The momentary hope Harry felt at Ward proposing an additional solution deflated just as quickly. “Lord Damion is a phantom.”
Ward shook his head. “When I hit dead ends with your solicitor, I tracked down Basham, who’d mentioned that Bartholomew Hopkins was back in London.”
“Hopkins?” Harry repeated, trying to place the name within their circle of acquaintances. “That skinny little fop?”
“He’s finished with pink satin breeches and high-heeled shoes, Stillman. He didn’t even have face powder when I found him at his house about an hour ago.”
Harry snorted. Hopkins was a fool, whether he dressed the part or not. “Was it Lord Damion who told him to dress like a man now?”
There had been a great deal of talk about Lord Damion when he first came on the underground lending scene a few years ago. Unlike the usual money-grubbers like Malcolm who slinked in and out of the shadows when a man needed money in a hurry, Lord Damion required an application process that included odd terms that referenced the Bible, if the rumors were to be believed.
“You do not have so many options that you can afford to sneer at this one,” Ward reprimanded. “Hopkins confirmed that Lord Damion is not a phantom. He said that without his intercession, Hopkins would have thrown himself off London Bridge.”
Harry stared into his hands, humbled. He was in no position to turn his back on any viable option. Selling his estate or pursuing an acceptable marriage could take months. Harry didn’t have months. He didn’t have weeks, and even if some miracle freed him from his debt to Malcolm, what did life hold for him once he’d made one of the only two extreme decisions left to him? No land or secure a good wife—what a choice.
“Hopkins was a changed man, Harry,” Ward said, his tone tinged with respect for this man they had used to make sport of. “And to hear him talk, you would think Lord Damion was the prophet Moses himself leading Hopkins to the Promised Land.”
Harry remembered that story. Moses had built a boat that saved his family when the floods came. Or, no, Moses was the man thrown into the lion’s den, wasn’t he? Harry shook his head in frustration. Why did people like those Bible stories so much anyway? They’d never made much sense to Harry.
“What were the terms set by Lord Damion?”
“Hopkins had to leave London for six months, write letters to the people he had lied to or cheated in the months leading up to his surrender, incur no additional debts, and either pay off the balance of the loan with five percent interest by the end of the year or sell his London house to Lord Damion for a hundred pounds. Hopkins is back in London to finalize the sale of the house since he was unable to raise the money otherwise.”
“A hundred pounds for a house in Mayfair?” There was nothing magnanimous about Lord Damion if he was buying desperate people’s property at ridiculous prices.
“No,” Ward said, shaking his head. “Hopkins found a buyer for the house who offered a fair price. Hopkins will pay off the debt to Lord Damion and use the remaining profits to improve his country estate. What’s more, he’s quite grateful to have two legs to stand on, along with the peace of mind of no longer owing anyone anything. He believes that without Lord Damion, he would have continued to chase winnings to pay his debts, which were only leading to more debt. Does that not sound familiar? He plans to focus his attention on his country estate from here forward, and he’s courting the daughter of a squire in his county.”
Harry saw a flash of that kind of future, and it looked like freedom for a split second before his thoughts turned back to the bleak present. “How much did Lord Damion lend him?” Malcolm had been one of the few backstreet lenders willing to lend more than fifteen hundred pounds without collateral. Harry’s current debt to Malcolm, including the additional fees, was more than double that.
“He did not give me a sum, but I have a feeling it was extreme. Maybe not as high as what you owe, but higher than some of the other lenders. Lord Damion’s terms seem meant to give a man a future rather than to bury him.” He pulled a paper from the inside pocket of his coat and tossed it onto the table between them. “Lord Damion’s solicitor