“What’s this, Darcy? You’re now so high that I, an earl, should refer to you as your lordship!”
“For Jove’s sake, uncle, come into the study before you wake Bennet, who’s asleep in the nursery. I’ve a fine port, or that Bordeaux that you are so fond of—it cannot last forever, and there’s much to celebrate.”
Lord Matlock slumped into a soft leather chair overlooking the park. Pemberley’s riches had slipped from his grasp—could there be any more humiliation than what he had suffered in that accursed courtroom, where he found not only was Darcy married, but elevated to marquess, above an earl! And Lady Darcy, so very handsome. Could anyone else, even his countess, possess such a commanding presence, such grace, speaking so familiarly with Rushton, and then dismissing all of Bent’s arguments with nothing more than charming wit and a becoming smile? It was not to be borne.
“Celebrate? Are you to gloat?”
“That is not my nature; let me explain. I was broken when Icame to the court. December last, I learnt that Elizabeth was washed overboard on the African coast. I thought her lost, that truly I was unmarried—a widower. There was no word, nothing, until I saw her come into the courtroom. My surprise, uncle, was as great—perhaps, more so—than yours. I had never before beheld such a beautiful countenance.”
“I will allow she is exceedingly handsome.”
“Indeed, sir. The handsomest woman of my acquaintance. But there are other matters we must resolve. I’ve told you before, that I feel keenly my duty to family, as you do. You are a hard man, and, as judge in a penal colony, I too have hardened beyond what I thought was possible. You may support legislation in the Parliament that condemns a man to hang, but he is not known to you; you’ve not seen him walk by in the street. You do not see the despair in his eyes when he hears the death sentence. No, sir, there can be no further posturing, for we are now equal in rank and resolve.
Darcy poured his uncle a glass of port.
“Firstly, my being a Marquess. My father’s hobby, for that is what it was, was to trace any title that may have descended through the Darcy line. I thought nothing more of it; both Frederick and I thought it a harmless affectation. The Lord Chancellor’s office was given the documents, and there the matter lay. But a zealous clerk took up the cudgel, so to speak. He found that an ancestor had changed the name Darcy to Dorsey in order to avoid a taint. It was through the Dorsey line that the marquessate descended. The line went extinct, but, by the letters patent, the marquessate was merely dormant until it was discovered that Dorsey was, in truth, Darcy.”
“A twist of fate. Well, I am glad of it. In Parliament, you and I will have great authority.”
Darcy grimaced, but speaking in Parliament on those issues that he and Elizabeth found important was something to consider for the future.
“Indeed, uncle. There you have it. But, we’ve skirted around why you have come, have we not?”
“Now that you have an heir, I expect you to put Bennet and Pemberley ahead of Rosings.”
Darcy chuckled, “Uncle, I must cease baiting you. Elizabeth, having returned, infected me with her playfulness.”
Matlock scowled, “Nothing is amusing about Catherine’s debt. It will now fall to me, I suppose. You have observed that the Fitzwilliam finances are not what they were some five years ago. The Masson Hill lead mines, which for centuries have underpinned the earldom’s fortune, are played out. I must turn to my other investments. But, before I knew of the Rosings' debt, I purchased estates for Milton and Richard—they despair of my passing and wish their own homes, away from mine—and now I am woefully short of funds. Perhaps, once I am humbled by paying out Rosings, I can drink myself into an early grave.”
There was the rustle of muslin entering the room. “No, my lord, we will not have it—little Ben, having lost his Darcy grandfather, would be most upset to lose, too early, his Fitzwilliam great-uncle as well.”
Lizzie! Her soft musical voice made light of Matlock’s sombre declaration. “Oh, William, you accuse me of teasing! Show his lordship some compassion—and the package you received yesterday. Then, my lords, you will join the ladies in the parlour.”
She floated out, leaving the scent of lavender lingering in the air. Both gentlemen’s eyes followed her, a sprite come to enliven their day.
“Harrumph, what is this? What are you keeping from me? Is your wife now your secretary—though, at least, she displays proper respect for her Uncle.”
Darcy retrieved a bundle of documents from his desk. “This came by express, a few days late for court, but ‘tis verywelcome anyways. Since March last, my excellent clerks, Mr. White and Mr. Erickson, have been living in Douglas, the Isle of Man. Not a pleasant place, so I’m told, but they are most diligent in their work.”
“The Isle of Man, whatever for?”
“And that was the question I asked myself. You found that Asquith, Badeley and Chaffers were the trustees behind the Rosings' mortgages. No harder nut to crack—they are very proud of their rectitude—not one of their clerks would take my silver. However, perhaps with enough motive and authority, an English magistrate could pry open the lid to their secrets. Thus, many clients for whom confidentiality is paramount insist trusteeships must be settled outside of English jurisdiction. For this purpose, ABC take offices in the Channel Islands, Jersey and Guernsey. These islands are not subject to English law but are too close to the French coast, particularly after the invasion in the year ‘81. Another jurisdiction beyond English scrutiny is the Isle of Man, where Mr. Chaffers is senior partner.”
“By your gleeful expression, you are about to tell me what this is about.”
“Oh, please, Uncle, allow me my moment in the sun. Did I not say I was judge-advocate? Mayhap you thought it of no significance, with New South Wales being some ten thousand miles away. But my commission is very general—indeed, my authority also applies to the Isle of Man, where I visited in March and met with Mr. Chaffers.”
“Out with it, man; Elizabeth is correct—you tease me. ‘Tis not something I am accustomed to.”
Darcy tried not to smirk—the undeniable pleasure of outranking an earl. “You may read the documents at your leisure. But the gist is this. Sir Lewis was poxed—never would he gain entry to a brothel, certainly not those in St. James’s. But he was addicted; street girls he could have plenty of, but he preferred those of a higher class. To cut to thechase—he purchased the places by mortgaging Rosings. Your brother, Catherine’s husband, owned Moll King’s establishment in Covent Garden, also, Charlotte Hayes’ houses in Berwick Street and King’s Place, and a portfolio of other such properties. Oh, for sure, only some of the girls would have serviced him, most likely those already infected. But, my lord, he was the keeper of the very best brothels in London.”
Curtly, Matlock took the document and read through the carefully written, close-spaced summary. There was silence. Flushed, resignation in his eyes.
“Am I ruined? Such scandal if Parliament were to discover it.”
He was diminished, not merely humbled—all his life’s work, his reputation, the Fitzwilliam name, and Milton’s heritage were lost.
“My apologies, uncle. Perhaps I should have told you the best news first, rather than the worst.”
