The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(5)

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 fiery 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.