Chapter Twelve

October 11, 1812

George looked at the scrap of paper upon which he had written Dodo's address and glanced up and down the street.

It was not a part of Bath he knew. At least, he had seen it on a map once or twice. It was there, and if someone had asked him whether Johnson's Buildings existed, he would have said yes . Probably.

But as he looked up at the paint-peeled walls and the cracked panes in the windows, George realized he was quite a distance from Lindow House. Perhaps not geographically. But metaphorically.

The people he passed as he approached the house watched him curiously, plainly wondering what someone with a greatcoat as finely tailored as his own was doing in a place like this.

For a while, George had wondered himself.

Oh, not why he was agreeing to meet with Dodo here. He was far beyond the question of whether or not he would acquiesce to anything Dodo asked—no matter how ridiculous the suggestion of visiting a lady's boarding house was—though he wasn't yet ready to admit to such a thing.

The question was, why?

George rapped on the door to the building. Nothing happened.

He bit his lip uncertainly, glancing about him as though there were something obvious he had missed. There probably wasn't a butler, or a footman or some sort, was there? So who kept charge of the door? Who decided who entered, and when?

A woman older than him, her face wrinkled with time, was watching him from the other side of the street. Leaning against a wall as though she had naught better to do, a smile cracked across her face as she watched him.

George attempted to smile, then turned back to the door.

It was all most confusing. Oh, not the door—well, the door, but mostly Dodo.

"There's … There's something I need to tell you."

She had been most obtuse when issuing the invitation. Though George had pressed her for more details, she had been unwilling to reveal anything. She had given no purpose for the meeting save the thing she had to tell him, whatever that was.

"But I want to know—"

"And you will, when you come for dinner at Johnson's Buildings. Trust me, George."

And he had. Though he could not explain particularly why everything in him was drawn to this woman, George knew she was worthy of his trust. Considering all of the times they'd brazenly been seen in public without a chaperone for the lady, daring wagging tongues to doubt the idea her guardian was just around the corner, there was bound to be little more harm, he supposed, turning up for dinner could do.

Even if he was having a little difficulty with the door.

"What y'waiting for?"

George turned. The woman was still watching him, a puckering frown creasing her forehead.

"I await the door to be opened, my good woman," he offered across the street.

Darkness had been threatening for a while, and as the sun dipped below the horizon, the street was getting murkier with every passing second.

The woman grinned. "I think it awaits y'hand to open it, sir."

Heat flushed his cheeks. Dear God, was he being that foolish?

He turned back to the door, partly to avoid the woman's look of mirth and partly to examine the door. Well, he had knocked, hadn't he? And no one had come—but he was thinking like an earl. Like a person with a staff, a set of people to open doors for him. Now he came to think of it, when was the last time he had opened a door?

Dear God, he was getting soft. He would have to have a word with Northrup. His footmen had to stop opening doors.

George reached out, grasped the handle, which was cold even through his gloves, and turned. The door opened.

The laughter behind him increased in volume as he stepped through the door and into the building, but it quietened the instant he'd closed the door behind him.

The hallway into which he had stepped was unpleasant, to say the least. Dust had become dirt a long time ago, though there were few ornamentations for it to cluster upon. Pale squares on the walls suggested paintings had once hung here but had been removed, and the only stick of furniture in the place was a hat stand, which was empty. Clearly, the residents of Johnson's Buildings had little faith that their personal belongings would be safe.

George took a step forward, a step that echoed horribly in the emptiness. It was sufficient, however, to attract the attention of someone. Footfalls approached.

His hopes leapt. Dodo had never been one for personal questions, but surely this evening was going to be one of revelations. Even a small detail about her past would be lapped up after the drought of information that she had kept from him.

"I … I am sending money home. To my parents. They … They are sick."

Perhaps she had news of her parents—good news, he hoped. Though if it were good, would she not have told him in Sydney Gardens?

A door to his left opened and a woman wearing last decade's fashions with spectacles resting on her nose peered at him. "Yes?"

"Madam," said George easily, bowing low and slipping into the tried and tested Chance charm. "I had been seeking a"— he had been about to say friend, even if Dodo had, to his consternation, said he wasn't one, but then he remembered her instruction —"my cousin, but I find myself distracted by your beauty. You are?"

The woman gaped, then a gentle pink suffused her cheeks.

As it always does , George could not help thinking. Aylesbury was right. There was little that could not be gained by a smile and the pitter-patter of—

"Very clever, m'lord. She said you would be," said the woman with a dry chuckle. "She's upstairs, second floor, first door on the left. You'll like the pie."

She had turned before George could untangle his tongue and say anything.

Clever? She? Pie?

Well, he wasn't going to wait here and attempt to decipher the mysterious code the woman had used. If Dodo was upstairs, hopefully all his questions could be answered within minutes.

It took but two minutes to wander upstairs and find what appeared to be the right door—though George was not foolish enough to take the woman from the street's advice on this one.

He knocked.

Movement on the other side of the door—someone hurrying over to it, then halting before opening it.

A smile crept across George's face. She must like him, mustn't she? She'd accepted his kiss—a kiss he had been too afraid to attempt again.

Well. Not afraid . Afraid is a strong word. Hesitant. Cautious—

The door opened and there she was.

"Dodo."

He had not intended it to be such a heartfelt murmur, but he couldn't help it. His affections were rapidly getting entangled with this woman, no matter what he attempted to do. Just when he was starting to realize his responsibilities to the estate, when he should be trying to discover the traitor in his midst leaking information about his horses… He was here.

Having dinner—alone—with a woman who did not consider him a friend, and who made his pulse race most disobligingly.

"Good evening," said Dodo, her face pink.

She stepped aside and welcomed him in. George stepped forward and saw…

Well . Not what he had expected.

Perhaps the general dilapidation of the building itself should have been enough of a clue. As it was, the decay and the neglect had washed over him as a general sense, rather than suggestive of what was to be found inside.

He was standing in a room that served, as far as he could tell, as both drawing room and dining room. It was not large, perhaps the size of his breakfast room, and there was little furniture. The fireplace was lit but with wood, not coal, and there was a sofa and one armchair beside it. A small table, probably sufficient to serve four, was pushed into a corner. It had a covered platter and silverware upon it that was most definitely not silver; two plates; and two forks. Neither plate had a knife. There were only three dining chairs.

And that was almost it. A small travel writing desk sat upon a dresser that appeared to hold all of Dodo's possessions. No paintings, no ornamentation. No clock, no vases, nothing. Very little at all.

"Come, sit by the fire," Dodo was saying, gesturing toward the motley collection of places to sit. "In a moment, we can eat our pies."

Pies?

George nodded instead of trusting his voice and moved to sit on the sofa. It creaked and was most uncomfortable.

None of this made sense.

Oh, he wasn't expecting luxury. It was clear Dodo had never lived the quality of life that he had as a son of the late Duke of Cothrom. Few had. Even now, as the Earl of Lindow, George was conscious that most people never had the experiences he had, the fabrics for his clothes, the silver for his cutlery, the disposable income to walk past a jewelers and say that one .

But Dodo was a lady. She had admitted that beautiful necklace was glass, and perhaps, now that he thought of it, those delightful gowns were few in number. But she was always beautiful in whatever she wore, exuding a sense of grace and elegance.

He had never truly thought things had been this dire.

Now the fact that she needed to send money home made sense.

"You are very quiet," said Dodo softly from the other side of the room.

George looked up. She was pouring red wine into two glasses—one chipped glass, and one intact glass. Can it really be this bad for her?

"Pies," he blurted out.

His stomach churned the minute the word was out of his mouth. Dear God, she would think him a complete ninny!

"Yes, pies," Dodo said as she stepped toward him and offered the unchipped glass. George took it wordlessly. "I did not know if you had a particular favorite, so I asked Mrs. Bryson to make up three for ‘my visiting cousin' and me. That way, you'll have a choice. I like all the pies she makes."

George blinked up at her, totally at a loss. They weren't—surely, they weren't going to have pie for dinner?

He took a sip of the wine and grimaced, attempting as best he could to cover up the instinctive movement. God, this wine was awful. Where on earth had she found it?

"Yes, Mrs. Bryson cooks for all her lodgers," Dodo was saying, moving about the room and doing nothing as far as George could see, but remaining very busy while she was doing it. "Her pies truly are the best I have ever tasted, and…"

George allowed her words to wash over him for a moment, attempting to get his bearings.

Well . Dodo—Miss Doris Loughty was perhaps not the sort of woman that he had taken her for. Glass sapphires notwithstanding, she had spoken and held herself like a lady who would have been in respectable accommodations. He had thought her address being in this area of town had been a mere cover to hide the fact that she was in Bath without a chaperone, and he'd imagined a ladies' boarding house of a better class. George was astonished to discover that the truth of her living circumstances was not the sort of thing he had imagined.

Not… Not this. Genteel poverty.

With all the money that Dodo could win, was winning at cards, why on earth was she sending so much to her parents? Did she not deserve to have some of it herself?

"—fortunate to get this place. Mrs. Bryson only takes on lady lodgers, and so we're safe here, very safe. The last time I heard of anything untoward, it was…"

George nodded, not really taking anything in. His gaze was flickering about the room, attempting to discover any clues, anything at all, about Dodo's past or present.

But there was nothing. The only personal possessions, as far as he could see, rested on the small, wooden dresser just to the side of the window. Upon it was a candlestick that looked too fine to belong to the room, a small painting of four people, and a box which could have been a jewelry box. Perhaps holding the glass necklace?

"—don't you think?"

"Yes, indeed," said George vaguely as he rose to his feet. "Go on."

"Well, I told myself I should be fortunate to find anything for an unaccompanied woman," continued Dodo, evidently thinking he was listening to every word she was saying. "When I got here…"

George stepped nonchalantly over to the dresser. Was it a jewelry box?

When he reached it, he could see swiftly that it was. It was just the size and shape for necklaces—he'd seen old Cothrom purchase one for Alice. But the jewelry box was no longer the item that catching his attention. It was the small painting in a wooden frame beside it.

Four people were in it, and one of them was most definitely Dodo. Few women in the world had that imperious expression paired with that ebony-black hair. Beside her stood two people, a man and a woman. A generation older, and connected. The gentleman had her nose, and the woman, her eyes. Her parents, then.

George's attention slipped to the fourth person in the painting. A man.

Dark-red hair, a haughty expression, and a sense of possessiveness about him. He shared no features with any of the other three yet had been positioned in the painting close to Dodo.

Very close.

Bitter anger rose, unbidden and uncontained. He knew what this was—had seen similar in the drawing rooms of the ton wherever he went. They did not usually include the parents of one of the party, but…

This was an engagement painting.

"—chicken, and I think—yes, I think this one is ham—"

George couldn't believe it. An engagement painting. They had become fashionable a few years ago, and he could see a small date, 1810, in the corner.

So. Was Dodo engaged? Why on earth hadn't she bothered to tell him her heart was already—

George caught himself just in time.

He wasn't interested in her heart. He couldn't have been. It would be too painful to admit it, now that he had evidence her heart had been given to another long before they had ever met.

His hands were shaking. He quickly clasped them behind his back, attempting to force down the fury that rose in bitter waves, cresting over him and making it impossible to stop looking at the painting.

At the evidence of her deceit.

Was this why Dodo had always been so reluctant to share any history of herself—to answer any personal questions? Why she had always held herself out at arm's length, never permitting him to get any closer?

"I am your friend. I deserve to know—"

"You are not my friend."

Was this why?

Good God, what was wrong with the man? His betrothed was in Bath, entirely on her own, and he had not even had the good sense to send at least a maid along with her?

Did he even know where she was?

Had she deceived him as well as George? Only did she intend, once she had collected enough money, to run home to him?

Would the man still have a woman who'd been seen with an earl all over half of Bath?

Perhaps he had been fine with the idea. Perhaps he'd been unwilling to marry her without a dowry, and knew, like George did, how clever and charming and resourceful Dodo could be—

"George?"

He spun around. "What?"

Dodo was staring curiously. "Well? Which pie do you want?"

She lifted the platter lid and revealed… three pies. The sort one could purchase from a seller on the street, if one was wont to do such a thing.

George's stomach curdled. The idea of eating right now was unpleasant, but he couldn't avoid it. Not without storming right out of the building, which he was still in half a mind to do.

"George?"

"Whichever, I care not," he said vaguely, mind spinning.

Should he leave? He knew now there was no possibility of… of a future.

There. He'd finally admitted, even if it was only to himself, that he had wanted something permanent with Dodo. Something meaningful. Something that was most definitely precluded now that he knew she was already engaged.

"Come, sit," said Dodo with a broad grin, patently ignorant of the rushing pain roaring inside her companion. "They're best warm."

How George found himself on the other side of the room, seated at the small table with a pie before him, he did not know. But he was. What on earth was he going to do?

For Dodo had made him no promises. Given him no hint of understanding that he could presume for her hand. In fact, she had been most clear she wished to share little of herself.

So how had his affections become so tangled?

"You're very quiet," Dodo commented.

George swallowed. He had to say something. He could not go on like this, sitting here as though his chest weren't tight with the pain of her secret.

"How is your pie? Is it—"

"It's fine," he snapped, poking at it with his fork. He still had yet to take a bite.

Silence fell between them for a few minutes, then finally, Dodo placed her own fork on the table. "I don't understand."

George looked up. "You're not the only one."

His curt comment clearly hurt Dodo—he could see it in her eyes.

"I invited you here," Dodo said uncertainly, "to—"

"What, to tell me that you are betrothed?"

Dodo's mouth fell open. "I beg your pardon?"

George swallowed. Dodo was not a person to hide her thoughts, nor her emotions. Everything she thought and felt was played out on her features, and it could not have been more obvious, with her gaping mouth and her stiff shoulders, that she was genuinely astonished by his words.

So… what did that mean?

Was it possible he had this wrong?

"What on earth are you talking about, George Chance?" Dodo said insistently, staring at him, unblinking. "Engaged? Me? You must be joking!"

Try as he might, George could not help it. His gaze flickered past her and toward the painting on the dresser.

It was clearly Dodo and her parents, and a man. Why else would the man be included, if not forthat?

"I saw the painting," George said heavily.

Dodo looked over her shoulder for a moment, then turned back with a raised eyebrow. "You did?"

He nodded. Words could not encapsulate the agony he was feeling.

Well, it had to end somehow. He was not her friend, and they were hardly mere acquaintances. They were entrapped in a strange limbo, one which may have ended in… If he had hoped for more…

It did not matter what he had hoped. The point was, she was someone else's future wife. And no matter what the ton said, what Society muttered, what the scandal sheets gossiped, he was not one to take another man's wife.

A widow, or a working man's daughter, if she was of age and was eagerly consenting… Well. That was different.

But Dodo was not his Dodo. She was someone's betrothed.

George's stomach churned. And he had kissed her.

"The painting of myself, and my parents, and—"

"I don't want to know his name." George growled.

This possessiveness he knew he should not have felt was rising, making it impossible to think. He had come here tonight hoping—

What he had been hoping, he would never now articulate.

Dodo was inexplicably smiling. "Why wouldn't you want to know my brother's name?"

"I said, I didn't… I beg your pardon?" To George's great surprise, she was laughing. Actually laughing! "Did you say… brother ?"

"Oh, come on, George," Dodo said with a chuckle, picking up her fork and taking a mouthful of pie. She swallowed it and continued. "What is the likelihood that the man there, in a portrait of me and my parents, no other set of parents present, is a sibling? Surely, two to one. Perhaps even odds."

A brother. Dodo's brother.

He was an idiot. George could have curled up into a ball and hidden away under the small dining table, he was so embarrassed.

Here he was with two, arguably three brothers, and he hadn't even considered the idea.

He scowled. "Well, how was I to know? And why are you still grinning?"

Dodo's smile was indeed far too broad. "I'm happy."

"And why is that?"

"Am I not permitted to be?" she countered.

George shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He'd had… perhaps not high hopes for this evening, but certainly greater hopes than what he was currently experiencing.

"You… You really care about me, don't you?"

Dodo's voice was gentle now, with no mockery or mirth. When George looked up and met her gaze, there was softness there. And warmth. And… And something he could try to name but would surely be disappointed if he were wrong.

Trying to take a deep breath and calm his swirling mind, George was certain there was only one way to play this. One way an earl should play this, definitely.

Calm. Detached. Aloof.

He wasn't desperate for this woman to care for him. He hadn't been heartbroken to think of Dodo as out of reach. He was the Earl of Lindow. He was one of the Chance brothers, always being outrageous, always scandalizing the ton , always having a laugh, always on top of the world.

And when it came to this woman, he fell apart.

George could not understand it. Dodo brought out his panic, all his desires, his needs, a contentment he had never known before, everything. Her dedication to her family had helped him see his own duties to his brothers. Her love of mathematics had reminded him what he owed to those who depended on him.

And she was so… intriguing. And clever. And beautiful.

George inhaled and pushed his pie away. "I really care about you. Perhaps too much."

Dodo's eyes were wide, cheeks faintly pink, but she did not look away. "Too much?"

"For example," he continued, knowing what he was about to say was reckless but past the point of caring. It was time to be open. "I am not hungry. Not for pies, at any rate."

"Not—Not hungry for pies?" Dodo asked softly. "Well, I can run down to Mrs. Bryson, see if she has something else—"

"I don't mean that," George said with a wicked expression. By God, he was going too far. But was anything too far for this woman? "I'm not hungry for food. I'm hungry for you."