An Elaborate Hoax (A Gentlemen of Worth Book 5) (3 page)

“
Wiww-whoas!
” Davy repeated.

David abandoned the family scene to observe Mrs. Parker reading Mr. Randolph’s letter. Mrs. Parker’s hand went to her mouth as she drew in a hasty breath. Her eyes blinked rapidly, clearing her unshed tears perhaps?

It was apparent that nothing David could say would alter her opinion that he had acted carelessly. Presently, he thought the very same. The decision for her to aid him was not for him to make; the choice would have to be Mrs. Parker’s alone. Perhaps Mr. Woodsworth had managed to sway her into doing so.

David stepped closer to Mrs. Parker when she lowered her arm, finished with the letter.

“Can you not help me provide Gran the family she has dearly wished to see for so many years?” he said to her while the others in the room were occupied. “My grandmother is dying, Mrs. Parker. She may even be gone as we speak, I cannot know. But will you please consider, not for my sake, but for hers?”

Mrs. Parker closed her eyes. David could read the indecision on her face. Waiting for her answer was unbearable. It seemed to go on forever. He remained still, and she remained quiet.

Yes? No? Yes? What was she going to say? No?

Mrs. Parker opened her eyes and stared at him, and not in a manner that he would call kind. He expected to hear the worst.

Without Mrs. Parker, this entire charade could not move forward. Frances would never give her permission for Lucy and Davy to accompany him to Dorset alone. David would have no time to find another female to portray his wife. The lump in his throat and the heaviness in his stomach nearly made him sick. The thought of life without Gran was one he could not dwell upon.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” Mrs. Parker said, “I’m afraid I am not so heartless that I can allow your grandmother to die without the joy of being surrounded by her beloved family. Not when it is in my power to see it come to fruition.”

What? Could she possibly mean . . .

Mrs. Parker addressed Frances. “If you will see that the children are prepared for the trip, with the help of Nanny, I shall take on full responsibility for their care and well-being during our absence.”

David was momentarily robbed of speech.

“Very well, Mrs. Parker. I shall do so at once.” Frances appeared shocked at Mrs. Parker’s change of heart. “Lucy, Davy, you will come with me, please.” The children ran to keep up with their mother and glanced over their shoulders at David with some trepidation, uncertain as to what was going on. “Come, Gerald!”

David met his friend’s gaze. They both nodded, acknowledging their success. Gerald strode out of the room, following his family. David stood alone with Mrs. Parker, who appeared to be deep in thought. It boded well, he decided, that she considered her participation in his scheme instead of hastily dismissing him.

David reminded himself that she had not yet said
yes
.

“It would mean several days of travel,” she said.

“I shall arrange for appropriate lodgings for our party, I can assure you.” David would take the added steps, and expense, to see that their journey was as pleasant as possible for everyone involved.

“Lucy and Davy have never traveled for that length of time.”

“They’ll find it quite the adventure.” David knew the children well and wondered what sort of mischief would erupt from this journey.

“I’m sure they would.” Mrs. Parker seemed on the verge of making a final decision, and David couldn’t help but hold his breath in anticipation. His eyes widened as seconds passed; they were the longest moments in his life.

“We shall, of course, have our staff follow us in a second coach, but I might suggest Nanny and the children ride in a third conveyance since the children will prove a bit rambunctious when confined. You will wish to keep your valet in your employ, I expect.” Mrs. Parker recited without a pause and with some authority. “I shall see that I am ready for Sir Thomas’s chaise when it arrives, Mr. Cavanaugh.” She turned to him and replied, “I suggest you attend to your own preparations. We have less than an hour before we depart.”

Yes!
She’d accepted. She would help him. David hesitated, wondering if he had heard correctly. Mrs. Parker was going on about travel preparations and arrangements. She had accepted his proposal!

“I thank you, ma’am. Thank you.” David stepped closer, took up her hand, and, in his excitement, kissed it. She drew back but could not immediately pull free from his grasp. “I beg your pardon. You cannot imagine how much this means to me, Mrs. Parker.”

“Sir, if you wish to be successful in your venture”—she gazed at him with cool detachment—“I suggest that you now refer to me as Mrs.
Cavanaugh,
or Caroline, if you like.”

Chapter Three

M
rs. Monroe is packing my trunks, but I can’t possibly take her with me.” Penny crossed her bedchamber to the dressing table where Frances stood. “She is your lady’s maid. She must stay with you.”

As not to convey her current widowed status, Penny had chosen her more colorful frocks.
The sedate lilacs and somber grays would all be left behind. Mrs.
Cavanaugh’s
wardrobe must be far superior to Mrs. Parker’s, but there was nothing for it now. There was no time to have new dresses made.

“You must have someone to attend to you or it shall look very odd. You might bring Amelia. She’ll do quite well, I believe. I shall inquire to see if she’s willing,” Frances suggested, hesitating. “There is one matter I wish to discuss with you. Caution you about, actually, before you leave.”

Penny stilled and turned toward her niece. “What is it, Frances? You look absolutely dreadful. If it is regarding the children—”

“Oh, no. I am quite assured whilst they are in your care. With Nanny at your side, I shall not worry. I imagine Lucy and Davy will have the most splendid diversions.” Frances’s expression turned momentarily stern. “Only . . . do not allow Mr. Cavanaugh’s grandmother to spoil them a great deal.”

“Oh, no. Well, perhaps only a little. It is a grandmother’s, and in her case, a great-grandmother’s prerogative to do so.” From what she understood, Penny did not believe the elderly Mrs. Cavanaugh capable. According to Mr. Woodsworth’s letter, it would be nothing short of a miracle if she survived much more than a fortnight after their arrival. “Do sit and make yourself comfortable.”

Frances settled onto a chair and glanced toward the dressing room. “I want to make certain Monroe does not overhear us.”

“What is it, Frances?” Penny sat before her dressing table, facing her niece. “Are you about to tell me that Mr. Cavanaugh is a flirt?”

“No, nothing so horrid. He’s not a flirt precisely.” Frances looked even more shocked, if that was possible. “However, it is just that . . . I do wish to caution you about David.”

“
Caution
me? Heavens, Frances, I have known the man for nearly two years, and he has been Gerald’s friend for far longer than that. I cannot imagine there is anything you can say against him. He
is
the godfather of your two youngest children—I cannot think of a higher recommendation of his character.”

“David is all that is respectable,” she confessed. Then under her breath Frances muttered, “Perhaps a bit too desirable for his own good.”

“Frances, are you quite well?” Penny removed her brush and combs from the drawer of her dressing table. “How is someone
too
desirable?”

“That is not quite the right word.” Frances caught her lower lip with her teeth and pressed her hands together. “He . . . how shall I put this? I do not know if he truly understands the extent to which he captivates females. How could he not know, really?” This last was said almost as if she were speaking to herself. “I hope he did not persuade you to aid him against your better judgment.”

“I do not believe so. I came to this decision on my own.” It had been after Penny read the letter. The butler’s letter had been most persuasive. It chronicled the days leading up to Mrs. Cavanaugh’s current affliction and her dearest wish to see her grandson’s family before meeting her Maker. It surely would have convinced Frances to send her children to Dorset with David on its own merit. “How do you expect Mr. Cavanaugh to have done that?”

“He has a
curious
way about him.” Frances began to wring her hands. “He is quite agreeable, and it is as if one can’t help but comply with his suggestions. I would wholly dislike it if that had happened.”

“And you are only telling me this
now
?” Penny stared at her niece incredulously. “Could you not have said something before he and I were alone?”

“I only mean to tell you to be
careful
in your dealings with him, my dear. I have heard it said that other females believe he is far more interested in them than he actually is. As I said, he can come across most charming.”

“Then you knew all along he would get his way? He would charm the pair of us? I would portray his wife and you would end up handing over your children?” Now Penny felt angry, almost betrayed.

“Oh, no. That was the first I had heard of David’s conundrum.” Frances glanced away, and her hand-wringing ebbed to a light tapping of her fingertip, more of a nervous tic than one of anxiety. “I might not care for Gerald’s idea of involving the children, but if David wished it so, and you must know how desperately he adopted the idea, I do not believe I could have possibly refused.”

“Mr. Cavanaugh is not your husband. You have not vowed to obey him. Why did you not persevere? Lucy and Davy are your children.”

“And he is their godfather. David will not allow any harm to come to them, of that I am certain. As for their day-to-day care, if you and Nanny both attend there will be nothing amiss.” Frances could not have been more sincere in her address. “It is simply that you do not understand. Not yet, that is. I am certain you shall by the end of this affair. I only wish you to take care in dealing with David.”

“
Take care?
As in guarding my heart?” Penny found this laughable. Smelling of April and May at her age? Ridiculous. She set her hairbrush on her dressing table.

“David is hardly a rake, mind. Although he does enjoy a lady’s company.” Frances colored up. “There is nothing wrong with that.”

“My word, you are a married woman!” Penny could not believe this. Frances behaving in this manner over her husband’s close friend!

“I am, and very happily so.” She gazed at Penny with sorrowful eyes and stole her hands over her reddened cheeks. “It is only that I do not wish you to form a serious attachment to him.”

“That is truly laughable.” Penny set her combs next to her hairbrush. “I can assure you, Frances, there is nothing about this journey that remotely recommends itself to fun, any type of amusement, or romance.”

“Please do not laugh this off as nonsense,” Frances pleaded in all seriousness. Actually, it sounded more like a resounding scold. “You may find that you have mistakenly lost your heart to him and that he, in playing your husband, does not care the least bit for you when in all certainty you might have sworn that he had.”

Penny did her best to mask the amusement bubbling up inside her and collected her hairbrush and combs, holding them to her smiling lips, trying to keep from laughing out loud. Poor Frances must have believed every word she said. Penny certainly could not.

Sir Thomas’s chaise, pulled by his four chestnuts, started on the road to Dorset a quarter of an hour after the appointed meeting time. The children, who would have normally traveled with Nanny, occupied the chaise with Penny and Mr. Cavanaugh for the first leg of the journey.

A little preparation would be needed before their arrival at the Willows. Keeping as close to the truth, for the children’s sakes, would be essential. One could not presume what they might mistakenly say, for keeping grounded in reality at that age was haphazard in the best of times.

And so they began. Lucy sat with Penny, and Davy next to Mr.
Cavanaugh on the opposite bench. The boy held on to his godfather with one pudgy hand and in the other clutched a carved wooden horse.

“Are we to stay at the Willows just as you did, Da?” Lucy straightened
her doll Mollie’s dress just as Penny had straightened Lucy’s traveling cloak.

“You and Davy will sleep in the very same nursery my brothers and I stayed in when we visited.”

“And are we allowed to play with Pug?” She settled Mollie on her lap, and now both paid attention to his answer.

“I’m certain he’ll welcome the company. He’s never been around children before.”

“Pug!” Davy shrieked at a pitch that only a three-year-old could reach, shooting both arms into the air with unbridled enthusiasm.

“Can we ride the ponies to the orchard as you did with your brothers?” Lucy asked, unabashed.

“The orchard still exists, but I believe it’s been a few years since the stables housed ponies.” Mr. Cavanaugh’s eyes narrowed as he gave his answer a bit more consideration.

“No ponies?” Davy sounded disappointed and sank back against the squabs.

“Well, not the same ponies, I’m sure, no. That would make them very, very old. Somehow I think they might have been replaced. Perhaps there is a horse or two you could ride.”

“Horse! Hooray!” The boy drew his legs underneath him and got to his knees, finally bouncing on the plush cushions. His toy nearly struck the ceiling with all the moving about.

“Now, Davy. Sit properly, if you please,” Penny insisted. He did so without argument.

“Can we hunt for berries and eat them right out of the pail?” Lucy brightened, staring wide-eyed at her godfather, clearly hopeful that her every fancy would be gratified. Exactly who was charming whom here?

“You may pick as many as you can hold and eat as many as you desire.” It would not do for Mr. Cavanaugh to spoil them in this fashion. His was not the behavior of a father but of an indulgent uncle. “Get on all fours and eat them right off the stem, if you wish.”

The children squealed with laughter. Mr. Cavanaugh covered his ears, attempting to quell the noise he’d created. Yes, he, and no other, was to blame.

“That will be quite enough.” Penny scolded all of them for the outrageous laughter and for eating strawberries from the ground. What an absolutely horrid, barbaric notion.

It certainly was apparent he and the children rubbed along splendidly. Considering their contact with adults had been limited, they behaved perhaps too informally and always addressed him as
Da
.

“Mr. Cavanaugh.” Penny willfully inserted herself in the conversation. If he refused to broach the reason for their journey, then she swore she would. “Will you not tell the children the news of your grandmother?”

“Oh, yes.” By his vacant expression it appeared he gave this explanation as much thought as he had acquiring his fictional family. “Children, you recall my grandmother, do you not?”

“Gran, of course,” Lucy offered in a know-it-all tone.

“Gran, Gran . . . Gran!” Davy bounced on the cushion and into the air with every word.

“Be still, Davy, if you please.” Penny reached across the carriage and laid her hand upon the boy’s leg until his cooperation was attained. She straightened, continuing, “I only wish to explain to the children why we, and they, travel to the Willows, and the reason for our stay.”

“Oh, of course.” The subsequent clearing of Mr. Cavanaugh’s throat, as some gentlemen did, displayed his hesitancy. It seemed it was a topic of which he did not wish to speak.

His invented family may have fallen in his lap, but to set that family in motion would take careful instruction. Penny could manage, but how would children, who constantly needed to be reminded about the smallest thing, ever remember how they were to behave?

“Gran wishes to see you very much. Only . . . only . . .” Mr. Cavanaugh’s gaze drifted to Penny.

“You see, Mr. Cav—
Da’s
grandmother is getting on in years, and she’s been not feeling well.” Penny glanced from the children to Mr. Cavanaugh, feeling guilty for the very thought she should try to coerce these children into participating in a deception.

“I am sorry to hear that, ma’am. Gran has been ever so nice to us. She sends presents and books and prays for us.” Lucy glanced up at Penny. “She’s even sent us a sketch of her dog, Pug.”

“Pug!” Davy cheered at the mention of the creature.

“Being sick is no fun.” Lucy’s previous mania for their possible variety or activities and their upcoming stay at the Willows had somewhat diminished.

“No, it isn’t.” Mr. Cavanaugh continued, finding his courage to speak. “I’m certain she would feel very much improved if she were to see you.”

“That would be nice.” Lucy moved Mollie’s arms, animating her doll.

“She’s very fond of you . . . as if you were her own grandchildren.” Mr. Cavanaugh had finally said the decisive words where Penny could make her plea.