Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
TUESDAY, 14 JANUARY 1812
LONDON
N othing was going the way Lord Matlock had planned.
Lady Catherine’s dowry had proven to be far less substantial than he had anticipated—an insult, really, to a man of his position and aspirations. The discovery had been a bitter blow to his carefully laid schemes. It almost had not been worth the trouble of having her killed although it did eliminate her bringing any further scrutiny to the family. Her scheming had been getting out of hand. While she was unaware of the extent of the problems surrounding Matlock, she knew enough. Her unrestrained behaviour of late made her something of a liability, and Matlock had not wanted to be saddled with her, especially not when she was openly defying him.
Adding to his frustration, neither Darcy nor Hargrove had shown any inclination to support his so-called “investment opportunity.” Though he had assured them of the potential for profitability on this venture, they had still declined and remained obstinately resistant to his overtures.
To make matters worse, Darcy’s decision to change solicitors had cut off one of Matlock’s most promising avenues for siphoning funds. The clerk at the previous solicitor’s office had been ideal for his covert plans. Coercion had been simple; the clerk’s fear of exposure to the consequences of his own questionable activities had ensured his cooperation. With the clerk’s help, Matlock had been ready to extract what he needed, intending to quietly divert small sums at first while laying the groundwork for a larger windfall.
But Darcy, damn him, had somehow caught wind of something—how much, Matlock did not know. The change in solicitors had come suddenly, severing his access to the funds he had intended to bleed dry. Worse still, the move had eliminated any leverage he might have gained over Darcy’s affairs. It was a move that spoke of calculated vigilance, and it rankled.
Matlock clenched his fists as he paced his study, his thoughts dark and furious. The setbacks were piling up, each one more aggravating than the last. What should have been a carefully controlled situation was slipping through his fingers. His son’s mounting debts were no longer a distant nuisance; they were becoming a direct threat—not only to Andrew’s safety but also to Matlock’s own reputation and, potentially, his very survival.
The so-called "investment opportunity" he had proposed to his nephews was, in truth, born of desperation—a calculated yet morally abhorrent gamble to recover from the devastating financial losses he had suffered over the past four years. The passage of the 1807 Act for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, championed by William Wilbberforce and his relentless abolitionist campaign, had struck a crippling blow to Matlock’s wealth. British ships were now prohibited from transporting or trading enslaved Africans, an industry that had once supplied more than half of Matlock’s income. His fortune had been built on the lucrative business of transporting Africans to British holdings in the West Indies, and the legislation forced him, at least publicly, to abandon his involvement in the trade.
In private, however, Matlock had turned to illegal smuggling, seeking to exploit the underground networks that emerged after the abolition of the trade. Unscrupulous men were still willing to risk the dangers of clandestine operations for the promise of enormous profits, and Matlock had heavily invested in ships and covert networks. These vessels operated in defiance of the Royal Navy’s patrols, transporting enslaved people to colonies where their forced labour remained in demand.
It was this illegal enterprise—masked under the guise of a legitimate investment—that he now sought his nephews to support. Matlock cloaked his true intentions with vague assurances of substantial returns, but beneath the surface, he understood all too well the risks: financial ruin, public disgrace, and even prosecution.
The war with France only worsened his plight. Rising tensions with America made it increasingly hazardous for ships to navigate key ports. His last two ventures—vessels carrying human cargo—had been seized, either by privateers or pirates. Compounding the disaster, Matlock’s careful efforts to obscure his involvement meant he could not publicly claim ownership of the ships or pursue compensation for their loss. The capital was gone, along with any hope of rebuilding his network.
Matlock now lacked the funds to finance another ship, and his remaining partners were growing restless. Already incensed by his recent failures, they were beginning to voice their dissatisfaction in ways that bordered on outright threats. Adding to his troubles, Andrew’s creditors were also pressing him for repayment. Squeezed between two ruthless factions, each demanding results, Matlock found himself trapped in an increasingly perilous situation.
He recalled only days before when these men had visited his study:
The heavy oak door creaked open, and three men entered Lord Matlock’s study without waiting to be announced. Their expressions were stern, and their movements deliberate, signalling to the earl that they had entered his house unbidden, without the knowledge of his servants. They were not men for pleasantries, and the silence that followed as they took their seats without invitation in front of the large, cluttered desk was oppressive, amplifying the tension in the room.
Matlock, seated behind his desk, made a show of pouring himself a glass of brandy, his hands trembling. He had never been one for weakness, but the situation was beyond his control.
“Well, gentlemen,” Matlock began, his voice tight but still controlled, “I trust you have come to discuss the next shipment.”
One of the men, a tall, thin figure with dark eyes, leant forward. His voice was low, a warning carried in every syllable. “You are running out of time, Matlock. The shipyards are expecting payment, and your last venture, well… it has left us with nothing but a sunken ship and empty pockets.”
Matlock’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. His partners had every right to be angry. The loss of the last two vessels had drained their resources, and he knew his reputation was hanging by a thread. They had invested heavily, but the returns had been dismal.
“You promised us,” another partner, a burly man with a thick beard, said, his fists clenched on the table. “You promised us a fleet, Matlock. What have we got instead? A string of failures, and now, nothing but debt. Not to mention the pressure from your son’s creditors.” He gave a derisive laugh. “It seems the apple does not fall far from the tree.”
Matlock’s face darkened, and he stood abruptly, knocking his chair back with a loud crack. His gaze flicked to the door, as if to flee. But there was nowhere to run. His financial empire was crumbling, and his only options were quickly disappearing.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice low but edged with desperation. “You are not the only one suffering here. I am doing everything I can to find a solution. I am on the brink of securing new funds, but I need time. Just a little more time, and I will get us out of this hole.”
The third partner, a quiet man with a sharp, calculating stare, finally spoke. “Time is a luxury you no longer have. Your son’s creditors are circling, Matlock, and they won’t wait for your promises.” His fingers drummed lightly on the desk. “You’ve failed us once, and we are not prepared to wait for a second failure. If you cannot come up with the funds to finance another ship, we will have no choice but to consider… other options.”
Matlock swallowed hard. The threat hung in the air, unspoken but clear. The options were becoming grim.
“You will have your funds soon,” he said, though the words felt hollow, even to him. “I can still deliver. Just give me ? —”
His words were cut off by the first partner, who stood, his eyes cold. “Give you what? More time to waste? No, Matlock. If you can’t deliver, we’ll take matters into our own hands.”
Matlock stood frozen for a moment. He had no more time. The pressure from his partners was mounting, and the rumours of his son’s debts were only adding to the fire. His enemies were closing in from all sides, and there was nowhere left to turn.
The men stood in unison, their heavy boots drumming on the floor as they made their way towards the door. “Think carefully, Matlock,” the bearded man said, his voice low with menace. “We’re not as patient as you think.”
As his thoughts returned to the present, his pacing slowed, and he sank heavily into the chair behind his desk. His mind raced, calculating his dwindling options. His fingers traced the edge of a decanter of brandy, but he did not pour. Drinking would do nothing to solve this crisis.
The lack of any word from his eldest son had only compounded his unease. It was no secret that the viscount had made enemies among his creditors, men ruthless enough to take drastic measures. Matlock had counted on Andrew’s ability to charm and stall them, but his son’s abrupt vanishing act suggested that charm had failed, leaving them both exposed. If these men were willing to harm Andrew, how long before they turned their attention to the family as a whole?
Then there was the matter of his nephew and younger son. Darcy and Fitzwilliam were not fools; their loyalty to the family had limits, and their recent actions suggested they were becoming wary of him. That wariness could spell disaster. Without their cooperation—or at least their indifference—Matlock’s schemes would continue to unravel, leaving him with no means of salvaging his ambitions or protecting himself from the consequences of his failures. He knew if either man knew about his involvement in the slave trade, they would publicly break ties with him, not caring about the impact of such an occurrence. They had obviously helped his wife get away—both a blessing and a curse. Without Julia at home, at least he did not have to pretend that all was well, and he could be assured of her safety at her father’s house, but with her went any hope of funds from either her or her father.
He sank heavily into a chair, rubbing his temples as his mind raced. There had to be a way to regain control, a way to turn the situation to his advantage once more. But for the first time in years, Lord Matlock found himself at a loss. His plans were crumbling, his allies were few, and his enemies were closing in.
Not a man to admit defeat, he would find a way. He had to.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Matlock straightened, masking his turmoil. “Enter,” he barked.
A footman stepped in, bowing slightly. “A letter has arrived, my lord. Urgent, it seems.”
Matlock waved the man over, snatching the envelope with a gruff nod of dismissal. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, scanning its contents quickly. His face darkened, the lines around his mouth deepening.
His son’s situation had just grown more dire. The men holding Ashburn were demanding an exorbitant ransom—far beyond what Matlock could readily access. The note made it clear that if payment was not made promptly, Ashburn’s life would be forfeit.
Matlock cursed under his breath, crumpling the letter in his hand. There was no avoiding it now. He would have to find a way to secure the funds, no matter the cost. Whether it meant selling what little remained of his holdings, further indebting himself to his partners, or even appealing to Darcy—whom he despised having to approach for anything—he would have to act quickly.
THE ROAD HEADED NORTH
On the second day of their journey, Fitzwilliam and Darcy stopped at an inn only a short distance from Matlock and learned about an injured man had been taken to the apothecary’s office nearby. Someone had discovered him on the road, apparently after a fall from his horse and a severe beating.
The two men followed the directions given to them and found Andrew Fitzwilliam lying in a bed, barely conscious. Though the physician had done his best, it was evident that Ashburn’s injuries were grave, and his chances of survival were slim.
"Who did this to you?" Fitzwilliam demanded, his voice tight with urgency.
Ashburn struggled to respond, each breath laboured. Finally, he whispered, "It was… Father’s business partners."
Fitzwilliam stiffened, confusion evident on his face. "What do you mean by Father’s business partners? What sort of business is he involved in? I thought I knew everything he had a hand in."
A weak, bitter laugh escaped Ashburn's lips, followed by a cough. "You know little… of Father's dealings. He has always kept most of it hidden… even from me. I only know fragments of the truth." He gestured weakly towards a letter he had been writing. In it, he had explained more. The letter revealed that for years, Matlock’s wealth had relied heavily on the slave trade—exporting people from Africa to America and other parts of the world. Since the Slave Trade Act of 1807, this had become more difficult, and the Napoleonic Wars had made shipping riskier. Matlock had lost several ships recently, deepening his debts. Though he blamed Ashburn’s supposed vices for the financial troubles, the true cause was his failed investments and reliance on illegal trade.
Fitzwilliam’s face darkened as the weight of Ashburn’s written words sank in. "Father is truly involved in slavery? Even now?"
Ashburn gave a weak nod and spoke deliberately. "Yes. Despite publicly supporting it… he continued in secret… and smuggling. He cared more for profit… than principle."
Darcy stood back, stunned by the revelation. Of all the injustices he despised, slavery ranked among the worst. During his university years, he had aligned himself with abolitionist ideals, though he had hesitated to fully join the movement. His father had likewise supported the cause, but Darcy, knowing of his father’s illness, had thought it best not to get too involved, especially with Pemberley soon to be his responsibility.
Still, his upbringing had instilled in him a sense of duty to treat all people with dignity. His servants at Darcy House and Pemberley were both well paid and well cared for. To now learn that his uncle, a man he had once respected, was profiting from such a vile practice shook him to his core.
Ashburn’s breathing grew more laboured, each word a struggle. Fitzwilliam leant closer, his hands gripping the bedframe as he tried to catch his brother’s faint words.
“Father… always had plans,” Andrew rasped. “Even when… it meant sacrificing… everything. Do not let him… destroy you too.”
Fitzwilliam’s jaw tightened. “Enough riddles, Andrew. Tell me what you know. Who attacked you?”
Ashburn’s lips quirked faintly in what might have been a bitter smile. “They were hired… to make a point. One of his business partners—angry over the losses. I was a warning.”
Darcy’s stomach churned at the implications. “Do you know their names? Can we find them?”
Ashburn exhaled a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “It does not matter now,” he murmured. “You will not change him. Protect Matlock—protect what is left of it. But promise me, Richard… do not follow him.”
Fitzwilliam’s voice cracked as he spoke. “Andrew, stay with me. We will take you home. We will fix this.”
Ashburn’s eyes opened briefly, glassy with unshed tears. “No fixing this,” he whispered. “Just… stop him. Do better.”
His breathing slowed further, and his chest rose with one last shallow breath before stilling altogether.
Fitzwilliam stared at his brother’s lifeless face, frozen. Darcy stood behind him, resting his hand on his cousin’s shoulder, unsure what words could possibly suffice. The silence in the room felt heavy.
After a long moment, Fitzwilliam stood abruptly, his expression steely. “We will bring him home. Whatever Father has done, he will answer for it.”
“Richard,” Darcy began cautiously, “if what Andrew said is true, this is not just about your father’s debts. If you go after him directly?—”
“Do not try to stop me,” Fitzwilliam snapped. His tone softened almost immediately. “I cannot sit by while the man who raised me profits from human suffering.”
Darcy nodded solemnly. “You will not be alone in this. But we need to be careful. If he has hidden this for so long, there might be others willing to protect his secrets—at any cost. I wonder how much our aunt knew—or was her death entirely about the money he would get upon her death?”
For several moments, neither man spoke, each lost in his thoughts as they tried to make sense of what had just unfolded. While they had arrived there today seeking answers, they had instead unearthed even more questions. Darcy doubted that his cousin fully grasped the implications of his brother’s death. Given the circumstances, it was hardly surprising; Fitzwilliam’s focus was consumed by the immediate challenge of confronting his father.
Sighing, Darcy recognised that the greatest challenge in the coming days would be curbing his cousin’s impulsive tendencies. Yes, something had to be done about Lord Matlock, but what exactly that would entail was still unclear. Whatever action was taken, it would need careful consideration—something far more within Darcy’s capabilities than Fitzwilliam’s.
For now, the priority was to return to Pemberley. Decisions needed to be made, notices sent to those who should be informed of Ashburn’s death, and plans carefully laid for what lay ahead.