“How much does he ask?”
Bennet hesitated, his confidence faltering. “He wants ten thousand pounds.”
Ever the actor, Fiennes leaned forward with apparent concern. “That is a hefty sum, my friend.” His features held all the warmth of neighbourly concern, though calculation gleamed beneath it. “I have it and am willing to lend it to you, but you must be very sure of its success.”
“Cartwright assures me we shall see the full return of our investment in six months to a year. Profits after the first twelvemonth are expected to exceed ten thousand pounds.” Bennet looked hopeful. Fiennes could almost read his thoughts; the man imagined this to be the solution to all his financial woes.Too easy, he thought.
“Very well.” Fiennes leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I shall lend you the ten thousand pounds at three per cent interest. That is better than you will find with a usurer.”
“Do you wish to have a share of the profits?”
Fiennes shook his head. “No. I shall leave that to you and your family. You have confided something of your difficulties, and I would not deprive you of any advantage.”
In truth, he knew the venture would prove Bennet’s undoing, and it was not his money that Fiennes wanted. His apparent beneficence would serve his reputation admirably.
“That is very generous of you.” Bennet grinned. “When might I expect the papers?”
“I shall have an agreement drawn up this afternoon for your signature on the morrow. The funds will be made available a week thereafter.” Fiennes smiled amiably and rose, thus signalling the end of their meeting. As he led Bennet to the door, Fiennes offered his hand in parting. They shook, and he said smoothly, “I shall call on you in the morning.”
The next day, he appeared at Longbourn with the contract in hand. It was a simple document, and since it was between gentlemen, much of the legal phrasing had been omitted. He brought Wilkens along to serve as witness.
“Fiennes! I am pleased to see you!” Bennet rose and came round the front of his desk, extending his hand. Fiennes took it firmly, shaking it before gesturing for Wilkens to hand him the papers.
“I have the contract here.” He extended the parchment across the desk.
Taking it, Bennet returned to his chair and began to read the words written carefully on the page. “A sum of ten thousand pounds at three per cent interest—hmm, yes, that is agreeable.” He turned to Fiennes. “You will allow me a year to repay the debt? That is very generous.”
“It is sensible. Even were you to see profits in six months, the journey from India would occupy four to six, even aboard an East Indiaman. A year seems prudent.”
He would do everything in his power to paint himself as the generous benefactor. The investment would fail, and if he knew his indifferent neighbour, Bennet would make no provision to repay the debt if it did.
“It says here that I must pay the full amount at the conclusion of the contract,” Bennet observed, as though he had read Fiennes’s thoughts. “That should present no difficulty. Cartwright promised the return of my investment within half a year.”
“Then I shall speak with you at the half-way mark and learn what intelligence you have received.” He turned a measured glance towards Wilkens. “My man will witness the document. It is an agreement between gentlemen but legally binding, nonetheless.”
“Yes, of course.” Bennet took up a quill and signed all three copies of the contract. Fiennes followed suit, and Wilkens signed last.
“Very good.” Smothering a self-satisfied grin, Fiennes gathered the papers, leaving one copy for Bennet. “Thank you, sir. I shall see these filed immediately.”
“Would you care to stay for tea?” Bennet asked, stretching his arms. “Fanny ordered lemon tarts. They are my—and Lizzy’s—favourites.”
Fiennes agreed with a show of easy civility. He stored the knowledge of Elizabeth’s preferences in his mind for later use. Bennet tugged at the front of his coat to straighten it and led the way from the study.
The ladies were gathered in the parlour, talking amiably. “Good day, Mr Fiennes!” cried Mrs Bennet with delight. “Are you to join us for tea? Mr Bennet said nothing of your calling.” She shot her husband a reproachful look, to which he responded with a smirk. Fiennes would have wagered the man took pleasure in vexing his wife.
“I am pleased to join you, madam,” he said with false charm. “There is no other house in which I find such cheerful conversation and a surplus of warmth.” He took a seat near Elizabeth and accepted the tea and tarts offered by his hostess.
His gaze soon drifted to his object—young Miss Elizabeth with her chestnut hair and sparkling eyes. As discreetly as he could, he watched her while Mrs Bennet prattled on. The girl spoke with her sister, good humour radiating from her as though it shone from within. Every movement was lively yet graceful; every feature alluring yet modest. He longed to sit beside her, to speak with her, to judge how best to make her his own.
“My Jane is looking well, is she not?” Mrs Bennet broke in, her shrill tones intruding across his thoughts.
Blast the woman and her meddling. Fiennes held no interest in the placid sister. “Miss Bennet is everything lovely—as is Miss Elizabeth.”
“Oh, Lizzy will never be Jane’s equal,” Mrs Bennet tittered. “She has too much of her father in her.”
Fiennes watched Elizabeth’s lips tighten in displeasure. He saw the hurt in her eyes and noted Miss Bennet’s gentle touch meant to soothe her younger sister’s distress.So, the filly takes offence at her mother’s nonsensical ramblings. I can use that.
“The Misses Bennet are the very embodiment of feminine grace.” He spoke with deliberate warmth, taking private satisfaction in the faint colour that rose to both ladies’ cheeks. Miss Bennet averted her gaze, but her sister turned towards him, her countenance an open book filled with puzzlement and—dare he hope—interest.
