The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(13)
McCalpin reviewed the parchment on his desk then returned his gaze to hers. “The trust states you were born on the twenty-third of November, 1789.”
She bit her lip and clenched her hands into fists. He stared at her mouth before his eyes narrowed. She might steal from her own trust, but she wasn’t a liar.
Completely out of her realm, she wasn’t prepared for this meeting. She should have written a response requesting the reason for the interview. He had already grown suspicious of her, and he held her future and her family’s happiness in his hands. Not to mention, he held her teetering career as an embezzler on the precarious edge of ruin.
“Rest assured I will do everything in my power to perform the duties as dictated by your father’s request. Perhaps it’s best if I have my solicitor inquire about your brother’s estate.”
“This is pure madness,” she blurted.
“Perhaps on your part, Miss Lawson, but I can assure you that I’m quite sane.” A grimace crossed his perfect mouth. The effort prominently displayed a full lower lip that deserved a firm bite in retaliation. The sliver of emotion in the marquess’s cool eyes warned her things were going from bad to disastrous. “Surely, the estate is flush with funds? It pays for itself, I assume?”
She tapped her foot to keep from stomping it in anger. “Sir, flush? We’ve received nothing. There hasn’t been any allowance for the estate’s operation all year.”
“Miss Lawson, I don’t manage the viscountcy estate. Just your trusts.” He leaned back in his chair and delivered the coldest stare she’d ever received in her life. It could have turned a summer shower into a blizzard. She lifted her chin in response. His attention suddenly snapped to Hart. “Could you explain who Mr. Hart is?”
Immediately, she regretted her snappish tone. She pushed aside an unwelcome wave of embarrassment. Ever mindful of her cause, a logical argument was always more persuasive than raw emotion. “May we continue to discuss my trust? My father’s solicitors must have copied the birth date wrong, or perhaps poor penmanship causes the eighty-eight to appear as an eighty-nine in my birth year. That has to be the explanation.”
Lord McCalpin assessed her with a wary intelligence. “Excellent theories, Miss Lawson.” He glanced at the trust document before him, then pushed it toward her. “Unfortunately, the gentleman who wrote this document had a hand that was neat and precise.” He turned his attention to the front of the room. “Mr. Hart, it appears Miss Lawson refuses to comment on your relationship to the family—”
“Mr. Hart was employed by my late father when he served under the Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the United States. He was my father’s aide de camp and stayed with my family after we lost our parents.” She drew a breath and prayed for control and patience.
“Mr. Hart, are you related to the family?” The marquess’s sinfully dark voice floated over her as if tasting her. She shook her head at such thoughts in a desperate attempt to gather her wayward senses.
Without a hint of emotion, Hart answered, “No, my lord.”
McCalpin propped both elbows on his desk. “Miss Lawson, tell me more about your living arrangements.”
She clenched her fists once more. What more did the man want from her? “We have one servant, Mrs. Oliver, who helps me run the house. She’s been with us since I was a baby.”
“Do you have any other family?” He straightened the papers in front of him.
For some odd reason, it reminded her of Bennett’s recent attempt to fire her as his housekeeper. “We have one cousin, but he lives in his own home close to Leyton.”
“Is there perchance a suitable chaperone who lives with you and your family?”
“No. At my age, I’m a perfectly acceptable chaperone for my sisters.” She squared her shoulders and refused to turn away from his direct gaze.
“It’s hard to fathom that the solicitors bungled your birthdate. However, if you are twenty-five as you claim”—his gaze pierced hers—“I will gladly give you your money with the proviso you present me proof. I will not shirk my responsibilities as trustee.”
This man dared to keep her property under his control, when by all rights it should be in her possession. March struggled to remain calm. She lost the battle as her temper rose, and that never boded well for anyone, particularly her.
In a flash, she stood with her well-worn brown muslin dress rustling in protest against her movements. “You’ve shirked your responsibility to us before. Why hasn’t your solicitor answered my correspondence? You can’t withhold those funds. I’m twenty-five. That’s my money. You’ve never even visited Lawson Court,” she challenged.
“Is that an invitation, Miss Lawson? If so, then I readily accept.” Matching her movements, McCalpin stood and leaned over the desk to bring his eyes level with hers. “I have a duty to protect your money, and I plan to carry out that responsibility. Even if it means protecting it from you. Remember, I can and I will keep those funds.” A light flashed in his dark blue eyes that indicated his anger matched hers. “Do you have proof of your birthdate? A letter from a clergyman verifying it perhaps?”
March swallowed, then leaned in closer. In a crisp dictation, she answered, “Such records are usually kept in the family bible. The one recording my birth was lost when my parents left New York to return to England. You’ll have to accept my word.”