An Elaborate Hoax (A Gentlemen of Worth Book 5) (2 page)

“I can—cannot travel with my family to Dorset,” he said in almost a whisper, appearing to grow more despondent.

“I just said I would have you there in a thrice!” bellowed Sir Thomas, taking to his feet in a show of impatience.

“It is impossible . . .” Mr. Cavanaugh’s wavy brown hair nearly reached his eyes, shielding his view of those around him, as if he did not wish to be seen.

“No, it ain’t.” Sir Thomas took this slight to his horses and his chaise as a personal assault. “My cattle can make it without a change. A little rest and water every few hours and they’ll be right as rain!”

“Understood, Thomas. I am certain David is more than grateful for your offer.” Gerald’s terse delivery put an end to Sir Thomas’s outburst.

Everyone stilled, their attention focused on David Cavanaugh, waiting for him to speak. The ensuing quiet seemed to stretch on.

“I cannot travel to the Willows with my family for the simple reason . . . that . . . that . . . the
family
to which I referred—” Mr. Cavanaugh stopped and drew in a slow breath before confessing, “And my wife, Mrs. Cavanaugh, are of my own invention.”

Chapter Two

I
knew it was a bouncer!” Sir Thomas blustered, then collapsed into his seat with laughter. “All made up? Imaginary female, eh, Cavanaugh? What name might she have?”

“She’s not made up. Her name is Miss Caroline Wilberforce,” Mr. Cavanaugh confessed, rather timidly.

“Wait a minute . . . I do believe I know her, blond hair, green eyes, especially fond of ginger ices, and had a brother named Marcus.” Sir Thomas tilted his head back and closed his eyes to recall the past. “Did you come up to scratch?”

“I nearly did so, in any case.” Mr. Cavanaugh verbally sidestepped the uncomfortable topic of matrimony. “To Miss Wilberforce, to Caroline.”

“Caroline . . . No, wait a moment. Wasn’t the Wilberforce chit’s name Harriet?” The baronet was still trying to puzzle out the identity of
Mrs
. Cavanaugh. “Are you quite certain?”

“Excuse me, Sir Thomas,” Frances began gently. “I believe the name may be a conglomeration of two women.”

“Well,
that’s
all right, then.” Sir Thomas relaxed in his chair. “As long as he didn’t offer for both ladies, that’s not the thing. Miss Wilberforce married Lord Wraxham as I recall.” He softened his voice as he relayed a bit of unfavorable news. “She may not have been looking to marry a title, but I own her mother was. Cavanaugh here may be plump in the pockets, but he ain’t prime pickings.”

Penny knew well enough that rank did not make a man. There was nothing wrong with a plain Mister.

“Your little Lucy’s birth inspired me to contrive the tale of my daughter.” Mr. Cavanaugh managed to alter the topic and elevate the conversation by addressing Frances. “My grandmother’s name is Lucinda, you know.”

“But Lucy is named after my mother,” Frances replied.

“It
is
a happy coincidence, is it not?” Mr. Cavanaugh smiled with a shrug. “Gran would never discover that auspicious detail.”

“That was how he managed to find himself in this mess in the first place,” Frances mumbled to Penny. “He acts without regard to consequence.”

Penny’s gaze returned to Mr. Cavanaugh, attending to his continuing discourse.

“Then Davy was born, and very fortunately named after me, his godfather.” Mr. Cavanaugh bowed to Gerald and Frances.

“At present, I cannot think why we did that,” she confided to Penny.

“Yes, young Davy . . . he was the perfect child to use as a model for my son.”

“Your
imaginary
son?” Penny hadn’t heard a story so ridiculous since her niece Muriel told her sister Charlotte that a nest of fairies dwelled in a large oak tree located in the very center of the east meadow. Apparently telling tall tales was not limited to girls.

“W-what did you hope to gain by all this duplicity, sir?” Frances managed to ask.

“I know nothing of children or how they get along. I have always been very fond of Lucy and young Davy and can, by their example, quite easily describe their characteristics, habits, and daily activities when writing to Gran.”

“Do they know her, your grandmother?” A protective side of Frances began to emerge, and rightly so.

“They only know what I have told them
of
her. There were some stories of when I was a boy, visiting the Willows during the summer. I had three brothers at that time.” Mr. Cavanaugh’s voice softened, touched by the distant memories of his childhood. “We used to spend our afternoons fishing in the pond, playing games in the orchard, picking wild berries by the river, and riding ponies to Beacon Hill.”

Being the last of the Cavanaugh line meant he no longer had any siblings. Penny did not wish to ruin his glorious recollection by inquiring as to their unhappy fates.

“That might be an idea,” Gerald mused, sounding thoughtful. “You are, after all, their godfather.”

“Goodness, Gerald, are you actually thinking David should
borrow
our children and pass them off as his own?” Frances stated in alarm.

“What an excellent idea!” Mr. Cavanaugh, it appeared, had not gone that far.

“You cannot be serious, Gerald. All good sense has abandoned you.” Frances turned from her husband to glare at their friend. “Both of you.”

“Frances, the children adore him,” Gerald pointed out, his voice turning into more of a plea. “We’ll send Nanny along to care for them. It’s the perfect solution. Surely you must own to that?”

“Even if Nanny accompanies them—no, I cannot allow it. How could you place children in care of a bachelor? Any children, let alone ours?”

“I should like to leave the decision up to the children.” Gerald sounded as if he had resigned himself to abide by the verdict of his offspring and not his wife.

“You cannot count on them to make a decision of this import.” Frances turned to Penny for support.

“Apparently all this has worked out splendidly for you, Mr. Cavanaugh,” Penny remarked with her chin held high. She had no wish to involve herself in what was clearly a matter between husband and wife, but it did involve their children. Enough was enough, and Mr. Cavanaugh simply had to resolve this on his own, not lay the whole before his friends to puzzle out. “You are to reach your destination by way of Sir Thomas’s chaise. You are to borrow Lucy and Davy for your children. Pray tell, what poor woman do you think you can convince to portray your wife?”

The room grew still, then very quiet.

When his answer was not forthcoming, Penny turned from Mr. Cavanaugh to glance at his primary advocate, Gerald, who returned her interest. Feeling the weight of Sir Thomas’s awareness, she swept her gaze in his direction before meeting Frances’s stare.

In the ensuing and lengthening silence, Penny grew more and more uncomfortable. It did not take long before she realized the focus of the other four people in the room had fixed entirely upon her.

As if heralded by a chorus of singing angels, David’s dark and dismal cloud of impossibilities was resolved. A miracle had occurred before his very eyes. Mrs. Parker would make the most splendid
imposter
wife. He would have never dared to make the suggestion. However, since it summarily had been agreed upon by all in attendance, with the exception of Mrs. Parker, David could see the advantage in such a resolution.

“If Mrs. Parker is to accompany Lucy and young Davy, I have no difficulty with the scheme at all.” Frances Kimball had changed her outlook on the plan from complete refusal to feeling somewhat comfortable regarding the care and safety of her children. She needn’t have worried. David was their godfather and would protect them.

“Excellent. Then it’s settled!” Sir Thomas launched from his seat onto his feet. “I shall be off to see that my chaise is prepared for departure within the hour.” Without waiting, he deposited his empty glass on one of the tables and brushed his hands off with a clap on his way to the door.

“Well done, Thomas. See they come here to pick up their passengers.” Gerald accompanied the baronet.

“Here?” Sir Thomas glanced past Gerald toward Mrs. Parker then David and winked. “Yes, that would be best for all concerned. In an hour’s time!” he called out before departing.

“You cannot think that I—” Mrs. Parker began in a stern, unyielding tone toward her relatives.

“Mrs. Parker, if you might grant me a private audience?” David interceded before her staunch refusal that she portray Mrs. Cavanaugh. “Please allow me a chance to speak to you.”

Frances turned to her husband. “Gerald, let us see the children, shall we?”

“Of course, dearest.” He motioned to the way out of the parlor and closed the doors behind them but not without a meaningful glance at David.

David understood exactly what his friend had meant. He was fairly certain Lucy and Davy would gladly come to his aid. They would meet the grandmother who’d lavished praise and affection upon them over the years through her many letters. This would be David’s only opportunity to convince Mrs. Parker to join their merry band. He wasn’t at all certain how he would go about achieving this feat.

“Do I not have a say in this? In any of this? Or will I be caught up in this mad story of the life you’ve created?” The young widow rounded on him. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could tell she wanted no part of the situation he’d brought on himself.

“What is it that disturbs you the most?” David inquired with complete calm. He could not argue his current endeavor was comprised of several unlikely scenarios, each a far-fetched notion preceded by another that was equally absurd.

“The most?” Mrs. Parker exhaled in exasperation. “There are so many elements of this fraud you’ve put together, I hardly know where to begin. You’ve managed to secure a son and daughter, quite an achievement for a bachelor.” She ticked off each on her fingers. “Now you need a mother for your children. Can you not see how impossible that is?”

“Not at all. You are the ideal female to fill that role.” He sharpened his already lingering gaze to take in her finer points. Mrs. Parker, as he understood, was a young widow, neither over forty nor a schoolroom miss. Although her exact years were unknown to him, he presumed that she was about the same age as he. This made her wholly suitable to depict Mrs. Cavanaugh, who would have been married for the required seven or eight years needed to be a believable mother to his three-year-old son and five-year-old daughter.

“Who would believe we—” She stopped midsentence, then addressed him anew. “I may not be old enough to be your mother, sir, but I vow I might be mistaken for your elder sister.”

“I think not, ma’am.” David thought this quite humorous and chuckled. “I will not be so indelicate as to inquire about your years. Instead I freely offer you mine. I am on the wrong side of thirty.” He could tell by her reaction that she thought him younger, and if he had to hazard a guess, she was quite near his number.

“So you see, it is, in fact, quite probable both you and I would be the parents of Lucy and Davy.”

The flash in Mrs. Parker’s eyes and the rise of color in her cheeks, not a comely blush but a flush of anger, told him she did not like it. Knowing his time alone with her was limited, David set to the task of winning her over.

“Ma’am.” He clasped his hands behind his back and addressed her with as much sincerity and composure as he could muster. “My only desire is to grant my grandmother’s wish, her
final
wish.”

“You believed her dying many times over the course of seven years. What makes this occasion any different?”

“It is not only distinguished by correspondence from her solicitor but her butler as well.” David tried not to show his apprehension through his voice or expression.

“Her butler?”

“Yes, Woodsworth has never written to me. That he has done so causes me great alarm.” David dearly wanted Mrs. Parker’s cooperation yet not through any dishonest means. There was nothing he could say that would persuade her. Perhaps the same letter that had convinced David might succeed in conveying to Mrs. Parker the seriousness of the circumstance. He reached into his pocket, withdrew the missive, and held it out. “You would see for yourself. Read it, if you please.” He straightened his arm, holding the letter out farther, urging her to accept.

Mrs. Parker took the letter an instant before a knock upon the parlor doors sounded, and they swung open.

“Da!” the two absolutely adorable children cried out and dashed in.

“I knew Davy called David ‘Da,’ because he can’t pronounce his name,” Gerald uttered softly. “When did Lucy start calling him that?”

“It’s caught on. You know how children are, especially when they’re as close as they are.” Frances remained at the doorway with her husband.

“Poppets!” David dropped to one knee and held his arms opened wide, waiting to hold his darlings close to him. Wrapping their arms around his neck, they hugged him tightly.

Lucy relaxed her hold and stepped back from him and gazed into his face. “Father says we are to go with you to see your grandmother.”

“Gran?” Young Davy’s solitary-word comment was a passable question from a three-year-old.

David glanced at the parents’ display of empathy and then met Mrs. Parker’s stern, unwavering gaze before attempting an answer. “I am not quite certain yet.” With a last, loving squeeze he released them and stood. Lucy and Davy remained close, each taking one of his hands in theirs.

Mrs. Parker’s expression softened, and she moved to open the missive in her hands. She turned from him, giving her a chance to read his correspondence partially unobserved.

“Are we to stay at the Willows?” Lucy’s small voice, young and sweet, entreated.

“I can’t say, dear.” David glanced at Mrs. Parker, doing his best to judge her reaction to Woodsworth’s words. Would his eloquent, emotional plea affect her, as it had David, of the approaching sad and imminent end of his grandmother’s life?

“Go
Wiww-whoas
, Da!” Davy, whose pronunciation, as a toddler, was sometimes cryptic at best, had no trouble relaying the very same enthusiasm as his sister. He tugged on David’s fingers.

“It is up to your family to decide if you are to travel with me.”

Lucy, followed closely by Davy, ran to her mother and father. “Please, oh please, may we visit the Willows?”