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?”
“Are you’re suggesting someone is embezzling from Miss Lawson’s trust fund?” William asked.
“That’s my conclusion,” answered Mr. Jameson. His serious frown twisted his visage into something that looked like a gnarled tree trunk. The sight would scare a baby to tears.
“Shall I visit Miss Lawson at Lawson Court, my lord?” Russell asked.
“Don’t bother. I’ll request she come to London instead and meet with me directly.” McCalpin shook his head. “I still don’t understand why I was appointed to manage the daughters’ money. I don’t even know these people.”
“In my opinion, the previous Lord Lawson employed rather shoddy solicitors. Errors are rampant through their legal work. The prior trustee of the three daughters’ trusts and guardian of the children and the viscountcy was Lord Burns. The title of the Marquess of McCalpin is the named successor trustee responsible for the daughters’ trusts. Your late uncle, who previously held the title, was friends with the late viscount. There isn’t anyone else named as successor guardian in the documents.” As if that explained everything, Russell packed up his portable desk. “I’m sending Mr. Jameson to review McCalpin Manor’s records. Severin wants someone else to audit the books before we present the quarterly review to Wilburton.”
McCalpin nodded. “One more thing. Send me a record of all the withdrawals from the sisters’ trust funds. That’ll be all.” After the others left, he stood and faced William. “I should have done something about this before now. Our darling sister gave me quite a tongue-lashing over Miss Lawson. She banks with Emma.”
“Emma took umbrage with you? The stars must be out of alignment. She normally saves her rants for me.” William poured himself another cup of coffee and brought one to McCalpin. “I’ll be more than happy to look into Miss Lawson’s affairs. Once you get the report, send word to me over at Langham Hall.”
Once again, his aversion to numbers had caused more work for himself. “No, this is my mess. I failed to give a proper review of the documents when they first crossed my desk. I thought it was another administrative task Russell’s firm could handle. Obviously, it requires my attention.”
“I’m at your disposal, McCalpin.”
“Thank you.” The laugh started deep within his chest. Whether it was relief from the fact that the monthly meeting was over or the debacle with the Lawson family made little difference.
William raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
McCalpin laughed at the absurdity that he was responsible for yet more money. Finally, when he got his humor under control, he answered, “Whoever is embezzling those funds signs my name better than I do.”
* * *
“Good morning, Faith,” March called out to her sister. “You’re up late this morning.” She turned her attention back to the mirror. The village seamstress hissed under her breath, scolding her to stand still.
March wrinkled her nose. Unfortunately, the woman’s misplaced rebukes held no sway. The seamstress’ efforts were better directed at the monstrous piece of fabric covering March from the neck down. The puce gown was revolting. It had been one of her grandmother’s formal dresses, but without the lace trim or the coordinating iridescent black gauze overlay, the gown’s color closely resembled grass after the first autumn frost. Why ever had she picked this color and, for goodness’ sake, this style? It made her look like a plump Amazon warrioress.
Faith walked stiffly into March’s bedroom dragging her left leg. “Today I feel as if I’m ninety instead of nineteen. There must be a storm brewing. I can barely move. Mrs. Oliver brought warm compresses to my room along with breakfast. That’s why I’m late.” Her sister turned to the seamstress. “Good morning, Mrs. Burton.”
With a mouthful of pins, the seamstress grunted a greeting. “You’re next.” The woman pricked March with a pin when she took the final waist adjustment, payment for March’s inability to stand still. “I believe I’m finished.”
The woman had a flair for communicating her ideas while balancing at least twenty straight pins between her lips. Indeed, if her talent for sewing was as accomplished, maybe March would look like something other than a sack of feed.
“Mrs. Burton, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, perhaps I can come to the village later?” Faith asked softly. “I’m not certain I can stand long enough for a proper fitting.”
“Just send a note when you’re feeling better.” The seamstress nodded and gathered her belongings. “Miss March, I’ll see you tomorrow for the bookkeeping?”
March nodded. “Shouldn’t take much more than a half hour.”
Mrs. Burton scowled at the hem of the puce gown. “You add and subtract those numbers in your head. The first time you came to the shop you finished so quickly I didn’t believe you could’ve balanced a single column of figures. When I checked the calculations, there wasn’t a single mistake. You have a quick mind and a remarkable talent for mathematics.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Burton.” If only she was as quick with her sewing. March presented a pleasant smile while taming her errant thoughts. Mrs. Burton had been kind to Faith and Julia, her other sister. That was all that mattered. Her sisters needed the gowns before the Season. If she pressed the seamstress, they might have them before the end of the month. What else could she do? She was trading her bookkeeping skills for dresses. She released a pained breath. Beggars couldn’t complain or be choosers when desperate for morning gowns.
Mrs. Oliver, their housekeeper and only servant, escorted Mrs. Burton to the door all the while chatting about the upcoming foxhunt. Alone with Faith, March changed into her day dress, a sturdy, muslin frock the shade of mud. It matched March’s hair color perfectly.
“Dearest, let me help you pick out the colors for your new dresses,” Faith gently suggested as she gazed at March’s attire. “With your beautiful dark hair and coloring, brighter colors such as jewel tones would favor you more than those muted colors you prefer.”
“Nothing would help me. I’m a simple sheep farmer, but if you want to accept the challenge, then by all means, you have my permission,” March said.
Her sister’s offer to help with the impossible task was a true testament to her patience. Faith was all things lovely with a sweet disposition to match. Her hair glowed with a color best described as warm sunshine, and she possessed velvety-blue eyes. Faith caught the attention of every young man in the area, until she walked. None chose to call upon her in any serious fashion. Faith never said a word, but March knew it hurt deeply.
Faith grimaced as she rested against the bed. Some days her limp was slight, and March could forget that her middle sister had suffered an injury as a young toddler. Today, the cold dampness haunted her sister.
Memories of the accident were permanently seared in March’s mind—all the blood, the shouts, and her father rushing forward to scoop Faith into his arms after she’d been trampled by a horse. Her sister’s recuperation took six months. From that day forward, she was always at the forefront of March’s thoughts and deeds.
Faith’s lack of suitors would soon change. March intended to open the viscount’s London townhouse for the sole purpose of giving Faith and Julia a Season. The city offered the opportunity to seek out the best medical treatment from experts who might relieve Faith’s suffering. As important, Bennett needed a proper education, one that would prepare the young viscount for his entrance to Eton.
The bedroom door burst open with a whoosh, and Julia rushed in waving a note in her hand. “My word, I’ve never seen such a sight! The most handsome liveried footman brought this note to me,” she squealed. “And asked if I would see it delivered to you.”
“And good morning to you, too!” March chided as Julia handed the note to her.
Julia stopped and blinked hard. “Oh my, I didn’t see you, Faith. I apologize for my haste.” Then she gave a quick wink. “Good morning, my dear sisters.” She gave a grin and looked to March for approval. “Better?”
March narrowed her eyes then returned the grin. “Better. Next time, call us ‘my dearest and most superior sisters.’”
Julia raised an eyebrow in protest. Her eighteen-year-old body was burgeoning into full womanhood. Julia favored Faith and was as much a beauty as her sister. Young men waited for March’s littlest sister after Sunday services and the community gatherings always under the pretense to chat. While their efforts were entirely innocent, March kept a watchful eye. One could never be too careful, particularly when their cousin Rupert had started to take an interest in Julia.
“This is no time for games, March. The footman is waiting,” scolded Julia.
“Who’s it from?” Faith asked.
“The wax bares the seal of the Marquess of McCalpin.” Her heartbeat accelerated in a staccato rhythm. “I wonder what he wants with me.” She suspected his summons related to the rash of small withdrawals she’d made within the last several weeks. She swallowed the panic that started to rise. Whatever happened, she’d explain her actions and hope for the best.
March used her finger to lift the seal. With a quick scan of the missive, her suspicions grew stronger. “The Marquess of McCalpin has summoned me to London. He wants to meet this afternoon.”
“That doesn’t give you much time to get ready,” Faith said.
“Oh, March! He’s finally taken notice. Maybe we can move to London sooner.” Julia’s smile could have lit a ballroom for hours. “We’ll finally be able to hire a proper tutor for Bennett.”
March simply nodded without paying much heed as her thoughts were spinning. Indeed, it was entirely possible the marquess was ending the trust and she would have control of her fortune. She bit her lip and forced the flutters of anxiety away. Perhaps he didn’t know that she’d embezzled funds using his signature and seal.
Julia jumped to Faith and gathered their hands together. “We’re going to have a Season. Just imagine you and me dancing with the handsomest men in London.” Julia presented Faith with a mock bow. “My lady, may I have the honor of tonight’s midnight waltz?”
Faith giggled and inclined her head. “Indeed, kind sir. It would be my pleasure.”
March’s newfound hopes slammed to a halt much like a cantankerous horse refusing a jump at a hunt. “Please, we must be ready for disappointment. We’re not acquainted with this man. He may be worse than Lord Burns, who completely ignored us.”
Julia’s brows grew together in puzzlement. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“Of course,” March retorted. She clenched the missive in her hand as the familiar ire over their poverty rushed through her. Perhaps it was fear for her future. It made little difference at this point. “No one has taken the responsibility for our welfare seriously. None of my letters were ever answered.”
March paced the length of her bedroom. There was no use delaying the inevitable. She’d face her fate with her head held high. She had a right to her own money. She’d pledged to protect her family, and she’d keep that promise. “I’m leaving for London. Hart will accompany me. I’ll inform Mrs. Oliver of my plans.”
A fleeting glimpse of worry stole across Faith’s face, then her blue eyes narrowed as she tilted her head. “You’re concerned. Nay, frightened. What is it?”
Her sister was too observant by half. March tugged at the sleeves on her dress. A nervous gasp escaped on her next breath. If her sisters had any idea how low her morals had sunk, they’d understand the foreboding sense of doom that haunted her.
“Nothing. I have much on my mind.” Her lips tightened into a faint smile for her sisters. “There’s no cause to fret.”
At least not yet.
She needed to calm down. There was no possibility he could have discovered her one-thousand-pound withdrawal, and if he gave her access to the funds today, then he’d never learn of her deception.
Once again, she took command and proceeded with an assurance a trained Shakespearean actor would admire. “If I leave now, I’ll be in London within the hour.”
“I’m going with you.” A hint of steel tempered Faith’s gentle voice.
March shook her head. “There’s no need.”
Faith carefully made her way to block March’s pacing. “You can’t arrive at the marquess’s home with only Hart and no chaperone. If I travel with you, you’re least likely to garner unwanted attention.”
She didn’t trust her voice, so she nodded. Truthfully, having her sister for support would help her face whatever the marquess deemed important enough to demand her presence. He must be an arrogant man since he hadn’t even considered how she’d travel to town.
“I’ll come, too,” Julia enthused. The girl was still twirling in circles with her imaginary dance partner.
“No.” The clipped word caused Julia to stop midstride.
“Are you angry with me?” Julia’s voice quavered and her eyes grew wide.
How could she have she snapped at her little sister? No matter how many times she’d reassured her, Julia was still sensitive about March leaving.
She rushed to her side and tugged her sister into her arms. “Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to growl at you. It’s been a hectic day already.”
Julia nodded, but the previous brilliant light in her eyes had dimmed.
“Forgive me?” March whispered. For the world, she wouldn’t hurt Julia and felt absolutely abysmal now.
Julia nodded and swept a sweet kiss across her cheek. “Always.”
March returned the kiss. “I need you to stay with Bennett and help him with his history lesson.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “I’d rather memorize ten deportment lessons.”
March considered how much of a deportment lesson she could learn during the short ride to London. What was a proper introduction when meeting the man you were impersonating? What do you say when he discovers you write his name better than he does?