A Debt to be Paid (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

London

Fiennes

Damian Fiennes twirled the ring on his finger.

Morgan Fields stood before his desk, his countenance a picture of desperation.

Fiennes delighted in it. They were all the same, coming to him for money when no one else would lend it, then pleading for release when the debt grew beyond their means.

He was well within his rights to take everything they owned, and he did so with regularity.

“I only need a few more months, Fiennes!” Fields’s plea burst forth, his voice frayed with panic. “Netherfield Park’s harvest will be in then, and I can pay you in full.”

“You said that last year.” Fiennes turned the ring slowly, his face a mask but for his subtle smirk. “I graciously gave you another year to pay—with interest, of course.”

Fields swallowed hard. “I know, and I am grateful for your forbearance. My daughters are well settled now, and I can focus more fully on—”

“What you do in the future is no concern of mine once our business is concluded. Perhaps your sons-in-law might offer a loan?”

“I have asked them,” Fields admitted. “They cannot. Their estates are entailed, and no funds can be drawn from them.”

Fiennes knew he had Fields precisely where he wanted him. “How do you propose to settle the debt? I am within my legal rights to see you thrown into the Marshalsea.”

Fields’s face drained of colour. “I beg you, no! My poor wife—she is ailing, as you well know. She needs me!”

Fiennes ceased his idle movement with the ring.

He sat back slowly and folded his hands atop the desk.

“I could consider clearing your debt if…” He let the words hang, savouring the flicker of hope that crossed his adversary’s face.

This was his favourite moment—raising hope only to crush it, and with it, any future they imagined they might have.

When he did not continue, Fields shifted anxiously. Such was Fiennes’s intent. Waiting with bated breath never suited a desperate man; pressed too far, they would say things they ought not.

“Speak, man! I shall do anything in my power to relieve this debt!”

Ah, there it is. Fiennes straightened. “I have a solution. Netherfield Park in exchange for your debts being wiped clean.”

Fields gaped at him. “But—that is my livelihood! You know very well I have nothing in reserve. How shall I manage to live?”

“That is hardly my concern, sir.” Fiennes rose and came around the desk. “You have long complained that the management of the estate kept you from enjoying life. I shall relieve you of the burden.”

“But what shall I do for income?”

“Once again, not my concern.” Fiennes returned to his desk. The papers were already prepared—naturally. He conducted his affairs with precision, leaving nothing to chance. “I have the agreement here.” Gathering the pages, he laid them before Fields.

“You planned this.” Fields stared at him, aghast. “I thought you a friend!”

“I am, of course. Someone less friendly might have thrown you into debtor’s prison long ago.” He gestured towards the papers spread across his desk. “Shall we sign?”

“No! I shall find another way!” Fields backed away, shaking his head in dismay. “This will ruin me!”

“You are ruined whether you pay or not. Debtor’s prison or relief from your debts—which shall it be? I am certain your wife will find a home with your daughters if you choose the former.”

Damian Fiennes had made a living out of reading men’s faces, knowing them better than they knew themselves.

Morgan Fields was no different from the others.

He was an inherently selfish man; debtor’s prison would offer him none of his accustomed comforts.

Despite the uncertainty of the future, he would sooner surrender his estate than rot behind the Marshalsea’s walls.

“You know my wife does not get on well with our daughters,” Fields muttered. “I am certain she would be miserable living with either of them.”

Whatever tale you must tell yourself, sir, Fiennes thought with a fine curl of his lip. “Then we have an accord?” Fields nodded slowly, the regret and desperation writ plain on his face.

Fiennes watched as Fields drew the quill towards him and skimmed the document.

They always glossed over the details that mattered most. The agreement stipulated that everything was to remain with the estate, leaving Fields unable to conceal any valuables.

Once signed, Fields would never again set foot on Netherfield’s grounds; his wife would share the same fate.

Both were presently in town visiting relations.

Fiennes could scarcely contain his excitement as Fields signed away his life. “Thank you.” He took up the quill, charged it with ink, and affixed his signature to the agreement. Then he held out his hand, palm up. “The keys, if you please.”

“Keys?”

Why were they always so stupid? It hardly made the game enjoyable.

Fields looked bewildered. “Have we no time to vacate properly?”

“I think not. If you examine the third paragraph on the fourth page, you will see that, in signing this document, you have agreed to leave the premises immediately—and never to return. So, I shall have your keys. Now.”

Fields’s mouth fell open in shock. “You…you monster!” Fields lunged, hands outstretched and eyes wild. Anticipating the move, Fiennes stepped aside. The door to his office opened, and two burly guards entered.

“Mr Fields is leaving.” Fiennes retained his air of self-command. The men seized the weeping man by the arms and hauled him away. He went to the window and watched as the former master of Netherfield Park was relieved of his keys before being thrust from the house.

“’Tis almost not amusing any longer.” The words escaped him on a breath of ennui.

Of late, he had found himself driven to greater extremes to receive the same exhilaration.

Never had he taken an entire estate to settle a debt.

The temptation had been too strong when the notion first struck him, and he had acted on it at once.

Morgan Fields had been the perfect target—a man far too free with information after too brief an acquaintance.

He resumed his seat and opened a desk drawer, retrieving his investigator’s report on Netherfield Park. The estate was the largest in the district, a few miles from a small market town called Meryton. It yielded five thousand pounds a year—hardly a fortune compared to his present income.

Born into poverty, Fiennes had begun his career in the seedier quarters of London.

He first apprenticed himself to a landlord named Bacchus, who discerned his intelligence and taught him all he knew of surviving in the city’s underbelly.

Bacchus could read and write—a rare skill in those parts—his mother having been the daughter of a gentleman cast off for falling with child out of wedlock.

By a stroke of fortune, Fiennes was later introduced to a usurer named Morton, who likewise perceived his worth and made the young man his protégé.

After ten years in Morton’s service, Fiennes grew restless.

Morton’s dealings were limited to tradesmen, from whom he earned barely a thousand pounds per year.

He lived in a shabby boarding house, hoarding every penny he could.

Averse to risk, he preferred meagre profits to ventures of greater promise.

In the end, Morton’s timidity confined him to the same narrow sphere he had long inhabited. Fiennes, however, desired far more.

He began to frequent Cheapside, where wealthy tradesmen kept their warehouses, and many proved easy prey.

When he brought Morton nearly double his former income, the old man at last recognised the benefit of expanding his business.

Unfortunately for him, Fiennes had learned that he could prosper alone.

He took his due from Morton and left him with scarcely enough to survive.

Fiennes felt no guilt in departing with several thousand pounds. Morton owed his recent success to his apprentice, and Fiennes considered the money no more than his rightful share.

With his eyes on the future, he rented a small office near Cheapside from which to conduct his own affairs.

He began modestly, unwilling to draw undue notice.

Such business demanded finesse. He must earn the tradesmen’s trust and establish a reputation for fairness and probity.

Fiennes would work within the bounds of the law, bending and twisting it so that none could lay a hand on him.

His first conquest was Arthur Reed, a young man who had just inherited his father’s concern; he longed for an easy life and came to Fiennes seeking fortune through investment.

His father’s will forbade him from drawing on company funds, and so Fiennes gladly lent him a substantial sum.

Reed’s chosen speculation was ill-advised, but who was Fiennes to dissuade him?

Fiennes allowed the young fool ample time to repay the loan. It was hardly surprising when Reed appeared before him in tears, begging for an extension. “It is all gone. The speculation failed spectacularly.”

“My three thousand pounds?” Fiennes feigned surprise. “How, then, will you repay your debt?”

“Give me six months!” The plea burst out of him, raw with fear. “I shall get it.”

“It will be a further two hundred pounds for the extension,” Fiennes warned. “If you cannot pay by then, I shall have no recourse but to take your company in settlement.”

Reed stared at him. “My company is worth far more than a few thousand pounds!”

“So, it is. Then I shall merely take what I am owed in shares.” It was a sound notion.

By acquiring shares, Fiennes would secure an income for years to come.

Three thousand pounds and interest would certainly pay for a significant number of shares.

Perhaps even enough to grant him control, he mused.

“Agreed.” Reed looked hopeful. “I shall have your money in six months.”

Fiennes doubted it. Presenting his quarry with a new contract, he extended the pen.

To no one’s surprise, Reed failed to pay on time. Worse, he had attempted to embezzle funds from his company, prompting his business partner to sell his shares. Fiennes acquired them quietly, fully aware that once Reed surrendered his in payment, control would be his.

Reed was livid when he learnt the truth.

Fiennes installed his own men to oversee the company and sat back as the profits poured in.

Reed, holding too few shares to be heard, became little more than a clerk in his own factory—his father’s toil rendered worthless.

In time, he sold his remaining shares to Fiennes for a fraction of their value, declaring that even the pittance was preferable to remaining beneath Fiennes’s thumb.

Fiennes returned to the present, a smug sense of satisfaction stirring in his chest at the recollection of his early days, as he termed them.

He had moved from place to place, establishing connexions and ruining men before passing on to the next.

By degrees, he developed a reputation as a fair and law-abiding man, though many whispered cautions in dealing with him.

There were some, however, whom he did not strip of all they possessed.

The wealthier sort often escaped his schemes, for they had families with sufficient means and influence to rescue them.

Fiennes did not begrudge it; such appearances preserved his true purposes.

Clients continued to visit his offices in search of money; and, because there were some successful repayments, he escaped censure when another was ruined.

Yet, eventually, restlessness set in. He had amassed a fortune and held several prosperous businesses. He was known in every circle and welcomed into all but the loftiest ranks of society. Still, he was unsatisfied. He longed to elevate himself beyond his present situation.

“All in good time.” He set the latest agreement aside with deliberate care and rang the bell for his clerk. Richard Wilkens was his name—a thin, bespectacled fellow with a wiry frame and a keen head for business.

“Send men to Hertfordshire without delay. Fields will attempt to return.” He handed over the papers. “Here is the signed agreement. If necessary, consult the local magistrate—he is not to set foot on my property.”

“Yes, sir.” Wilkens nodded. “Will you be travelling to Hertfordshire yourself?”

“Not yet.” Fiennes rose and stepped from behind his desk. “I must see my business affairs in order before retiring to the country.”

Wilkens bowed and withdrew, leaving his master to his thoughts.

I am five-and-thirty. Most would say I have done well for so young a man. What else is there? He did not know, but he intended to discover it.

It took some time to arrange his affairs. He trusted no one entirely with his interests; a master ignorant of the goings-on around him was an easy target. He ought to know—had he not sought out such men himself, many times over?

At length, he was ready to depart. His house in town, purchased the previous year and situated on a fashionable street a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, was closed for the season.

He ordered the refurbishment of several rooms in his absence before stepping into his carriage to embark on a new venture.

He had avoided the country for many years.

Raised in London, the stillness and restraint of country life held little charm for him.

What could it offer that might rival London and all its diversions?

Yet he must review Netherfield Park, catalogue its contents, and determine what was to be done with it.

He could sell it, though letting the property might prove the wiser course.

Only a thorough examination would supply the information he required, and he trusted no other hand to perform it.

The journey occupied several hours. Fiennes alternated between watching the landscape from the window, reading, and consulting his journal.

Within its pages lay the names of several men ripe for harvest in the coming months.

Foremost among them was Lord Carlisle, who had borrowed against his secondary estate, a pretty property in Kent.

The nobleman’s eldest son, Viscount Norton, was a notorious gambler, and the earldom strained beneath the weight of the heir’s debts.

The father hoped that his speculations would discharge them.

Heaven forfend they should sell the secondary estate. Such is ever the pride of the peerage; to part with land is to part with consequence.

It was nearly tea-time when the carriage turned from the main road and proceeded along a sweeping drive. Fiennes set aside his journal and peered through the window, eager for the first sight of his new estate. A true gentleman at last.