A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 167 - Hundred And Sixty Seven

The heavy wheels of Lord Hawksley’s carriage crunched loudly against the gravel of the Farrington estate. The grand manor loomed ahead.

Lord Hawksley stepped out of his carriage. The air was crisp and carried a sharp chill, but he was sweating beneath his thick woolen coat. He pulled a white linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his damp forehead.

His mind was a swirling mess of panic. He had seen the Duke’s doctor rushing up the stairs, but that was not the thing that terrified him. He had seen Delaney Kingsley. Arthur’s daughter. The girl he had been looking for, was living right under the nose of one of the most powerful Duke in London.

Hawksley swallowed hard. He walked up the wide stone steps of the manor. He had already sent a fast rider to Delaney’s greedy uncle, demanding the man come to London to claim her. But he knew he could not breathe a single word of this to Lord Farrington. If the Earl found out that Hawksley had allowed a living, breathing witness of the Oakridge silk scam to slip into the Hamilton household, Farrington would likely shoot him on the spot. He had to keep the secret and handle the girl himself.

The heavy front doors opened before Hawksley could even lift the brass knocker.

The Farrington butler stood in the entryway. He was a tall, incredibly thin man with a face completely devoid of any emotion. He wore the dark uniform of the house perfectly.

"Good day," Lord Hawksley said, clearing his dry throat. He handed his hat and walking stick to a waiting footman. "I must see Lord Farrington immediately. I bring urgent news from Mayfair."

The butler offered a stiff, shallow bow.

"Good day, my lord," the butler replied. His voice was flat and perfectly polite. "Lord Farrington is not in his study at present. He is at the back of the estate. He is entirely engrossed in his shooting."

Hawksley frowned slightly. "Shooting? At this hour?"

"Yes, my lord," the butler confirmed smoothly. "He requested not to be disturbed unless the matter is of the utmost importance."

"It is," Hawksley insisted, tugging nervously at the edge of his cravat. "I will go to him."

Lord Hawksley nodded to the butler and walked through the grand, silent halls of the manor, making his way toward the heavy glass doors that led to the back gardens.

He stepped outside onto the vast, perfectly manicured green lawns.

CRACK!

A loud, violent gunshot echoed sharply through the quiet morning air.

Lord Hawksley flinched visibly. His shoulders jumped up toward his ears, and he stopped walking for a brief second. He hated the sound of gunfire. It was far too loud and far too dangerous. He preferred to ruin his enemies quietly, without dirtying his hands.

He took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and continued walking toward the open field at the very edge of the manicured gardens.

Lord Farrington was engaged in clay pigeon shooting.

The Earl stood in the center of the green grass. He was dressed impeccably for the country sport, wearing a tailored brown shooting jacket with leather patches on the shoulders, and tall, polished riding boots. He held a long, beautifully crafted hunting rifle in his hands.

His posture was perfectly straight, entirely rigid, and completely relaxed all at the same time. He looked like a predator in his natural habitat.

A few yards away, a young servant boy stood near a large wooden box filled with flat, round discs made of baked clay. The boy looked terrified. He was shaking slightly in the wind, his eyes fixed nervously on his master.

Hawksley stopped at a safe distance and watched.

Lord Farrington did not look at the boy. He kept his cold eyes fixed on the empty sky above the distant tree line. He raised the heavy rifle, pulling the smooth wooden stock firmly against his shoulder. He leveled the long metal barrel.

"Pull," Lord Farrington commanded. His voice was low, sharp, and carried no emotion whatsoever.

The servant boy scrambled. He reached into the wooden box, grabbed a clay disc, and threw it high up into the air with all his might. The dark clay spun rapidly against the clouds.

Lord Farrington tracked the moving target with chilling precision. He did not hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

CRACK!

Fire and smoke burst from the end of the rifle barrel. High in the air, the clay disc exploded. Lord Farrington shot the clay perfectly in the center, scattering it into dozens of tiny, broken pieces that rained down into the tall grass like dark hail.

It was a flawless shot.

Hawksley felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He watched the clay shatter and could not help but think of how easily Farrington destroyed the people who stood in his way.

Lord Farrington smoothly lowered the smoking gun. He broke the barrel open with a sharp snap of his wrist. The empty brass shell popped out, landing in the grass. He reached into his deep pocket, pulled out a fresh cartridge, and reloaded his gun. He snapped the barrel back into place with a loud click.

He turned his head slightly, glaring at the trembling servant.

"You are throwing them too slowly," Lord Farrington said, his voice dripping with cruel disappointment. "I am not shooting blind, old birds. Put some force into your arm, boy. Again."

The servant swallowed hard and nodded quickly. "Yes, my lord. Right away."

Lord Farrington raised the rifle back to his shoulder. He leveled the barrel.

"Pull," Farrington ordered.

The servant threw another disc, hurling it much faster and higher this time.

Farrington did not even blink. He followed the fast-moving target with his cold eyes, adjusted his aim slightly, and squeezed the trigger.

CRACK!

Once again, he shot it out of the sky. The clay shattered into fine dust.

Lord Hawksley knew he could not stand there watching all day. He needed to deliver his report. He took a few steps forward, stepping onto the grass so the Earl would see him.

"My Lord," Hawksley called out. He kept his voice loud enough to be heard over the ringing in their ears, but he made sure to sound deeply respectful. "I am sorry for the interruption."

Lord Farrington slowly lowered his gun. He did not look surprised to see his brother-in-law, nor did he look pleased. He simply looked annoyed that his sport had been paused.

He turned his head and looked at Hawksley. His eyes were entirely flat, giving nothing away.

Farrington raised his hand and signaled for the servant to leave. He flicked his fingers in a short, dismissive gesture.

The young servant boy did not need to be told twice. He dropped the clay disc he was holding, bowed quickly, and ran back toward the servant quarters as fast as his legs could carry him, deeply relieved to be away from the guns and the Earl’s cold anger.

Lord Farrington handed his heavy rifle to a waiting footman who had been standing silently in the shadows of the trees.

Farrington reached into the inner pocket of his brown shooting jacket. He took out a thick, expensive tobacco cigar. He placed the end between his teeth. The footman quickly stepped forward, struck a long wooden match, and held the small, bright flame steady.

Farrington leaned in and lit it. He took a long, slow draw. The tip of the cigar glowed a bright, angry orange. A thick cloud of gray, pungent smoke drifted into the air, mixing with the sharp, bitter smell of the spent gunpowder.

Hawksley waited for him to finish. He stood perfectly still, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He knew better than to rush Lord Farrington when the man was enjoying his tobacco.

Farrington took the cigar from his mouth. He exhaled a long stream of smoke, watching it disappear into the wind. Finally, he turned his full, intimidating attention to his nervous brother-in-law.

"So," Farrington asked, his voice low and demanding. "What did you find out?"