A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 215 - Two Hundred And Fifteen

Three Days Ago...

Bang!

A loud shot pierced through the crisp, cold morning air. A thick cloud of gray smoke plumed from the long barrel of the smoothbore rifle. High up against the pale blue sky, a small, round clay disk shattered into a dozen tiny pieces. The broken clay rained down over the distant green field, completely destroyed.

"And that is twelve in a row!" Count Rutherford cheered loudly, lowering his hands to clap. He stood a few paces behind the shooting line, wearing a thick tweed coat and a flat cap to keep the country chill away. He smiled widely, praising his host. "A brilliant shot, my friend. Truly brilliant."

Lord Farrington lowered his smoking rifle. He rested the wooden stock against his hip and offered a small, deeply arrogant smile. He enjoyed the praise. He thrived on the admiration of lesser men.

Another nobleman, Viscount Colin, laughed warmly. He stepped forward and handed his own unloaded rifle to a waiting servant boy.

"I must admit defeat," Viscount Colin declared, shaking his head in mock surrender. He stripped off his leather shooting gloves. "No one can outdo Lord Farrington when it comes to shooting. Your eye is simply entirely unmatched, my lord. I do not know how you manage to track the clay so perfectly against this gray sky."

They all laughed together, a chorus of deep, masculine amusement that echoed across the wide, manicured lawns of the Farrington estate.

It was a typical shooting party. A small group of wealthy, powerful men had gathered for the morning to test their skills and enjoy the fresh air. A few yards away, two young estate workers stood by a wooden trap machine.

Whenever a gentleman yelled "Pull!", the boys would release the tight metal spring, launching a fresh clay disk high into the air for the lords to shoot. The ground around the shooting stand was littered with spent brass cartridges and the sharp, bitter smell of sulfur and burnt gunpowder hung heavily in the air.

"It simply requires focus, Colin," Lord Farrington replied smoothly. He cracked open his rifle and let the empty shell pop out onto the grass. He handed the warm gun to his loader. "One must anticipate exactly where the target is going to be, not where it currently is. It is the exact same strategy one uses in business."

Count Rutherford nodded eagerly, always ready to agree with the Earl. "Indeed! Speaking of business, I hear the new taxes on imported silks are causing quite a stir in the House of Lords. Many merchants are completely furious."

"Let them be furious," Lord Farrington replied casually, taking a sip from a silver flask of warm brandy handed to him by a footman.

"The Crown needs gold, and the merchants must pay their share. Only a fool leaves his wealth completely exposed to the tax collectors. A smart man finds quiet ways to protect his investments."

He smiled, thinking of his own massive, hidden wealth. He thought of his coastal warehouses, filled to the brim with highly illegal, untaxed American tobacco. It was a flawless operation. It was going to make him richer than the King himself.

"Very wise, my lord. Very wise indeed," Viscount Colin agreed, eager to stay in the Earl’s good graces.

As the men continued their polite, boastful conversation, a figure dressed in strict black and white appeared on the gravel path. It was the Farrington butler. The older man walked with slow, measured steps, careful not to startle the gentlemen while they were holding firearms.

The butler stopped a few feet away from the shooting stand. He bowed deeply from the waist.

"My Lord," the butler spoke, his voice quiet but completely clear over the sound of the wind.

Lord Farrington frowned. His good mood instantly vanished. He absolutely hated being interrupted when he was entertaining important guests. It was a breach of proper etiquette.

"What is it?" Lord Farrington demanded, his voice sharp and annoyed.

"A letter for you, my lord," the butler replied, keeping his head bowed. He stepped forward and held out a small, polished silver tray.

Resting in the center of the silver was a single, folded piece of thick paper. It was sealed with a plain lump of dark brown wax, lacking any noble crest.

Lord Farrington looked at the plain wax. He recognized it immediately. It was the simple stamp used by his warehouse manager at the southern secret coastal docks.

A tiny prickle of unease touched the back of his neck, but he quickly pushed it away. It was likely just a routine report confirming the safe arrival of a new shipment.

Farrington reached out and took the letter from the silver tray. He did not open it immediately. He looked at the butler and waved his hand in a short, dismissive gesture.

"You may leave," Lord Farrington ordered coldly.

"Yes, my lord," the butler replied. He bowed respectfully once more and walked silently back toward the manor.

Lord Farrington turned his face back to his waiting guests. He forced a polite, entirely fake smile onto his lips.

"I must apologize, gentlemen," Lord Farrington said smoothly, tucking the sealed letter into the inner pocket of his tweed shooting coat. "It appears something urgent concerning my estate requires my immediate attention. I will be back shortly. Please, continue without me. The loaders have plenty of ammunition left."

Count Rutherford waved his hand dismissively. "Do not worry about us, Farrington. Tend to your business. We shall practice our aim until you return to humble us again."

The men nodded and laughed, turning their attention back to the wooden trap machine.

Lord Farrington turned and walked briskly down the gravel path toward the house. His long strides ate up the distance quickly. As he moved away from the loud bangs of the rifles, the heavy silence of the massive country estate settled around him. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

He entered the manor through the side doors. He walked quickly down the long, carpeted hallways, ignoring the maids who stopped to curtsy as he passed. He went directly to his private study on the ground floor.

He stepped inside the room and closed the door firmly behind him, ensuring the brass latch clicked securely into place.

Farrington walked behind his desk. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the letter.

He broke the brown wax seal with his thumb. He unfolded the rough paper. The handwriting inside was messy and rushed, written by a man who was clearly in a state of absolute panic.

Lord Farrington held the paper up to the light of the window and read.

My Lord,

I write this with terrible news. We cannot receive any more shipments. All the American tobacco has gone bad in the warehouses, my lord. Every single crate was soaked through. The dampness has spread incredibly fast. Every single one of them has turned moldy and completely ruined. It is completely unsellable.

What do I do? What do I tell the Northern costal warehouses?

Awaiting your orders.

Lord Farrington stopped breathing.

He stared at the messy black ink. His eyes darted back to the top of the page, reading the terrible words a second time, and then a third time.

All the tobacco has gone bad. Every single one of them.

A strange, high-pitched ringing sound started in his ears. The words on the paper seemed to blur together.

This was not a minor delay. This was not a small loss of a few crates. This was his entire massive, illegal shipment. This was thousands upon thousands of pounds of pure gold, completely destroyed by a simple delay. He had borrowed heavily from very dangerous, very unforgiving men in London to finance this massive purchase. He had expected to double his fortune.

Instead, he had lost absolutely everything.