The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(50)
Pitts entered and nodded his head at the duchess.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.” Without waiting for a reply, she glided from the room with a solemn Pitts following in her wake.
“Miss Lawson…” Dr. Kennett studied his boots as if finding the sight fascinating. Whatever held his attention apparently lost his interest as he suddenly focused on her. “Might I call on Miss Faith one day soon? Of course, with you as chaperone.”
She bit her lower lip to keep from jumping for joy. “I think we’d both like that very much.”
*
March pushed the familiar door open. This time there wasn’t the dread that typically accompanied her when she entered the bank. Emma had provided money, but more importantly, friendship when March had needed it most over the past several months.
At strict attention, a liveried footman nodded as she entered. Daphne Hallworth, the Marquess of Pembrooke’s sister, and Emma were huddled over something and looked up when she entered.
“Good morning, March,” Emma called out.
“You’re just in time for tea. I brought apple tarts.” Daphne scooted another mahogany chair to the table.
March smiled and took her seat. The smell of sweet fruit and a strong cup of tea wafted toward her. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I got a whiff of the tarts.”
Emma served the tea, and Daphne handed March a plate with two tarts. She picked up one and bit into the delicate pastry crust.
Emma smiled and slid the morning copy of The Midnight Cryer in March’s direction. “Did you see this?”
March gently placed her cup back on to the saucer and read the headline: THE LUCK OF THE LAWSON SISTERS. She quickly skimmed the article. An unidentified source stated that he saw her and McCalpin steal away to a hidden alcove where they didn’t emerge for ten minutes and appeared disheveled.
A scalding heat assaulted her face. She clenched her hands together in a desperate attempt to manage her mortification. The effort failed miserably as she scrambled to find something to say.
“Don’t.” Daphne reached over and squeezed her hands. “Everyone knows that gossip rag loves to stir up trouble. Just hold your head up high and ignore it. That’s the best way to confront this.”
Emma didn’t say a word but examined her. The emerald green of her eyes shown brighter and more brilliant than any jewel. Finally, she broke her silence. “Oh, my heavens, March. It’s true. You kissed him.”
There was no use trying to deny what had happened, particularly with the two women before her. Repeatedly, they’d extended their hearts and their friendship to her. She relaxed a little in her chair as a sense of calm returned. The paper had gotten the information correct. She was a lucky Lawson sister, one whom Emma and Daphne had accepted countless times without judgment.
March lifted her head. “Actually, he’s the one who kissed me.”
Emma squealed, and Daphne burst out into laughter.
“I knew it,” Emma exclaimed. “When I saw McCalpin this morning, I could tell something was different.”
“But there’s nothing to it. After you and Lord Somerton left with Bennett, Michael—I mean Lord McCalpin—needed to discuss a few things in private.”
“Well, McCalpin allows no hints of impropriety to soil his reputation. So he must think there’s something to it or he wouldn’t have taken such a risk,” Emma announced.
Daphne nodded her head in agreement. The sheen of her blue-black curls caught the light.
The question that begged an answer was whether her two friends would keep the information to themselves or discuss it with their families. She didn’t want Michael upset, or more importantly, hurt by his actions, intentional or not. She’d be devastated if their friendship suffered because of a passionate moment that swept them both away.
“I’d hate for this to cause him any embarrassment,” she whispered, unsure if the footman could be trusted. She’d probably divulged too much already.
Emma shook her head, sending a couple of loose blond curls cascading around her face as she pulled out several bookkeeping journals. “Nothing ever really affects his demeanor. He’s most level-headed.” Emma flipped one of the journals open. “I hate bookkeeping. Your turn, Daphne.”
Daphne sighed. “I did it last week. It’s your turn to go through that torture.”
“Let me do it,” March offered. They both stared as if she’d grown another head and it was speaking. “I’ve been doing bookkeeping for years as a way of bartering for goods and services in Leyton. Besides, I love the figures and calculations.”
As if the books were poisonous, Emma pushed them toward her with the tip of her index finger. “March, you don’t have to do it. Daphne’s right. It’s my turn, but if you want to take a look at how I prefer to keep the books, please be my guest.”
March opened the first book. Neat columns of numbers with precise totals loomed before her. At the top, the familiar concepts of debits and credits were clearly marked. Listed down the pages were the clients’ names. Overall, it would take her perhaps an hour to finish the task. The bank’s own bookkeeping for rents, coal, and stationary needs were in the second book. That task would take no more than fifteen minutes.
Without waiting for any encouragement, March took the books to the desk nearby, sharpened the quill, and dipped it in the iron gall ink. She found scratch paper and proceeded to her work. Forty-five minutes later, she stretched. After carefully checking that the ink was dry, she handed the books to Emma.