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me…”

Four
A Profligate Life
    One kiss.
    Just one bloody kiss and she had awakened in him a conflagration of lust. Although Philip was no innocent, she was completely beyond his experience. The feelings she’d awakened were nothing he could explain, though he cared not to ponder too heavily upon them.
    When her carriage returned him from Marylebone to his lodgings at the George and Vulture on Lombard Street, Philip sought the taproom rather than taking to his bed. Restless and more than a little disturbed, he couldn’t bring himself to retire for fear of deeper reflection. A drink was what he really needed.
    The tapster, having long ago made the last call, glowered when Philip slapped thruppence upon the bar. “Don’t ye young bucks ever seek yer beds?”
    Philip answered by adding a twin to the copper coin. “A single tankard is all I require.”
    â€œTap’s turned off for the night, and off it remains ’til a more respectable hour. Them’s stays open all night begs fer nothing but trouble if’n ye ask me.”
    â€œStrange,” Philip remarked. “I don’t seem to recall asking.”
    The tapster growled something indiscernible and shoved the coins back across the bar. “I ’spect ye know very well where to go …”
    Philip quirked a lone brow. “How unfortunate. I had so hoped to avoid that pit at this ungodly hour.” Eyeing a heavy cudgel in a corner, Philip inquired of the tapster, “If I must venture out, perchance I might borrow your bludgeon? I seem to have mislaid my sword, and would quite dislike finding myself in need.”
    The tapster assessed him with a frown that appeared to find him wanting. “Much good ’twill do, ’less yer knows ’ow to use it.”
    â€œFear not, my good man. After habiting this godforsaken purlieu nigh on four years, I assure you I give quite as good as I get.” Indicating the money on the counter he added, “Here, you may keep it as surety.”
    Readily accepting the money, the tapster grinned toothlessly and tossed the club over the bar. Philip caught it one-handed and swaggered out of the tavern.
    The tavern maid, who had been wiping down tables, looked wistfully after Philip’s departing figure. The door had no sooner closed behind him than she’d torn off her apron and cap to follow after him. “Wait,” she cried. “I-I don’t suppose a fine gent like yerself would want fer some comp’ny?”
    Although Philip had never been disposed to look a gift horse, or in this case a fine-looking filly, in the mouth, he was suddenly struck by Lady Messingham’s earlier intimation about his predilection for tavern maids. Although it rankled, it also rang true. He turned to the girl with an uncharacteristic hesitation. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? It’s rare I forget such a comely lass.”
    She blushed. “Indeed, sir. Me name’s Nell. I been working the taproom a sennight now. I saw ye the first night and ’ave hoped fer a word e’er since.”
    While only a night ago he would have thrown her skirts up with enthusiasm, oddly the thought of a quick tumble suddenly held little appeal. Yet he still hadn’t the heart or inclination to rebuff her. Instead, he offered his arm as if she were the grandest of ladies.
    â€œAs it stands, Nell, I am indeed feeling singularly friendless this evening. How would you care to accompany me for a pint?”
    â€œThat I would indeed, milord.” She beamed and gave an awkward curtsy.
    â€œPhilip,” he amended. “Just Philip.”
    ***
    He dreamt of drums. Or was it cannon fire? Neither, Philip realized, awakening to the dull and incessant din of pounding on his chamber door. He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head to muffle the sound.
    â€œDrake! What—are you dead?” the voice of George Selwyn shouted through the wooden