The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(6)
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.”