Chapter Eighteen

October 20, 1812

This really was a new low.

George knew that. Yet here he was, doing the one thing he had always told himself he would never do.

Thank goodness it was dark. He wasn't sure what he would do if someone saw him here, standing outside the one house in Bath he had always vowed he would never enter.

He glared at the door knocker, as though it were the brass implement's fault he was here. George supposed it wasn't anyone's fault but his own, though he still wasn't sure how.

The trouble was, he didn't have anywhere else to go. Cothrom had gone back to London. Apparently, Alice was more comfortable there. She was starting to show now, anyway, so there did not need to be much of a secret about why.

Aylesbury wasn't about, either. George had gone to him first, obviously. The man had always been the Chance brother to come on his adventures with him, and if there was one person who could get him out of his mess, it was Aylesbury.

He had waited almost fifteen minutes in the impressive hall of his brother's Bath residence only to be informed, eventually, that the master was… indisposed. The gaunt servant's eyes had flickered, only momentarily, to the ceiling.

George had left the place as soon as he'd been able. The very idea that he had almost interrupted his brother and his brother's new wife doing—

Well . It left him with few options.

And so despite everything within him telling him this was a poor idea, one he would most definitely regret, George lifted the knocker and allowed it to thunk onto the door.

He did not have to wait long, thank God. The door opened, and George stepped forward, eager to get off the street, where someone might see him.

"Is your master—" he began.

Then he stopped, one foot on the threshold, the other still on the street.

"Dear God, man," George said in wonder. "Since when does a viscount open his own door?"

Frederick Chance, Viscount Pernrith, chuckled. "Since when did you think I could afford both a footman and a butler? Come on in."

It appeared his half-brother did not need an explanation for George's sudden and unplanned appearance. Stepping back and gesturing with his arm that he was most welcome, Pernrith waited for him to enter.

George was in half a mind to leave now. This had been a mistake, most definitely, and one that he could rectify by just… leaving.

But he hesitated.

He had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. And though Pernrith was only half a Chance, and someone George himself disliked most enthusiastically, he was a Chance. Even George could not deny that there was something about their father in the eyes.

Swearing under his breath and wishing to God there was another choice, any other choice, George stepped inside.

He'd never been in Pernrith House in London, and he had been forced to ask one of his footmen where his half-brother lived when in Bath. Which was shameful in and of itself.

So George could not help but be curious as Pernrith closed the door behind him, giving George a few heartbeats to look around him.

It was… Well. Not as impressive as he had thought.

Pernrith was a viscount, so it was therefore right and proper, George thought awkwardly, that Lindow House was always more striking. But he was still a viscount. George had expected better furnishings for a man who outranked barons, baronets, and those who were given knighthoods for distinguished and loyal service to the Crown.

But this hallway was… Well, there was no other word for it. Dour.

It was clean, at least, but no amount of furniture polish could make that dresser more impressive. There was a coatrack, but with only two coats. The man surely had more than two coats?

The rug on the floor was not exactly threadbare, but it was approaching that description in some places. The chandelier that hung from the ceiling was not lit. Instead, the place was illuminated thanks to a pair of candlesticks that stood over an unlit fire.

An unlit fire, in October? Surely, the man couldn't be that poorly off.

Not that I would know , George reminded himself as he walked stiffly behind Pernrith toward a door. It wasn't as though he were exactly on speaking terms with the man.

And now you've turned up at his door at near eleven o'clock at night, with no explanation, and he …

He's welcomed you in.

It was a damned irritating thing. Who did the viscount think he was, being so pleasant?

As Pernrith opened the door they were approaching, George saw it led to a drawing room. A smaller one than George had, and without some of the finery he took pleasure in. But at least it had a fire lit.

"Come, sit yourself down," said Pernrith quietly, gesturing to a set of armchairs situated around the fire.

George said nothing but gratefully took a seat.

What was there to say? He couldn't even think how to explain the mess he'd gotten himself into, the tangle of emotions and betrayal and money that was his… his connection with Dodo.

"I trusted you. And I—"

"I don't know why. I never told you that you could!"

He shifted in his seat as Pernrith took a chair opposite him.

Well, this was damned awkward. The two of them had never got on, though that was clearly Pernrith's fault. He had the audacity to be a part of this family, with no shame whatsoever , George thought darkly. It was hardly George's fault. The boy had just turned up and—

But that wasn't going to help matters, was it, going over old times? Old grievances, old irritations. The arguments of childhood that had never truly been resolved.

Not when he was here for the man's… George could barely bring himself to think it.

Help .

Pernrith leaned back with a curious expression but said nothing.

His good manners not to start interrogating him exasperated George beyond belief. Trust the half Chance to have better manners than—

But Cothrom had asked George to stop thinking like that, hadn't he?

"Look," he said awkwardly into the silence. "I know we're not on the best of terms." There was more to that sentence, George was sure. He just did not know what it was.

Pernrith raised an eyebrow. "You think?"

George swallowed into the silence of the room.

He was going to make this difficult, wasn't he? Pernrith wouldn't be able to resist, he was sure, crowing over George once he revealed why he was here. The man was a rogue, a villain, a—

"Would you like some wine?" Pernrith asked politely. "Brandy, whiskey, I have a selection here."

It was on the tip of George's tongue to say that the selection would surely be subpar compared to what was in his own cellar.

He managed to stop himself just in time. He wasn't at home, was he? He wasn't at his cellar. He was here because… because he had nowhere else to go.

Dear God, he was pathetic.

"Yes," he said tightly.

"Which one?"

"Which—"

"Wine, brandy, whiskey," Pernrith rattled off in a quiet voice, his gaze never leaving his half-brother. "I can bring them all here, I suppose."

George gave a jerk of his head. "Fine."

They remained in silence as Pernrith rose and walked over to a cabinet on the other side of the room. It was a Japanese carved cabinet, lined with gold and dark mahogany wood, a beautiful-looking thing.

Very beautiful. In fact, it reminded George of something.

It was only when Pernrith had removed three bottles and two glasses and closed the cabinet door, allowing George to see it properly, that he remembered.

"That's from the Japanese room, at Stanphrey Lacey!"

Pernrith turned to him, a strange expression on his face. His nose was wrinkled, his eyebrows furrowed, but his mouth was soft. Belligerent, and at the same time defensive, and at the same time, gentle. "You think I stole it from Cothrom?"

George opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again.

His pulse was pumping wildly. That was where he had seen it before—it was a part of home. Their childhood home. Part of Cothrom's home now, he supposed, as their father had died.

But that cabinet had always been a part of the Japanese room, right by the window. He could see it now, the difference in color between the left- and right-hand side. The sun had worn away the finish of the wood, so close to the window.

And now it was here, in this second-rate house, owned by a bastard brother.

George clutched the edges of his chair and tried to think. Permitting an outburst was only going to hurt himself. He did not wish to look the fool.

"Here," said Pernrith. "Drink."

He offered out a glass, and George instinctively took it before he asked. "What is—"

"The finest brandy that can be found," said Pernrith quietly, pouring himself a glass then resuming his seat. "Legally, naturally."

George lowered his expectations as he took a sip. Yes, it was as he thought. The illegal stuff was far superior. But it was far more expensive. And you ran a risk.

A risk, clearly, that Pernrith was unwilling to take.

"So," said Pernrith, as though estranged brothers often turned up on his doorstep late at night. "You are here."

It was not a question, but inherent within it were a plethora, none of which George particularly wished to answer.

Yes, he was here. And if he was going to get the sort of help he needed, there was going to be a significant serving of humble pie to go along with this second-rate brandy.

He took another burning sip of the drink. Liquid courage. Well, I could certainly use it.

No time like the present, he supposed. "Look. I'm in a fix."

Pernrith nodded. "I presumed so."

George fought a flicker of irritation. Of course he did, the smarmy—

"I could use an outsider's perspective," he said, his jaw tight as he said the words he knew he had to say, but hated. "A… A brother's perspective."

He forced himself to meet Pernrith's expression.

His head tilted, his mouth open, the man was shocked, that much was clear. And why wouldn't he be? He and George had never been on good terms, right from the start.

George could not recall what had started it. An argument, perhaps. A disagreement. A fight, most likely when they'd been children. It had grown and twisted from dislike to anger to hatred almost before he'd known it was happening.

And then there had been nothing else to do but go on hating him, this interloper, this evidence of their father's betrayal of their mother, for the rest of their lives.

Cothrom had tried to bring the family together. George had laughed at the beginning, then argued with him, then resigned himself to the fact that Pernrith—despite his better judgment—was going to be a part of their lives forever.

But never before had George resorted to actually seeking the man out.

"A brother's perspective?" repeated Pernrith. "That's new."

George could not tell if the man was pleased or offended. And it was new. And most discomforting.

"I don't want this becoming the latest gossip," he said bitterly. "There are few people I trust in the world, but I think… I know our shared blood is enough to guarantee your silence."

Pernrith said nothing, merely looking at him with that steady, unshakeable gaze of his.

George shifted in his seat again. The damned thing is so uncomfortable. Why doesn't the man have a decent chair in the place?

"Why is this place so godforsaken dilapidated?" he asked, the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them.

Strange. He would never have worried about offending Pernrith before.

Pernrith's smile was taut. "I don't have the money my brothers do. I can't just throw money at furnishings for my third house when I can barely pay the staff of my first."

George swallowed. "You could give it up."

"And disgrace the Chance name by demonstrating that I cannot afford three homes?" his half-brother said lightly. "You know what Cothrom would say to that."

It was impossible to argue with him. He was right. George could well imagine what their eldest brother's response to such a thing would be, and it wouldn't be pleasant.

"No, I merely do not entertain," said Pernrith lightly, as though it had been a simple choice, and one he had not cared much about. "I don't think there are too many broken hearts over that fact. After all, I'm not a proper Chance."

George hesitated, but his stomach churned and he knew he had to say, "You're a Chance."

"Half a Chance," Pernrith corrected.

"The point is, you bear our name," George said stiffly. "You should be… Damnit, you should be treated with the same respect as any of us."

It was difficult to say. How many years had he bickered with Cothrom about having Pernrith invited to family events? He'd argued against giving the man a title at all—it was merely a courtesy, one in Cothrom's gift that would not descend to Pernrith's children.

If he had any.

Pernrith shrugged. "I am accustomed to it. I have always been an outsider."

George had not believed it possible, but the comment made him feel even worse. The discomfort in his chair combined with the agony of losing Dodo and the distress of being in Pernrith's presence for more than five minutes made it remarkably difficult to think.

Damnit, I shouldn't have come.

"Now, are you going to tell me what on earth you're doing here?" Pernrith asked, taking a sip of his brandy. "You don't like me."

"Steady on," George said weakly.

"It is quite all right. You do not need to pretend. You don't like me—you never have. You've made it quite clear over the years, and I have never attempted to force a friendship. And yet here you are."

Here he was. Without options, without good advice, throwing himself on the mercy of the one man in Bath he loathed beyond all others.

George sighed, downed the disgusting brandy, and placed the glass on the mantlepiece before turning his attention to the half-brother who he really just… didn't like. "I think I've made a terrible mistake."

Pernrith's eyebrow rose. "Worse than coming here, you mean?"

He hadn't meant to do it. His intentions had been to say something stern, something cutting. But George was so exhausted, his emotions strung out so tight after his argument with Dodo, after the revelation of her betrayal, that he did the one thing he would never have expected.

He laughed.

His dark chuckles echoed around the room, his head shaking as he was joined by the gentle laughter of Pernrith.

And something seemed to change. He was never going to like the man, far from it. The blaggard was still a stain about the family, the result of an indiscretion that could never be denied.

But he was a Chance. And George already felt like such an outsider in the family, always getting things wrong, always being the one to let everyone down, that at this moment, he'd take any familial support.

Even from Pernrith.

"You're a fool, Lindow," Pernrith said with a look as their laughter died away.

George frowned. "You don't even know what's happened."

"I don't need to," he said bracingly, picking up the bottle of brandy. "You're here. That tells me you had nowhere else to go. Want more?"

Over the remainder of the bottle of brandy, George slowly attempted to tell his half-brother what had happened.

Which was a challenge. There were parts he did not understand, and others he simply didn't know. He couldn't comprehend how Dodo had done what she had.

"And just as I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse," he said, finishing up his tale, "Dodo shouted that I should just stop loving her and stormed out of the place."

Silence fell between them. Pernrith was slowly twisting his empty glass this way and that between his fingers, looking at the dregs of his drink rather than at him.

George felt a flicker of irritation. After he'd spilled his heart out, did the man not have anything to say?

"So there you have it," he said, attempting to prod the man into speech. "Disaster after disaster. And now I'm here."

Pernrith looked up, and George was astonished to see that the man had a look of… Dear God, is that pity?

Lord save him from pity from anyone, but from his half-brother?

"You said earlier," said Pernrith quietly, "that you think you have made a terrible mistake. And I think you're wrong."

George's spirits lifted, and he sat up straighter in the uncomfortable chair. "Really?"

Pernrith nodded sagely. "Yes, I don't believe you think you've made a terrible mistake. I think you know that you have."

The remark gained only a scowl from George. "If that's all the help you can offer—"

"You didn't actually ask for my help," said his half-brother, his voice as ever gentle, but with a sharp steel in the center. "And you haven't thanked me for that drink, either."

George swallowed. It was shameful, to be schooled in manners by—but he was right. "Thank you."

Pernrith inclined his head. "Putting aside the fact that the honorable thing to do after taking certain liberties would be to marry the lady—I gather you already knew that. So, we are agreed you have made a terrible mistake. The question is—"

"You do not think it is Dodo—Miss Loughty, I mean, who has made the mistake?" George said hotly. "I was not the one who lied! I haven't been soliciting secrets from someone and using them against that person!"

"Perhaps not," accepted Pernrith with a nod. "But you interfered in her life, Lindow. You went behind her back with her parents, investigated into her parents' finances, made decisions for her, for them all, without any acknowledgement to them. Did you think to ask the brother?"

George opened his mouth, ready to reply with—then he halted.

He had not thought to ask the brother. The man had not come up in any of his research into the situation. Why had that not occurred to him to locate him?

"Or," Pernrith added softly, "Miss Loughty herself?"

George swallowed.

It hadn't occurred to him. He had been so fixated on the sudden change of circumstances he could offer Mr. and Mrs. Loughty, the idea of consulting with their daughter had never struck him.

Only then did he see how Dodo must have felt. Shame, and embarrassment. Hot anger, that she had tried to look after her family for months, desperately doing everything she could—and he had just swooped in and saved the day. Frustration, that she had not been informed until it was all over. He had offered her money once without conditions, and she had refused. He should have known how she'd feel about what he'd done. About what she 'd done.

Deep, deep regret. He could see that now, now that the initial fire of fury over the betting had subsided. Dodo clearly regretted ever getting involved in betting on the horses, and she…

She had tried to tell him.

"George, I have to tell you something—"

George clasped his hands together. "Oh, damn."

"So. How are you going to fix it?"

He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "It can't be fixed."

Pernrith stared steadily. "You don't believe that."

"Don't you tell me how I feel!" He had not intended to shout, but the frustration of the last few days had been bubbling up inside him, desperate to come out.

And yet his half-brother, despite his tone, did not appear ruffled. "You have shouted at me plenty of times before, Lindow. It does not bother me, not in the slightest—but this is different, isn't it?"

George swallowed. He wasn't about to be lectured on—on love, and feelings, not from a man with whom he could hardly exchange two kind words until tonight.

Pernrith leaned forward. "This is different. You care about her, deeply. Otherwise, why would you be here? Why would you come to me, of all people—oh, don't worry, I am not offended. You love her, don't you?"

Once again, it was not a question. George sighed, dropping his head into his hands.

"So my question remains, what are you going to do about it?"

"I suppose there's an outside chance that she might listen to me for more than five minutes," George said wretchedly, his chest tight. "But how can I explain in just—"

"You would need more than five minutes?" Pernrith interrupted, an eyebrow raised. "To tell this woman you love her?"