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 mentionthe 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 blessingand 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 to make inquiries. There they 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.
