Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
LONDON
Nothing 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?