Chapter Eighteen

August 13, 1812

J ohn blinked blearily at the two glasses of brandy before him. Each was held by one of his three hands.

Wait a minute. Three hands. Three hands?

Blinking rapidly as though that would clarify matters, John attempted to put the glasses down—a challenge, with the table always moving about the place—then tried to clasp his three hands together.

Only two touched.

Well, that was a relief , he thought vaguely as he tried, and tried, and tried to pick up his glass again. A man with three hands? That would be ridiculous.

More ridiculous than a man who lost his bride the day before his wedding?

The cruel voice at the back of his mind was back. John supposed he deserved it. There couldn't be many idiots of his particular caliber about, and it was only right he was criticized by all and sundry around him.

Including himself.

John sighed as he leaned back in his armchair. The study had been the only place he could think of to hide, though now he was three brandies in, he couldn't quite remember who he was hiding from.

No matter. They would certainly not find him here. Whoever they were.

"When I wrote that, I was being teased by my brother—I would never normally do such a thing, I was showing off."

"You s-still wrote it. It's your words—"

"I don't think that way anymore!"

"But you did."

Tears sparkled in his eyes as he recalled the complete nincompoop he'd made of himself. Had that honestly been his defense? That he had written those cruel words, and only recently stopped believing them?

Was he truly that dense?

Florence had certainly thought so, walking out of his life as though it were the easiest thing in the world. Refusing to heed him, no interest in reconciling. Disbelieving him. As she had a right to do.

Oh hell, it was all so tangled. John could hardly believe Cothrom had been so stupid as to put something like that in the post—but of course, it was a rare gentleman who allowed his wife to open his post, let alone a woman he was not yet married to.

When he'd gone over to Cothrom House, ostensibly to give the news that the wedding was off, Cothrom had been mortified. He'd talked about going over to the Baileys to explain things. Talking to the mother. Talking to the brother, if necessary. Sorting it out.

John had stopped him.

"What's the point?" he'd said lazily, as though it didn't matter. As though his heart weren't breaking. "She won't listen to reason."

"She's one of the most reasonable women you've ever met," shot back his brother. "The question is, will she listen to you?"

Apparently not. John had turned up outside the Bailey house and requested entry, but a stern looking housekeeper and an even sterner looking butler had forbidden him entry. When John had attempted to push past the latter, he'd discovered to his shock that the man was stronger than he looked. Strong as an ox. Certainly stronger than John.

And so he sat here. Drinking, thought John dully as he finally managed to catch a hold of his brandy glass and bring it to his lips. Why not? What else was there for him to do?

The door opened and two of his brothers stepped in.

No. Wait. One of his brothers?

"You look terrible," said a low, gentle voice.

John tried to smile, but his mouth was not behaving. It certainly wasn't obeying him. "Shhhut... shut up. Y'donn't look too preshious y'sel."

The face of Pernrith came closer, and then there was only one of him. Where did the other Pernrith go? "Oh dear."

"You oh dear," John shot back in what he thought was a clever and elegant manner.

"Aylesbury, how many fingers am I holding up?"

John focused. At least, as best he could. It would be a whole lot easier to answer this question if the blackguard didn't keep moving his hands about. "S... Six. Sleven. Eleven?"

Pernrith's brow furrowed. "Right. In that case—"

"Hey!" His last exclamation was in response to a very dirty and clever trick.

His half-brother removed the glass from his hands. "I think you need a drink."

John beamed. "Exshellent."

"A drink of coffee," the fourth Chance brother stated quietly. "I've asked your butler to send up—ah, there we go."

The door opened and a footman brought in a silver tray covered with a pot of coffee, two cups, a jug which could be cream, and a whole heap of sugar cubes in a saucer.

John turned away, face reddening. It was bad enough to be found in this sort of state, his mind managed to think, by a brother—by an illegitimate brother, not truly part of the family. How much worse to be viewed in such a manner by a servant?

His footman was undoubtedly just as embarrassed at having to see his master in such a state, for the man's ears were red and he disappeared from the study far more quickly than John would have thought possible.

At least, for a man carrying three trays.

"Here," said Pernrith with a bracing look. "We'll get some of this down you, and you'll feel as right as rain in no time."

A lump rose in John's throat. "No. No, nothing will—she'sh gone. Left me. She's left me, Pen."

There was a flash of something dark across the man's face, his hair swept back in a movement that momentarily covered his eyes, then the Viscount Pernrith was smiling blandly again as he so often was.

"That's it," he said gently, pressing a cup into John's hands. "Drink this."

It was scalding hot, burning his throat with a heat and sweetness that tasted as though the man had poured half the sugar cubes into it.

John choked, then forced another mouthful down. "'t's hot."

"Warming," said his half-brother. "Another gulp, please."

About ten minutes later, Pernrith refreshed his cup. Around half an hour after that, John was blinking blearily around the room with a greater sharpness than he had managed in quite some time.

More's the pity.

"You," he said bitterly to the man seated opposite him by the study fire.

Pernrith's gaze did not falter. "Me."

"I would have thought—Lindow—"

"Yes, well, I am sorry to disappoint," said the illegitimate Chance with a wry look. "But I am afraid the Earl of Lindow was otherwise engaged."

John rolled his eyes, attempting to push past his embarrassment at being so rude. Well, it wasn't the blackguard—the man's fault for being the product of his father's affair. He supposed.

Lindow had a different view of it, but there you go.

"Yes, he had a rather pressing and urgent matter," Pernrith said quietly. "Apparently."

John snorted. "Gambling, I suppose—or the horses. Good to know where I stand in my brother's priorities."

"And Cothrom wanted to come," continued his brother. "But he and the Duchess of Cothrom had... they are somewhat distracted at present."

"Oh, hell—"

"Not that," said Pernrith with a grin. "Or at least, not directly."

John stared, wondering whether the brandy was still having an effect on him. The man certainly was not making any sort of sense.

Pernrith's smile was gentle. "Just promise me you will not tell them that I told you about the arrival we shall be welcoming in the spring."

It took John a few moments to truly take in what the man was saying. Arrival? Had they ordered something from China, perhaps, on one of the large ships that arrived on the Thames?

Then he managed to put it together. "Dear God."

"Precisely."

"A little Chance?"

"It appears that way. At least, when I arrived at Cothrom House, the duchess was indisposed, and the duke was unwilling to leave her."

Duchess , John noticed. Duke. He was family, of a sort, yet still he resorted to such formalities.

Well, he could hardly blame him. Pernrith had never truly been made to feel at home in the Chance family. One of these days, this family was going to have to talk about—

"And speaking of people who are indisposed, though I grant you for very different reasons," said Pernrith, placing his own cup of coffee back on a saucer, "you are looking a little better."

John immediately scowled. "I was doing perfectly—"

"However you are intending to end that sentence, no, you weren't."

It was most infuriating to be spoken to in such a way. Particularly when you deserved it.

"Look, if I want to drink myself stupid of an evening, then I shall," he said threateningly. "I have the right."

Pernrith raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

"You must have seen it in the—Cothrom would have told you, at any rate," John said bitterly, wondering precisely how his older brother would have put it. "Florence... Miss Bailey. She has called off the wedding."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"And my life is over," continued John, unable to prevent the vulnerable words from spilling over. "The world, it's... it's lost all its color. I don't feel able to... all I want is..."

Her , he wanted to say. Florence. The woman who couldn't speak to me without flushing scarlet when we first met, and who kissed me like I was the center of the world. Touched me like all she wanted was me. Cried out my name like—

And laughed. And rode like the devil. And smiled.

"It doesn't make sense," John said, subdued.

Pernrith sipped at his coffee. "And why is that?"

Shooting him a glare which would have felled a lesser man— he should have known it wouldn't work, the brute was a Chance —John sighed heavily. "Well. She was just one woman, you know. Florence."

"Well at least you're not seeing double anymore," came the wry reply.

John's glare became a scowl. "Don't talk about her like—"

"Just one woman, you were saying," Pernrith pointed out, gesturing with a hand. "Your words. Not mine."

It was galling, to have his own words thrown back at him like that. John had known what he'd meant, even if he couldn't precisely spell it out now.

He shifted in his seat, wishing the damned thing was more comfortable. It had certainly felt more comfortable when he'd been drinking brandy.

She was just one woman. Florence. Just one.

But she had been the woman.

John knew that, knew it deep within his bones. It wasn't something you could explain to someone else. How could you describe the warmth of the sun to someone who had never felt it, or the soaring waves of the ocean to someone who had never seen the sea?

Words were there. They existed. But they couldn't translate the feelings, the sense of swooping in one's stomach, the delight and happiness that such things brought.

And Florence had been far more than that. So much more.

The only woman who had made John want to... made the world worth living within. How could he go on now, day by day, in a world in which Florence wished to have nothing to do with him?

"I feel wretched," he said quietly.

"You don't look too great, to be honest."

John glared at his half-brother, who had the decency to grin.

"Well," said Pernrith, spreading his hands with a shrug. "This Florence of yours—"

"Miss Bailey to you," snarled John, hardly knowing why it mattered.

The viscount nodded. "Fine, fine, Miss Bailey. From everything you've told me in the past, and everything I know about her from the gossip—" John groaned "—she was a wallflower. Just a wallflower."

"A wallflower who shouted down those who were rude to her," John pointed out, remembering the story Florence had told him about her mother in the modiste's.

Now that would have been a conversation he would have paid money to see. The idea of Mrs. Bailey holding one of the lace things Florence had described, and the way his love had stood up to her!

His stomach lurched painfully. Not his anymore.

"She is wealthy, isn't she?"

Agony twisted around John's torso. He barely had enough air to speak. He nodded.

"I-I d-don't want vultures circling me for my m-money. Ignoring me, happy to m-marry anyone attached to the numbers. I d-don't want to be w-wed for my b-bank balance. You need respectability. You aren't c-cruel. I chose you."

"Well, there are plenty of other wealthy women in London," said Pernrith with a shrug. "Quite a few, actually. There's talk of a pair of sisters who will be coming out into Society into the autumn, thousands each. It's a shame you can't wed both of them."

John glared. "You think this was all about money?"

"Isn't it?"

Trying to put aside the memory of the note he had written for Cothrom was difficult. John had been left with it, the only evidence he had left that he and Florence had been engaged, if only for a time.

I promise that I am only marrying Florence Bailey for her money. For her stupendous dowry, and nothing else.

John Chance, Aylesbury

"Florence is wealthy," he admitted, shoulders taut with tension. "But she enriched my life in... spending time with her. I felt wealthier because of it. Oh, hell, that sounds ridiculous. Do you know what I mean?"

John's gaze searched out Pernrith's, but there was nothing but the typical calm and blankness that the young Chance brother always had. It was infuriating.

"She was shy, though. Painfully shy, as I recall from the one time I met her," said Pernrith delicately. "That would have been grating. Tiring, over time."

Strange. John had hardly thought about it. Florence had spoken more clearly when they were alone together, but even when they were in public and she struggled through her words, John was so interested in what she had to say, he did not mind waiting a little longer to hear it.

"At least she had something worth saying," he said gruffly. "Not like half of these women in the ton , they just open their mouths and nonsense falls—you're smiling ."

It wasn't an accusation, as such. But it was hardly a benign comment.

Pernrith was smiling. It was a self-satisfied smile, one John had never seen on the man's face before. Why, when he looked like that, it was most clear he was definitely a Chance. There was something about Lindow in the eyebrows, though John would be the last person to point that out.

And the idiot was still smiling.

"What?" barked John. "Spit it out, why don't you!"

He didn't. Not immediately. Pernrith shifted in his seat, leaning an elbow against the armrest and fixing him with a serious expression.

"Look," said the viscount finally. "I am illegitimate. A bastard, as I think Lindow refers to me."

John opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. Well. There wasn't much to be argued about there, even if it felt strange having that spoken aloud. It was hardly done, to point such things out in polite Society.

"In many ways, I don't belong in your world. In your family," said Pernrith, his voice still low. "But your—our father took me in. The three of you—Cothrom, yourself, Lindow—you have been good to me. In your way."

A prickle of discomfort crawled across John's chest. It was not pleasant having such a thing pointed out to you. Particularly when one was heartbroken.

"But despite all that," continued Pernrith, "I feel honor bound to point out that you are being a complete idiot."

John's head jerked up. "What the devil are you—"

"I have just given you three excellent reasons to forget about Florence—about Miss Bailey, excuse me," Pernrith said. "Three reasons many gentlemen would easily grasp at to tell themselves they no longer had to care about a woman."

Heat was coursing through John's veins. "What are you—"

"She's a wallflower, she's wealthy but there are other wealthy women, and she's so shy, it's almost impossible for some people to hold a conversation with her." His brother—his half-brother ticked off his fingers. "All good reasons to move on. You've contradicted each one. You love her."

John scowled.

Love. What did that matter, when it came to it? Love had not prevented him from being a complete fool. Love had not made Florence understand why or how he had done that foolish thing. Love had not helped them understand each other, or given them the chance to patch things up and go ahead with the wedding.

The very expensive wedding.

Oh, damn. He was going to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Cothrom at some point this week.

But love—love wasn't the answer. How could it be? It hadn't solved anything, prevented any disaster. It hadn't brought them closer together. Somehow it had forced them apart.

Still. He could hardly deny it.

"My caring about Miss Bailey... about Florence, that was never the problem," John said heavily. "It was my idiotic past that destroyed our chance."

He should never have written that note. What had he been thinking?

He hadn't really been thinking , John thought darkly. He'd been showing off. Trying to prove to Cothrom that his heart wasn't going to be affected by a woman who had accepted his kisses then proposed a marriage of convenience.

"So." Pernrith's voice was low. "So you need a second chance."

John snorted, rising from his seat and giving a sigh of relief as his legs managed to hold him. The brandy was wearing off, then. "A second chance?"

"Fine, a third."

"Try a fourth, or a fifth," muttered John, pacing over to the window and jerking back the curtain to glance outside into the night. The stars twinkled.

"So you ask for them."

"You think I haven't already been over there?" John shot back. "You think I haven't written? You think I don't want Florence to accept my apologies—to love me?"

His voice broke on the final words.

If it even had been love , a cruel voice muttered in the depths of his soul. If affection could be broken so quickly, had it truly been affection in the first place?

He glanced over his shoulder and glared at Pernrith, who looked steadily back. "And even if she were ever good enough to take me back, I'd probably still need another chance every week we spent together."

"And do you want that?" Pernrith's voice had a steadiness and a certainty in it John had never heard before. At least, he had never noticed it before. How had he never noticed that it was Pernrith, of all the Chance brothers, who always had the calm response?

"Of course I want Florence—"

"I don't mean that, I mean something more," continued his half-brother doggedly. "To always be working to better yourself, always be looking for ways to improve, always hoping not to disappoint?"

John turned slowly and met his half-brother's eyes. They were unrelenting, and clearly determined to force him to reply.

He swore. "For you? No. For Cothrom? Definitely not. For her?"

Images rushed through his mind. Florence's pink cheeks upon seeing him at the Knights'. Florence riding in Hyde Park, hair flowing out behind her, laughter in the air. Florence, slipping her hand in his as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And the world had felt right.

"For her?" John said hoarsely. "Yes."