The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(4)

“Sweetheart, that’s very kind of you to say. I’m sure if Faith heard it, she’d be pleased, too. However, dearest, please don’t kick the desk. It’ll mark the wood,” March gently chided.

With a huff of disgruntlement, Bennett turned and stared out the window. It had to be difficult growing up as the only brother to three older sisters. He had no older male to emulate or teach him how to be a proper young lord, much less what his responsibilities would entail when he reached adulthood. He needed a proper tutor, and an education befitting a viscount.

“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.