The Luck of the Bride--The Cavensham Heiresses Read online

  “I’ll try my best to serve more sweets. That’s all I can promise.” She’d bruised his pride. It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. Not that she wanted to, but they had to face realities in the viscount’s household. There weren’t any extra funds for sweets.

  Abruptly, he faced her, and his voice held a rasp of challenge. “March, how many times must I ask? Please address me as ‘my lord’ when I’m in my study. Besides, it’s my desk, and if I want to kick it, I will.” Suddenly, a charming lopsided grin broke across his young face. “Are you willing to change the menu? You really will try to have more sweets?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.” The eagerness in her brother’s face provided another reason to fix what was wrong with their household. She desperately wanted to grant his wishes, but the steady gnaw of guilt weakened whatever resolve she called forth. She would have to do the unthinkable again if they were to survive the next couple of weeks and make it to London.

  For over the past year, their family had struggled financially without any household or estate allowance. The year before, the amounts were so minuscule, they would not have purchased enough grain and hay for the two horses they owned. Lord Burns never answered her letters or explained why he cut off the estate’s allowance.

  Thankfully, she had prepared for a rainy day and set aside funds in case of emergency. The roof repair last autumn had consumed most of the money—and it still leaked. To say their life was a soggy state of affairs was an understatement. There was never enough. Now, she was down to their last five pounds. Their tight-fisted guardian, Lord Burns, had disappeared without a word where to reach him. That had been over a year ago. There’d been no explanation from anyone that he’d died.

  To make matters worse, her father’s solicitor had retired with no one to take his place. There was no replacement guardian. However, there was a successor trustee, who managed the money set aside for the Lawson sisters.

  March had been the one to contact the Marquess of McCalpin, the successor trustee. He’d sent a lovely letter of introduction and had informed her that his personal solicitor would lend assistance in his successor trustee responsibilities. That had been over two months ago. To date, neither the marquess nor his solicitors had deemed her requests for money worthy of much attention.

  She’d been horrified to discover the marquess was the brother of her banker, Lady Emma Somerton, who was a dear friend.

  Tired of scrimping and saving, March wanted her money, the funds her parents had set aside for her well-being. Desperate times called for desperate action. Somehow, she’d find the money they needed.

  “Lord Lawson, I’ll try my best.”

  * * *

  After everyone had retired, March sat at her brother’s desk and smoothed the expensive sheet of vellum for the fifth time, the movement a nervous habit. With a slight hand, she dipped the quill in the inkwell. The simple movement caused a tremor to run through her limbs, and the effect was severe enough she had to replace the writing instrument in its stand. She leaned back in the chair.

  The effort to write the money request caused her stomach to roil in defiance. This was what she’d become over the last several months—a forger, an embezzler, a thief, and a liar of the worse sort. Her family and Hart had no idea she was stealing. She swallowed her apprehension and picked up the quill again.

  Circumstances required bold moves. If she must suffer remorse, let it be for something big. She was tired of shuffling and scurrying around the bills that demanded her attention daily. She had little choice if she wanted to stop her siblings’ hellish existence.

  There was no advantage to waiting. Once the letter was finished, the funds would become available within five days. Over the last several weeks, she had mastered the simple process. With a deft hand, she would sign the directive as the Marquess of McCalpin.

  Not once had anyone questioned the marquess’s signature, or more accurately, her signature. The marquess’s solicitor had completely ignored her previous letters seeking additional funds and help, which obviously meant the marquess didn’t care what she did.

  With the marquess’s signature, the funds would be deposited in her account at E. Cavensham Commerce. The bank was the creation of the Countess of Somerton, the marquess’s sister. The institution, a bank for women by women, was a wildly successful enterprise in operation for less than year. Lady Somerton had personally sent March an invitation to bank with her. For March, it had been a godsend. She had little funds invested there, but used the institution for small loans when the need arose.

  The stopgap measure had ceased to meet her family’s needs over the last several months when their remaining tenant had suffered devastating damages during a horrid winter storm. March had nothing else for collateral to offer E. Cavensham Commerce. The only real valuables she owned outright were a pair of her late mother’s earrings, and they currently resided in Lady Somerton’s bank vault. How ironic that March’s most trusted financial advisor was the sister of a man who apparently didn’t have time for her family.

  If she lost the tenant, the entire estate would be in bankruptcy by year’s end. Forced to take greater action, March did the unimaginable. Her family’s position of weakness had left her no choice but to embezzle from her own dowry, aka her trust fund.

  Like an imaginary box full of pencils, her trust was full, but instead of pencils, it contained money. Until the marquess signed it over to her, the money belonged to the trust or the pencil box as she liked to think about it. Though it was for her benefit, only the marquess had the power to release money to see to her needs.

  The marquess had ignored her polite but insistent request for the release of funds. Her money still sat in that pencil box.

  She and her two sisters each had a twenty-five-thousand-pound trust, a handsome amount specifically intended for their dowries. However, once a sister married, or as in March’s case, once a sister reached the age of twenty-five, the trust would cease with the monies distributed to either the sister’s husband upon marriage or the unmarried sister at the age of twenty-five.

  March straightened in her chair and cleared her throat. She had no other options if she wanted to protect her family. Her trust should have ended with the money under her authority. She should be able to spend the funds on anything including sweets for her little brother without anyone else’s approval.

  The crucial time had come to take her sisters and brother to London. The need had turned dire when their only cousin from their father’s side, Rupert Lawson, had started to drop in unannounced. His sly purpose was to pursue Julia’s hand in marriage.

  Though he spouted how advantageous such a union would be for Julia and the rest of the family, March knew the truth. He only wanted Julia as a way to gain control of their fortunes.

  March’s embezzling proved she would do anything to keep Julia, Faith, and Bennett safe from their cousin. They were too vulnerable at Lawson Court. A move to London was their safest option.

  To afford the move, March had to take money from her account. Ever pragmatic, she had kept the marquess’s single letter stating that he’d prefer if she directed all requests to his personal solicitor. She’d followed the marquess’s directions. However, when little resulted from her requests for money, she took matters into her own hands. It had been relatively simple to write the withdrawals and sign the marquess’s name.

  So far, no one had noticed the withdrawals. If by her actions, she faced charges for embezzlement, her only hope was that the magistrate would understand her quandary. The funds were rightfully hers and her withdrawals had been relatively minor until now.

  The quill scratched noisily against the paper. When she considered the requested amount, she lifted the writing tip from the vellum. As the local vicar, Mr. Nivan, had proclaimed from the pulpit last Sunday, whether you steal an apple to satisfy your hunger or a diamond necklace you covet makes little difference. In God’s eyes, it’s the same sin with the same result, a fier
y banishment to Hell.

  With a bold flourish, she finished the amount of one thousand pounds and signed the missive. If it made little difference whether it was a penny or a pound, she might as well make the trip to Hell worth her while. She folded the letter and lit the candle. Carefully, she melted the wax over the letter, then set the marquess’s seal, the one she’d secretly commissioned a retired engraver to make. The engraver, a longtime family friend, had insisted he not take any payment for his deed.

  She dismissed her remaining disquiet. Tomorrow, the Marquess of McCalpin would direct a deposit of one thousand pounds from Miss March Lawson’s trust into her account at E. Cavensham Commerce for immediate withdrawal.

  The fireplace suddenly hissed and snapped with a new vigor. She sat back in Bennett’s chair and stared at the theatrics offered by the flames. Lucifer must be personally preparing the fires for her arrival.

  She summoned the energy and stood. It was time to go to the kitchen and prepare the old slipper tub. With everyone asleep, the kitchen offered her privacy for a long soak. She needed it tonight.

  Every time she wrote one of those letters, her actions dirtied every inch of her soul.

  Even if she bathed until morning, she’d never feel clean again.

  Chapter Two

  McCalpin House

  London

  A dozen penguins, perhaps two dozen, stood as Michael Cavensham, the Marquess of McCalpin and the heir to the Duke of Langham, entered. The supposedly docile creatures possessed an aggressive bite. The ones in front of McCalpin could tear him into shreds if he wasn’t careful.

  Christ, it was always the same.

  He had absolutely no idea how many men sat before him, but they all looked like formally dressed flightless birds. Black breeches, black waistcoats, black morning coats, and white shirts with matching neckcloths.

  Oh, he’d be able to figure out their number if he had ten minutes. However, the sharp minds in front of him would recognize something was amiss after a couple of moments. Particularly if he had to use his fingers to count. They’d be horrified if the calculation required he take off his boots so his toes could lend assistance.

  McCalpin stiffened his body and allowed a slight sneer to tip one corner of his mouth. In some perverse way, he relished the challenge to guard his secret. He was a master at it. The years at Eton had taught him that he could do no wrong. He’d never been questioned why he was always ill when a mathematics exam was scheduled.

  No one expected much effort from a ducal heir anyway. The fact he’d made high marks in his other subjects thrilled the provost, but more importantly, had appeased his father’s desire that McCalpin perform well in his studies.

  Indeed, he’d learned his lessons and flaunted his success in other subjects to his advantage.

  One audacious penguin actually sighed and checked his pocket watch.

  By McCalpin’s own rudimentary calculations, he was only a half-hour late today. Not a single soul would question why he never made an appointment on time. Everyone presumed a ducal heir to be haughty, vain, and seasoned with a healthy dose of an inflated view of one’s importance. He made certain the group of men before him were never disappointed in their expectations.

  They’d be shocked if they knew that a clock was an instrument of torture for the Marquess of McCalpin. Calculating the precise minutes he had before attending a meeting with his staff took a Herculean effort on his part. One he had decided long ago wasn’t worth the effort. If he was ten minutes or two hours tardy, they’d wait for him.

  Simply because he was the powerful Duke of Langham’s heir and needed their assistance to keep his estate running smoothly and profitably.

  “Sit, gentlemen,” he called out as he sat at his massive burl maple desk. Before him, papers, journals, and record books were stacked in perfect order as if offerings on an altar. The inkwell was uncapped and the quills sharpened. His seal and the accompanying wax were to his right, ready for his use when he’d sign the documents that required his attention.

  His trusted and younger brother by a year, Lord William Cavensham, sat beside him. The duchy’s auditor, Mr. Wilburton, a man in his late forties with gray hair, sat in front of his desk. On either side of Wilburton, the duchy’s two stewards, Mr. Severin and Mr. Merritt, waited to give their monthly reports.

  In his mid-thirties, Mr. Severin managed McCalpin’s estate, McCalpin Manor, nestled in the beautiful hills of Hertforshire. McCalpin trusted the quiet but resolute man completely. Mr. Severin had served as under-steward to Mr. Merritt. In his early sixties, Merritt had managed the ducal ancestral seat, Falmont, for the last thirty years. Falmont was more like its own city and ran with an efficiency that London proper should envy. A testament that Merritt was a genius.

  Mr. Merrit’s job required he keep Mr. Severin informed of the financial status of the mighty estate, but more importantly, Merritt continuously trained Severin for the day when he’d become the steward of the duchy when McCalpin became duke.

  McCalpin’s personal solicitor, Mr. Russell, sat on the chair just outside the circle of trusted advisors with his portable writing desk open. He sharpened a quill in preparation to take notes. The rest of the penguins sat in a semicircle around the room. McCalpin always focused on the five men who surrounded him unless someone else needed to give a report to the group.

  With such an efficient staff, they quickly finished their monthly business. Once again, both estates had made a profit. McCalpin signed the documents in front of him as needed and stood, signaling the meeting at an end.

  “Lord McCalpin, there’s a personal matter that needs your attention.” The bright sunshine reflected off Mr. Russell’s dark red hair in a manner that reminded McCalpin of autumn apples fresh from the harvest.

  He nodded and lowered himself to his leather chair behind the desk. Because of his height, he’d had the piece custom-built to accommodate his long legs. “The rest of you may leave.”

  The various advisors, stewards, under-stewards, agents, junior solicitors, and bookkeepers left, leaving Russell and another man in attendance. William stood to leave also, but McCalpin cleared his throat, the sign for his brother to stay for the last matter. William played a vital role as McCalpin’s personal advisor. No one except for William knew the true extent of his failings, his idiocy, but his brother didn’t judge him. He helped and protected his interests, but more importantly, he protected McCalpin’s secret.

  Mr. Russell waited until the study door closed before he began. “My lord, allow me to introduce Mr. Jameson, my firm’s new bookkeeper assigned to your estate.”

  “Lord McCalpin, it’s an honor to serve you.” The stranger stood and sketched an elegant bow. Handsome, with a pleasant voice and countenance to match, Jameson exuded confidence, and his eyes flashed with a keen intelligence.

  “Mr. Jameson, a pleasure,” he answered. A bookkeeper could easily discover his subterfuge. With a swallow, McCalpin tried to tame the fresh attack of nausea. Unfortunately, like a buoy, his trepidation would not sink. It bobbed and floated in his gut constantly.

  “In reviewing the Lawson sisters’ trusts, Mr. Jameson was the first to discover the odd requests for disbursements from one of the trusts. It appears you’ve approved them, but we wanted to ensure that it’s your signature.” Russell approached the desk and placed the documents in front of McCalpin.

  McCalpin didn’t spare a glance. “In what way are they irregular?”

  “The requests don’t appear to come from McCalpin House. A street urchin delivers them. Plus, the requests are increasing in amount and frequency,” Jameson offered. “At first, it was five pounds requested per week. Then, it increased to fifteen pounds. This week, two requests in the amount of thirty pounds each have crossed my desk.”

  McCalpin leaned back in his chair and lifted a brow. “That is unusual as I haven’t approved any disbursements.”

  “All are withdrawals from Miss March Lawson’s trust. Nothing from the other children’s trusts,�
�� Russell answered. “Since they come to my office signed by you, I assumed Miss Lawson had contacted you directly.”

  McCalpin didn’t comment as he skimmed the documents, never focusing on the amounts. However, a disturbing sight caught his attention. The handwriting on the page was his, but it wasn’t the way he signed his name. Perfectly centered on the bottom of the last sheet of vellum was his signature.

  He always signed his name at the bottom right of any document.

  “No, she hasn’t seen me. I assumed you were the one managing the accounts and approving the amounts.” McCalpin smiled, but there was no humor—just a warning, like a dog growling while its tail slowly wagged.

  William leaned forward slightly. “That’s not your signature?”

  McCalpin shook his head.

  Russell’s brow wrinkled into neat lines reminiscent of McCalpin Manor’s furrowed fields. “My lord, Miss Lawson recently sent several more requests to our office directly, and I have those here for your review also.”

  McCalpin took the letters. He quickly read the first letter until his eyes stumbled across the amount of one hundred pounds. It was substantial, and her explanation stated that the estate needed it for repairs due to a particularly violent winter storm. He let out a sigh in resignation. One more distraction that needed his attention.

  “Why doesn’t her brother, the viscount, ask for these amounts himself?”

  “Lord Lawson is nine years old, my lord,” Russell gently reminded him. “There is no successor guardian named for the children or the viscount’s estate, just your appointment as the successor trustee for the sisters’ trusts. If you’re not approving these irregular requests, and I’m not approving them, then who is?”