Gentleman Never Tells (Regency Historical Romance)

by Knight-Catania, Jerrica

  “I have no idea,” Benjamin answered. “And, frankly, I don’t bloody care.”

  Chapter 21

  “I am sorry to have missed your nuptials to my cousin, Ben, though I don’t remember seeing an invitation to the wedding.”

  Benjamin and Geoffrey were alone in the baron’s study, nursing their brandy and puffing on fine cigars. They had enjoyed a celebratory dinner earlier in the evening, but it was late now. Most of the others had gone off to bed, but Ben had decided to stay up and spend some time with Geoffrey on his last night of bachelorhood.

  “Yes, well, it was a small ceremony—only family, and it was in my father’s bedchamber. I’m sure you understand.”

  “My deepest condolences, by the way, in regard to your father. You must miss him tremendously.”

  “Indeed.”

  There was a pause while both men took a drag on their cigars. Ben’s was near done, so he put it out in the crystal ashtray that sat on the table, then sat back in his chair with a sigh. It had been a very nice evening thus far, though the mention of his father was a reminder he could have done without.

  “I find it somewhat ironic that you ended up married to Grimsby’s daughter.”

  Benjamin suppressed a groan. If the topic of his own father had been unwelcome, the topic of Phoebe’s father was even more so. Especially with someone who knew his secret. “Sometimes you can’t control who you . . . take a liking to. I didn’t even know who she was when we first met. It came as quite a shock when I went to call on Lady Grimsby, and Phoebe was the one to greet me.”

  Geoffrey’s passive expression turned into a grimace. “What business did you have with Lady Grimsby?” he asked.

  Ben scoffed. “Very funny,” he said with not an ounce of humor to his tone.

  “No, really.” Geoffrey sat forward in his chair. “Did you mean to tell her of the duel?”

  “Of course, man.” He stood and began to pace the room, somewhat annoyed that Geoffrey was making him spell it out for him. He knew what happened; why did he need to ask all of these ridiculous questions? “The guilt was gnawing at me. I-I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to tell her what I had done, but then when Phoebe was there . . . I couldn’t.

  “She’s forgiven me, though,” he went on, hoping to bring the conversation to a close, “in spite of the fact that I kept it from her until after the wedding. So all is well now, and we are doing our best to move past my

  . . . my mistake.”

  “I’m sorry, Benjamin, I’m a bit confused. To what mistake do you refer? You called the man out for cheating. It’s not all that uncommon, you know.”

  “Yes, well, being the killer of your wife’s father is uncommon.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes widened in obvious shock, and he shook his head back and forth, as if the motion might make the things he was hearing a bit clearer. “His killer?” he repeated.

  Benjamin had had enough. Geoff had been there, had seen him shoot the man, and had certainly been privy to his death a mere two weeks later. What the devil was his problem? “All right, perhaps not directly, but certainly that fever was my doing. It would be too coincidental for it not to have been my fault . . . I know what I did, Geoff.”

  Geoffrey’s voice was low, almost soothing, when he said, “Perhaps. But you don’t know what he did.”

  Ben looked up abruptly at Geoffrey. “What are you talking about?”

  “Good God, Ben, you’ve been carrying this on your shoulders for a year? Do you not ever read your correspondence?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked again, his heart racing.

  “Benjamin, I sent you a letter, shortly after my uncle died. I thought, of all people, you should know the truth. Aunt Lucinda had it printed in the papers that it was a fever. She was worried about what the truth might do to Phoebe—”

  “Goddammit, get to the point, man!”

  “He killed himself!”

  The world seemed to come to an abrupt standstill. What was Geoffrey talking about? “H-how is that possible? Why?”

  “He was a sorry excuse for a man, and he knew it. The creditors were closing in on him, his wife knew about his affairs. And Phoebe . . . well, I think he felt worst of all about her. He knew it wouldn’t be possible to keep her outfitted for another season . . . that’s why he was cheating at the table.”

  Ben tried to keep up as Geoffrey continued, but it wasn’t easy. All he could think was: I didn’t do it.

  “Of course, doctor bills from the gunshot wound drained him of what little he had left. He didn’t see a way out. I guess he assumed I would be a better steward of the estate—what was left of it anyhow—and perhaps keep his wife and daughter in the life they were accustomed to. Unfortunately, he left me with such a mound of debt that I couldn’t afford to send much to Aunt Lucinda and Phoebe.”

  “Did you know the creditors were hunting them down as well?” Ben asked, wondering where Geoffrey had been in the midst of all the hardships the Blake women had undergone.

  He shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

  They were silent for a few moments. Ben’s mind was still reeling with all this new information, with the realization that he’d lived with a year of horrific guilt over something he hadn’t actually done. It didn’t seem fair at all that he had missed out on the last year of his father’s life to start over in America, when he hadn’t needed to start over at all. He had truly done nothing wrong.

  But now what? “Do you think your aunt would hate me forever if I were to tell Phoebe the truth?”

  Geoffrey finally put out his cigar and stood from his chair. “I think it’s not your place to tell her. Aunt Lucinda must come to that conclusion on her own.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders and gave him a half smile. “You said she already forgave you, did you not? At least now you can truly accept the forgiveness.” He started across the room to the door. “Come. It’s late, and I’m getting married in the morning.”

  ***

  With the newfound revelation in the forefront of his mind, Benjamin found it exceedingly difficult to act normally around his wife. He knew Geoff had been right; it wasn’t his place to say anything to Phoebe. He would have to confront his mother-in-law and convince her to tell Phoebe on her own. It was the only way.

  However, because it was impossible to put it from his mind, Benjamin feared a slip on his part every time they had a conversation. It didn’t help that they could not return immediately to Ravenscroft Castle. They had to wait until after the wedding, of course.

  When they finally pulled up to the drive of his family seat, Benjamin felt the weight lift. It had been torture, getting through the wedding festivities and the long ride home, but they were here, and he would at last be able to speak with Lady Grimsby. But he had to do it in private, without Phoebe knowing. He didn’t want to raise any suspicions before he had a chance to state his case to her mother. And it was another couple of hours before he was granted the opportunity.

  Phoebe had decided to lie down for a nap, and he found Lady Grimsby sitting with his mother in the salon at the back of the house. It overlooked the gardens, and he supposed it was the next best thing to the veranda on a rainy day.

  “I hate to interrupt, but I wondered if I might borrow Lady Grimsby from you for a few minutes,” he said, bowing to the pair of them.

  Both matrons raised their brows, but his mother stood and gestured for him to sit. “I have to speak with Mrs. Simms about dinner. Here, take my seat.”

  She bustled away, and Ben took her place, half excited, half dreading the imminent conversation.

  “Has Phoebe gone to lie down?” Lady Grimsby asked before he could embark on the topic of Colonel Wallace.

  “Yes, she seemed awfully tired from the journey.” He stared across the expanse of the sitting area at his mother-in-law and decided the best thing to do was to just come out with it. “She knows about you and the colonel.”

  A look
of quiet horror passed over the woman’s face, and she sucked in a breath.

  “I didn’t tell her, I assure you,” he continued when she said nothing. “Wallace told her, and not in the most . . . pleasant of ways.”

  Her hand flew to her heart, and she moved to the edge of her seat as if to stand. “Oh, Lord, please do not tell me—”

  He held up a hand to stop her before she got ahead of herself. “It was fortunate Becky found me when she did. Phoebe is fine. She was a bit shaken up by the incident. However, the colonel alluded to you and payment due before I was able to stop him.”

  She was quiet for a moment but then asked, “Did you explain any of it to her?”

  Benjamin shook his head. “I told her it wasn’t my place . . . but she will ask you, and soon. She tried last week but was afraid it would ruin your time at the wedding. I wanted you to be prepared.”

  Lady Grimsby nodded her head. “Thank you for telling me, Benjamin.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not all.”

  “No?” Her brown eyes went wide with curiosity.

  “Lady Grimsby—”

  “Please, call me Lucinda.”

  “Ahem . . . Lucinda, I have no doubt this will be an unpleasant topic to visit, but I fear I have no choice but to bring it up. But first, I should explain something to you.” He paused and took a deep breath before continuing on. “I-I spent a year of my life thinking I killed your husband.”

  He could see the comprehension pass over her features, followed quickly by fear, and perhaps loathing. But he would not be deterred.

  “At this moment, your daughter thinks I killed her father . . . because that’s what I told her, when I still believed this to be true. You see, I challenged your husband to a duel after I saw him hand-mucking in a game of cards against my brother. I shot him in the shoulder and was convinced the wound led to the fever that caused his death. However, I learned otherwise a few days ago, from Geoffrey. Apparently, he tried to tell me shortly after the incident, but I had already gone off to America. I never got the message.”

  Silence fell between them, heavy and sad, and Benjamin wondered what the older woman was thinking. Surely she would tell Phoebe now, to relieve him of this horrible burden of a secret.

  “Benjamin,” she began, her voice soft and leaden with emotion. “I cannot imagine the kind of pain you have suffered as a result of my . . . dishonesty. My daughter and I were in the country during all this. We knew nothing of the duel. Geoffrey informed me of the decision my husband had made and I made the choice to hide it. I did not think it was something the public needed to know. And I especially did not want Phoebe to know.”

  “But you do understand the necessity in telling her now, do you not?”

  Her throat moved over a large gulp, and she stared at him proudly, determined. “I understand nothing of the sort, my lord. I will take this secret to my grave. As will you, I am sure. You are far too honorable, I believe, to tell Phoebe news that is not yours to tell. News that would be devastating to her.”

  Benjamin wasn’t sure he was hearing correctly. Surely, she did not mean to let her daughter believe such a horrible untruth about her husband. “Do you mean to say that you are not going to tell her? After all we have been through—after all we have suffered over the last year, you mean to keep this from her?”

  “She is my daughter. I have a duty to protect her.”

  “You have a duty to tell her the truth—”

  “Not if it is something that will hurt her!”

  Benjamin didn’t want to yell at his mother-in-law, so he bit down on his tongue until he could taste the blood. Good God, the woman must be delusional to think it was better to keep Phoebe in the dark over this matter.

  “Lady Grimsby, I know firsthand that your daughter values honesty above all else. She and I fought, for no other reason than she was angry at me for having lied to her. For having married her without telling her of my transgression.” He chose to omit the part about Lillian. The declaration was enough without mention of her.

  “Then certainly I will not tell her now.”

  “But you must! I deserve to have my name acquitted in this.”

  “Why? She has already forgiven you—she even went to London to find you and tell you so, did she not?”

  “It is not enough.”

  Tears filled the woman’s eyes. “It will have to do, my lord.” And before Benjamin could say another word, she was up, running from the room.

  Benjamin stared after her, dumbfounded. How could things have gone so wrong? How could she be so blind to think that keeping the secret would be better than telling the truth to her own daughter?

  He sat there, numb and frustrated, wondering what the devil he was going to do, when his wife came into the room. He opened his mouth to greet her, but she intercepted him.

  “Benjamin? What happened? I just passed my mother in the hallway on my way to find you. She is in hysterics.”

  “Good God,” he whispered, and shook his head in disbelief. Could this situation possibly get any worse? Why wouldn’t the woman just tell the blasted truth? “Phoebe, I can’t tell you. It is not my place.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “If I could tell you, you would already know, Phoebe, but this is something that I cannot. And, unfortunately, your mother refuses to tell you, so I am left—” Dammit! If he didn’t stop his blathering, he would tell her. Just like he’d blurted out that he had shot her father, he might find himself in the same situation. “Go to your mother, for God’s sake, and make her tell you.”

  “And upset her further? I meant to speak with her about Colonel Wallace today. Benjamin, I have been waiting a week to approach her on this subject.”

  Oh, that was rich! “I’ve been waiting a bloody year, Phoebe.”

  She reared back slightly. “What are you talking about?”

  Ben shook his head and closed his eyes. He couldn’t let his temper get the better of him. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not nothing. You sent her away in tears. I don’t think it is I to whom you owe an apology.”

  “And you take your mother’s side over mine, I see. When all I am trying to do is get her to tell you the bloody truth.” He hated the sardonic tone to his voice, but there was nothing for it.

  “She is not a well woman, Benjamin. Something like this could send her to her bed for another year. What did you say to upset her so?”

  He couldn’t do this. “I would love to tell you, Phoebe.” He tried to keep his voice calm so she would hear the desperation behind the anger. “But I cannot.”

  ***

  Phoebe stormed through the house, away from her husband, straight to her mother’s bedchamber. What could this possibly be about? And why would he not tell her? Why would her mother not tell her? All these secrets were starting to weigh on Phoebe, and she’d had enough of it.

  She would get to the bottom of it. She had to. Though when she would get to the bottom of it depended greatly on her mother.

  When she reached her mother’s room, she knocked but received no answer. A sad feeling washed over Phoebe, recalling the days—more than three hundred and sixty-five of them—that she’d knocked on her mother’s door to no answer. She only did so out of respect. Or perhaps with the hope that one day her mother would answer back.

  She pushed the door open to see her mother lying on the bed, her back to the door. Phoebe walked quietly across the room and put a hand to her mother’s shoulder. She didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge anyone was there. Clearly, Phoebe would get no information out of her mother today. And Benjamin wasn’t going to be forthcoming . . .

  Frustrated and angry, Phoebe left her mother’s room and went straight to her own. Not the one she shared with Benjamin, but the one she’d had that first night she slept at Ravenscroft Castle. The one she’d stayed in the night of their last argument.

  She didn’t want to stay there. She wanted to be with her husband. But more than that, she wan
ted the truth. She thought she’d had it, but apparently she had been misled once again, if the earlier argument was any indication.

  As she stepped into the room, all cream and pale shades of green, she shut the door and then sank against it. She bent her knees and slid all the way down the wall to sit on her bottom. And then she cried.

  Chapter 22

  Five days. Five bloody long days, and he had barely spent ten minutes in his wife’s company. Benjamin was practically pulling his hair out, wondering what the devil he was supposed to do about his predicament.

  Part of him wanted to toss his honor to the birds and march into Phoebe’s room and declare the truth: that he hadn’t killed her father after all. That the man had taken the easy way out and taken his own damned life, and her mother had lied to protect her from that truth.

  But damn the sense of honor that had been drilled into him from the cradle, he couldn’t do it.

  However, how long could this go on? It was ridiculous! Didn’t his mother-in-law understand what her lying and secrets were doing to her daughter and her new husband? They loved each other, for Christ’s sake. They should not be spending the seventh week of their marriage in separate bedrooms!

  She had said she wasn’t angry with him—that she didn’t hold him accountable for her mother’s current state. But how could he believe that when she refused to come to him, to spend time with him or sleep in the same room with him?

  Benjamin pounded on the keys of the piano in the music room, playing Bach as fast as his fingers would allow. He loved the way the keys responded according to his touch. The way they did exactly what he wanted them to do. If he meant the sound to be soft, the keys obliged. Or if he banged with all the force in his fingers, they did his bidding then, too. How easy it was, how convenient! So much more accommodating than a bloody woman.

  “Benjamin!”