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Gregory Hendersen sent Will a quizzical look. “Why in heaven’s name do you wish to take our children on holiday with you?”
With a shrill laugh, Emmeline squeezed Mary Hendersen’s hand, thereby breaking several more rules of etiquette. “We haven’t been to the Lake District in ages, and as both Mr. Pershing and I are fond of the youngsters, I thought, well, why not ask the Hendersens if their young ones might wish to see it with us?”
“I… don’t know what to say.” Mrs. Hendersen sent her husband a look that suggested they’d agreed to dinner with Bedlamites as she retrieved her hand from Emmeline’s grip. “Prudence and Maxwell off on holiday without us? That’s very irregular.”
“Nonsense,” Will countered, trying to keep up. Emmeline might have mentioned her intentions beforehand, at which time he would have pointed out several things she seemed to have overlooked. Still, in for a penny, as the saying went. “I was but eight when my uncle took me to stay with him in Scotland all summer.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Mrs. Hendersen commented.
Emmeline had come up with a rather clever idea, dash it all. Will wished he’d thought of it. “Maxwell, you must be what, seven?” he asked, refocusing his attention. It was damned audacious, and that appealed to him. Audacity could well be the only chance they had to keep hold of Winnover Hall. The blow to his reputation and his career—he’d only just begun to realize how significant the damage from her lie could be, but if they could manage this one problem at the heart of the spider’s web, it would solve all of the others.
“I am six years and three months old,” the black-haired youth said, setting aside his fork and sitting up straighter. “Nearly seven.”
Hmm. Seven was the exact age of the son Emmeline had created from the ether. “Nearly seven,” he echoed. “What a delightful age.”
“Yes, it’s perfect, isn’t it?” his wife seconded.
“‘Perfect’?” Mr. Hendersen repeated, scowling.
“I’m nine,” Prudence, black-haired like her brother, piped in.
“Prudence, mind your manners. She’s such a chatterbox.”
The girl ducked her head. “I apologize, Mama.”
Yes, Prudence was definitely a problem. She was older by four years than the fictional Flora, and better than a foot taller than her brother. Perhaps they could convince the duke that it was Flora who was the seven-year-old, and Malcolm the five-year-old. Pigtails might make her look younger.
It all depended on how detailed Emmeline’s description of their fictional offspring had been. The Hendersen children were well-mannered, and while their coloring wasn’t ideal, with Will having dark brown hair and Emmeline being an attractive fire-touched blonde, there were certain to be some black-haired relations in their ancestry. Enough to explain these faux offspring, anyway. No doubt that had been his wife’s thinking—though he had the suspicion that her thought process was still suffering from that bottle of whiskey.
Emmeline smiled broadly at the girl seated beside her father on the far side of the table, then smacked her hand loudly against the mahogany surface and turned to the butler. “Powell, I think the children would enjoy some of Mrs. Brubbins’s biscuits.” She looked back at the children’s mother. “Our cook makes splendid lemon biscuits.”
The butler nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Pershing.” He gestured at one of the footmen, who darted out of the dining room.
Biscuits in the middle of dinner seemed like another one of those rules Emmeline Pershing would rather fall on a sword than break, but she’d clearly put all of her eggs into the Hendersen basket. Her gentle, elegant, guiding hand, her masterful reading of every room she entered and every occupant therein, had vanished in favor of a wildly swinging cricket bat of half-finished ideas. Fascinating.
“I thought you were spending hunting season here, Will,” Mr. Hendersen put in.
“I was,” he took up, “but Mrs. Pershing’s grandfather has an estate in Cumberland, and there’s rumored to be splendid pheasant and grouse hunting there.” He did like to hunt, and that made for a solid reason to go on holiday. The Hendersens couldn’t be allowed to know that their children were needed for the purpose of lying to a duke.
Mrs. Hendersen sat up straighter, which in itself was a feat considering how ramrod-like her spine was on the most casual of occasions. “The Duke of Welshire? That grandfather?”
“Well, yes,” Emmeline conceded. “He’s invited us—”
“Oh, I say, I wouldn’t mind joining you for a fortnight at Welshire Park,” Gregory Hendersen broke in. “I’ve heard tales of the fine pheasant hunting to be found at Welshire. Famous, it is. What say you, Mary?”
“No,” Emmeline blurted, before Will could come up with a logical excuse that would prevent the parents from joining them.
“I beg your pardon?” Now Mary and Gregory Hendersen were both frowning at her.
Will cleared his throat. “I believe what Mrs. Pershing meant to say was that we—”
“What, that you only wanted our children to accompany you?” Gregory broke in. “I think not, Pershing.”
“It would only be for a fortnight,” Emmeline pressed, facing the youngsters. “If that. Don’t you wish to see the Lake District with your aunt and uncle Pershing, darlings?”
“You’re not our aunt and uncle,” Prudence said, scowling.
“Prudence! Please. The adults will handle this.”