The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(7)

McCalpin didn’t comment as he skimmed the documents, never focusing on the amounts. However, a disturbing sight caught his attention. The handwriting on the page was his, but it wasn’t the way he signed his name. Perfectly centered on the bottom of the last sheet of vellum was his signature.

He always signed his name at the bottom right of any document.

“No, she hasn’t seen me. I assumed you were the one managing the accounts and approving the amounts.” McCalpin smiled, but there was no humor—just a warning, like a dog growling while its tail slowly wagged.

William leaned forward slightly. “That’s not your signature?”

McCalpin shook his head.

Russell’s brow wrinkled into neat lines reminiscent of McCalpin Manor’s furrowed fields. “My lord, Miss Lawson recently sent several more requests to our office directly, and I have those here for your review also.”

McCalpin took the letters. He quickly read the first letter until his eyes stumbled across the amount of one hundred pounds. It was substantial, and her explanation stated that the estate needed it for repairs due to a particularly violent winter storm. He let out a sigh in resignation. One more distraction that needed his attention.

“Why doesn’t her brother, the viscount, ask for these amounts himself?”

“Lord Lawson is nine years old, my lord,” Russell gently reminded him. “There is no successor guardian named for the children or the viscount’s estate, just your appointment as the successor trustee for the sisters’ trusts. If you’re not approving these irregular requests, and I’m not approving them, then who is?”

“Are you’re suggesting someone is embezzling from Miss Lawson’s trust fund?” William asked.

“That’s my conclusion,” answered Mr. Jameson. His serious frown twisted his visage into something that looked like a gnarled tree trunk. The sight would scare a baby to tears.

“Shall I visit Miss Lawson at Lawson Court, my lord?” Russell asked.

“Don’t bother. I’ll request she come to London instead and meet with me directly.” McCalpin shook his head. “I still don’t understand why I was appointed to manage the daughters’ money. I don’t even know these people.”

“In my opinion, the previous Lord Lawson employed rather shoddy solicitors. Errors are rampant through their legal work. The prior trustee of the three daughters’ trusts and guardian of the children and the viscountcy was Lord Burns. The title of the Marquess of McCalpin is the named successor trustee responsible for the daughters’ trusts. Your late uncle, who previously held the title, was friends with the late viscount. There isn’t anyone else named as successor guardian in the documents.” As if that explained everything, Russell packed up his portable desk. “I’m sending Mr. Jameson to review McCalpin Manor’s records. Severin wants someone else to audit the books before we present the quarterly review to Wilburton.”

McCalpin nodded. “One more thing. Send me a record of all the withdrawals from the sisters’ trust funds. That’ll be all.” After the others left, he stood and faced William. “I should have done something about this before now. Our darling sister gave me quite a tongue-lashing over Miss Lawson. She banks with Emma.”

“Emma took umbrage with you? The stars must be out of alignment. She normally saves her rants for me.” William poured himself another cup of coffee and brought one to McCalpin. “I’ll be more than happy to look into Miss Lawson’s affairs. Once you get the report, send word to me over at Langham Hall.”

Once again, his aversion to numbers had caused more work for himself. “No, this is my mess. I failed to give a proper review of the documents when they first crossed my desk. I thought it was another administrative task Russell’s firm could handle. Obviously, it requires my attention.”

“I’m at your disposal, McCalpin.”

“Thank you.” The laugh started deep within his chest. Whether it was relief from the fact that the monthly meeting was over or the debacle with the Lawson family made little difference.

William raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

McCalpin laughed at the absurdity that he was responsible for yet more money. Finally, when he got his humor under control, he answered, “Whoever is embezzling those funds signs my name better than I do.”

*

“Good morning, Faith,” March called out to her sister. “You’re up late this morning.” She turned her attention back to the mirror. The village seamstress hissed under her breath, scolding her to stand still.

March wrinkled her nose. Unfortunately, the woman’s misplaced rebukes held no sway. The seamstress’ efforts were better directed at the monstrous piece of fabric covering March from the neck down. The puce gown was revolting. It had been one of her grandmother’s formal dresses, but without the lace trim or the coordinating iridescent black gauze overlay, the gown’s color closely resembled grass after the first autumn frost. Why ever had she picked this color and, for goodness’ sake, this style? It made her look like a plump Amazon warrioress.

Faith walked stiffly into March’s bedroom dragging her left leg. “Today I feel as if I’m ninety instead of nineteen. There must be a storm brewing. I can barely move. Mrs. Oliver brought warm compresses to my room along with breakfast. That’s why I’m late.” Her sister turned to the seamstress. “Good morning, Mrs. Burton.”