The green-eyed maid was trying not to laugh at his stammering, but she wasn’t all that successful.
“Come with me, my lord,” she said, turning and starting down the hall. “Miss Blake will be along shortly.”
She deposited him in a small parlor, bowed out of the room and shut the door. Benjamin looked around, assessing the modest drawing room. The few pieces of furniture were old and in great disrepair. A faded blue sofa sat opposite one spindly chair that looked as if it would crumble under the weight of a small child. There was a fireplace, though no fire burned there to warm the somewhat chilly room. The only other furniture was a small end table, adorned with a few miniatures and the bouquet of fresh flowers he recognized as Mr. Potter’s.
Benjamin made his way across the room and picked up one of the tiny frames. As he stared at the familiar face, his heart seized with guilt and shame. The Baron Grimsby was Miss Blake’s father.
How in the world had he missed the fact that Blakeny House was Number Twelve Berkeley Square?
“Lord Glastonbury.”
Benjamin started at the sound of Miss Blake’s voice behind him, but he didn’t turn right away. He took a moment to gather his wits about him and gingerly replaced the miniature to its spot on the table. When he finally turned to face her, he couldn’t stop the smile that came to his lips. She stood in the doorway, a curious expression on her face. He noted how tired she looked, but he decided he liked her this way: subdued and relaxed, a serene smile on her lips and in her eyes.
“Miss Blake.” He crossed from the end table and swept her an elegant bow. “I would apologize for calling so early, but I see I am not the first to do so.”
Miss Blake tucked her chin to her chest in a sheepish gesture, her eyes darting to the bouquet across the room. “Yes, though I far prefer your company, Lord Glastonbury.”
This made him smile. Wide. “Though you must admit, Mr. Potter has excellent taste in flowers.”
At this, Miss Blake’s head snapped up and her wide brown eyes locked with his. He gulped.
“How did you know it was Mr. Potter who called on me this morning?”
Benjamin had to laugh at his slipup and decided the best route would be honesty. “I confess my brother-in-law and I ran into Potter this morning. He was carrying that exact bouquet. Those lilies are so rare, I figured it could not have been a coincidence.”
She did not respond, but smiled again and gestured to the sofa. He sat, ignoring the dust that settled on his pristine breeches as he did. He held his breath as Miss Blake took her seat in the spindly wooden chair, praying it wouldn’t break beneath her weight. Thankfully, she sat without incident.
However, guilt began to niggle at Benjamin’s conscience. Was it his fault they were living in such dire conditions? Was it because of his actions that almost all their worldly possessions had been removed from their home? Without a husband, a woman had very few options in regard to earning money. And if that husband died penniless and with a great many debts . . . it was a wonder they weren’t already wasting away in debtors’ prison, if the rumors about the old baron had been true.
But was it possible she didn’t know who her father’s killer had been? He wondered why she didn’t recognize his name. It was true very few people knew who had been involved, only his second, who was his own brother Andrew. And the baron’s second, an old friend of Benjamin’s and the heir to the barony, Geoffrey Abbott. He must be a distant cousin to Miss Blake.
As they sat there making small talk, Benjamin warred with his conscience. Should he tell her? Should he ask to see her mother so that he might clear the guilt from his mind? Or should he find another way to make amends for his actions?
Admitting what he had done would only bring up old wounds, and he feared Miss Blake might never want to speak to him again if she knew. He had known her less than twenty-four hours, yet the idea of never speaking to her again was a most unwelcome prospect.
Once they had exhausted the predictable topics of last night’s ball and the weather, there was an opening in the conversation and Benjamin decided to venture into what could be risky territory. “The miniatures,” he said, gesturing to the tiny frames on the end table, “they are of you and your parents?”
Her large brown eyes shifted to the frames and then back again. “Yes.”
There was a slight pause before Benjamin said, “I don’t think I saw either of them with you at the ball last night. Do they venture into society much?”
Benjamin hated the uncomfortable look that crossed over Miss Blake’s face, but he had to gauge if she knew about him or not.
“No. My father is dead, and my mother is still in mourning. We’ve only just passed the one-year anniversary.”
“My condolences,” he offered, and then, hating himself even as the words came out of his mouth, he asked, “How did he die?”
Miss Blake seemed slightly taken aback by the question. It wasn’t something one should ask on a polite afternoon call, but he just couldn’t help himself.
“A fever,” she said, and Benjamin nearly fell from the sofa in shock.
Just a fever? “A fever,” he repeated aloud.
“Yes. You know . . . dangerously high body temperature, that sort of thing. We were in the country when it happened and made it back only in time for the funeral.”
Benjamin’s mind reeled at this shocking revelation. She didn’t know. She had absolutely no clue how her father died, that his fever had been caused by a nasty gunshot wound.
He wasn’t sure what else to say, and he worried that remaining on the topic might lead him to incriminate himself. And so, he offered his condolences one last time before changing the subject.
A half hour later, Benjamin rose to leave and Miss Blake led him to the door.
“Thank you, Miss Blake,” he said, nearly drowning in her dark eyes, and alternately in his own guilt. “This has been a most pleasant afternoon.”
She smiled and nodded. “For me as well, my lord.”
“May I call again tomorrow?”
Miss Blake’s eyes widened in surprise, with what he hoped was delight. “I-I . . . I would like that very much.”
He tipped his hat and stepped outside, onto the stoop. “Until tomorrow then.”
Chapter 4
Phoebe walked through the doorway of Lord and Lady Sheffield’s home that night, already exhausted. How in the world would she survive an entire season of late nights? She’d only been to one ball so far, but after having spent a year in mourning, she wasn’t used to staying up until all hours of the night. Not to mention her responsibilities at home were many and they were exhausting—both physically and emotionally.
Despite the fact she’d already spent one evening in the bosom of the ton, her nerves still threatened to get the better of her. Her stomach was a veritable bird sanctuary as she made her way to the ballroom, surrounded by lords, ladies and other important people. Her plain muslin dress, artfully upgraded with pearls and ribbons, still seemed inadequate next to the green silk creation on the woman to her left. Or the jonquil, topaz-studded gown of the one in front of her.
Phoebe sensed Becky on her heels and silently thanked God she was with her; it was comforting to have her maid-cum-companion by her side through these nerve-racking events.
She politely nodded her head to the few people she knew from the night before, and some that she even knew from her first season, two years ago. But she didn’t trust herself to speak yet. If she opened her mouth, one of the birds in her stomach would surely make its way to her throat. She didn’t relish making a fool of herself right away.
Thankfully, only a few moments passed once they had found their seats before the four-piece ensemble mounted the dais and began to tune their instruments. The players consisted of the three Sheffield daughters: Elaina, Emma and Ermentrude. Phoebe felt especially sorry for poor Ermentrude. Not only had she been given the most atrocious name of the three sisters, but she’d inherited the smallest amount of good looks as w
ell. The poor thing had small green eyes that were far too close together and hair the color of fire.
The fourth player was apparently a cousin, and she sat poised before the gorgeous Broadwood piano. Phoebe’s heart ached a little at the thought of her own piano and the day she’d watched the collectors remove it from her home.
Aside from the day she’d heard of her father’s death, it had been the most difficult day of her life.
The music began, and Phoebe pushed the sad thoughts from her mind to focus on the players. They were quite good, she thought, with a definite sensitivity to the style. Just as she was beginning to enjoy herself, she felt the telltale tingle of needing to relieve herself.
Blast that extra cup of tea! Phoebe looked about the room, trying to assess if she could slip out without being noticed. They were toward the back, and Becky sat next to her, at the end of the row. The door was a little farther than she might have hoped for but . . .
Oh, dear, she really could not wait. The program indicated three pieces, all with several movements to them, before they would reach the intermission.
She leaned in to whisper to Becky. “I must remove myself to the retiring room.”
“Shall I come with you?” Becky whispered back.
Phoebe shook her head. “I’ll only be a moment.” And then she slipped past her companion, and walked quickly and hunched over until she reached the door, refraining from making eye contact with anyone on her way.
She heaved a heavy sigh of relief as she reached the hallway and gingerly shut the door behind her. She looked about, hoping to find a servant who could point her in the right direction, but the hall was empty. They were probably preparing for the reception that would be held at the end of the concert.
Phoebe looked right, then left, and finally decided to go left in search of the necessary. It felt odd, snooping about the Sheffields’ home, but what choice did she have? When one had to go, one had to go.
And then, blessedly, she came upon the room that had most certainly been deemed the ladies’ retiring room. Chinese silk screens stood in the far corner of the room, no doubt hiding the much-needed chamberpots, and a little maid sat quietly by the vanities.
Once she had completed her urgent task, she made her way to the vanity to check that all was still in place. Her auburn curls remained neatly tucked into the coiffure Becky had created for her. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright. She bit down on her lips to bring a little more color to them and then all was perfect.
Phoebe slipped into the hall and started back toward the ballroom where the musicale was still under-way. Her pace was a bit slower now, since she no longer had the need to hurry, and as she padded through the corridor, she noticed a door that stood ajar. Curiosity made her peak her head inside—just for a moment. However, before she could stop herself, her feet carried her farther into the room toward the beautiful Shudi harpsichord. It stood in the center of the candlelit parlor, leading her to believe she’d stumbled upon the manor’s actual music room.
Indeed, the fresco on the ceiling revealed tiny cherubs playing tiny harps and flutes, and aside from the harpsichord, a cello stood propped on a stand in the corner.
She alternately sighed with longing and bubbled with excitement, contemplating if it would be ill-bred of her to sit down and play while she was supposed to be listening to the concert in the other room. Perhaps a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. She would still be back long before the intermission. And it seemed like a lifetime since she’d had the opportunity to play. Who knew when the next would present itself?
Making her decision, Phoebe sat on the bench and began to play.
***
Benjamin strode into the gilded ballroom of the Sheffield mansion thirty minutes late for the start of the musicale. His sister would probably be furious with him for not being on time, for he would have missed opportunities to mingle with eligible young ladies. There was still afterwards, though, wasn’t there?
But truth be known, he didn’t really care to mingle with anyone but Miss Blake. He doubted she was here tonight, however. It was a smaller crowd that was invited to these sorts of things, and Miss Blake didn’t seem all that well connected. At least not yet.
Benjamin stood at the back of the hall and scanned the program. He had already missed the Handel, and they were in the middle of the Haydn now. Though they played better than most of the debutantes who put on musicales, Benjamin was feeling a bit restless. After five minutes of Haydn, he could barely stand still, let alone even think about sitting. So, as discreetly as he had crept in, he crept back out.
He wouldn’t be able to go far; Katherine would expect to see him at intermission. But perhaps he could find the library and a glass of brandy, sit quietly and contemplate what he’d learned at Miss Blake’s house that afternoon.
It was still hard to believe she had no idea about the duel, about her father’s gun wound. He would have expected Geoffrey to tell the man’s wife and daughter what had really happened, but perhaps he’d seen no reason to. Perhaps he thought it would be easier for them if they thought he simply died of natural causes.
Benjamin wandered farther through the house, noting that while he enjoyed the Baroque style of music, he didn’t much care for the Baroque architecture. Sure, it was a sensorial feast for the eyes, but good Lord, it was gaudy! Even the cherubs in the wall paintings seemed uncomfortable in their surroundings.
He was about to open the doors to what he assumed would be either the library or a study when he heard the sounds of a harpsichord wafting down the hall. Playing Mozart.
It was sheer curiosity that set his feet in the direction of the music; it took a brave person to sneak away to perform their own musicale while another was going on just down the hall. He wanted to see who this brave soul could possibly be.
The door stood slightly ajar, and it creaked as Benjamin pushed it open. The music stopped abruptly, and then he found himself face-to-face with Miss Blake. He almost wanted to laugh at the coincidence, but he was too taken aback to do much of anything at the moment.
She, too, seemed at a loss for words, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d been caught red-handed.
“Lord Glastonbury,” she finally managed. “I-I was just . . . um . . . ”
He smiled and moved into the room, closing the door behind him. “It’s all right, Miss Blake. You don’t have to offer any excuses to me. As you can see, I, too, am wandering about the halls of the manor whilst the musicale is in progress.”
The tension seemed to drain from her face and eventually gave way to a smile. “So you are,” she acknowledged. “You weren’t enjoying the music?”
“No, no, it wasn’t that. I was just . . . feeling a bit restless is all. You?”
Even in the dim light of the parlor, Benjamin could see the color that infused her cheeks and he again wanted to laugh. However, again, he didn’t wish to embarrass her, as she’d probably slipped out to use the necessary. Instead, he did the gentlemanly thing and changed the subject.
“I didn’t know you played, Miss Blake.”
She smiled up at him with those big round eyes. In the candlelight, they shone gold, like rare topaz glimmering in a dark cave. It would be easy to forget he was going against every dictate of society by being alone with a young lady in an abandoned music room. Very, very easy.
“Ever since I was a child. It was the only feminine pastime I took to.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Benjamin corrected. “You’ve already proven you’re an excellent dancer.”
“Yes, but women cannot dance alone. Therefore, it is not an entirely feminine pastime.”
“Well, you must embroider then.”
Miss Blake laughed, a haunting, lilting sound that struck a chord as sharp as if it had actually been played on the harpsichord. “Remind me to show you my embroidery one day.”
Benjamin stared at her, and before he could stop the words, he said, “You would get along splendidly with my sister.”
; “Oh! Yes . . . the Duchess of Weston is your sister, is she not?”
“She is,” Benjamin replied, wondering what it meant that he wanted Miss Blake and his sister to be acquainted.
“I’m afraid I don’t typically have opportunity to consort with duchesses, so I’ve yet to meet her. Are we of an age?”
“Katherine is a bit older, perhaps, though I can’t say without knowing your age. However, I do know better than to ask—”
“Twenty,” she interrupted. “Just turned. My birthday falls at the beginning of April.”
Benjamin smiled at the surprising young woman. “Then, yes, the two of you are of an age. Katherine will turn one-and-twenty in December.”
There was a lull in their conversation, but not an uncomfortable one. He liked that Miss Blake didn’t feel the need to fill every moment with inanity like many of the girls he’d met at last night’s ball.
“Well, we should probably be getting back before someone notices we’re gone.”
Benjamin knew she was right. It would be intermission soon; it wouldn’t go unnoticed if they walked in together once everyone had stood to stretch their legs. They needed to go, and soon. But not yet.
“Do you know any duets, Miss Blake?”
Her dark eyes widened at his question. “You mean you play, my lord?”
“Benjamin. Please.”
“Oh . . . well, then I must insist you call me Phoebe.” She graced him with a wry smile. “It’s only fair.”
“Indeed, Phoebe. And, yes, I do play.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know any duets, and wouldn’t we need two instruments for that, anyhow?”
Benjamin decided he was going to find a way to share the same bench with Phoebe if it killed him. He wanted to be close enough so he could find out what she smelled like. Perhaps find out what she tasted like too, if the opportunity presented itself.
“I’ve an idea!” he said, making his way to the bench. She had stood when he first came in, but now she dropped her little bottom back to the seat. He took his place beside her, making sure to press himself as close as possible. Ah. She smelled like the most fragrant of rose gardens, soft and fresh and—
Gentleman Never Tells (Regency Historical Romance) Page 3
