold water lapped at his bare toes. A young woman strolled in his wake. Her watchful eyes belied the ease of her gait.
    A sharp gust off the Channel seized her bonnet. With a cry, she