A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 169 - Hundred And Sixty Nine

A DAY AGO...

Two hundred miles away from the elegant, polished streets of London, the English coastline was a miserable, gray wasteland.

The violent storm that had nearly killed the Duke of Ford had struck the coastal cliffs with equal brutality.

High on a rocky bluff, hidden away from the main trading ports, stood an old, decaying wooden warehouse. It was known among the local smugglers simply as the "blind." It was a place where illegal goods were hidden in the dark before being secretly moved into the city.

Inside the warehouse, the air was thick, cold, and smelled terribly of wet earth.

A rough, dirty man known as Black Jack stood in the center of the massive room. He held a flickering oil lantern up high. The yellow light cast long, terrifying shadows over hundreds of large wooden crates stacked to the ceiling.

Black Jack looked up. The roof of the old warehouse had been completely ripped apart by the heavy winds two days ago. Large sections of the wooden shingles were gone, leaving massive, gaping holes open to the gray sky.

Cold rainwater leaked steadily through the broken ceiling boards. The water fell directly onto the top layer of the wooden crates, soaking the wood until it was dark and soft.

Black Jack handed the lantern to a younger smuggler. He pulled an iron crowbar from his belt and jammed it under the lid of one of the wet crates. He pushed down hard. The damp wood cracked open easily.

Black Jack reached his dirty hands inside the crate. He pulled out a large handful of what looked like dark leaves.

It was untaxed American tobacco. It was the finest, most expensive leaf in the world, meant to be sold to the wealthy lords of Mayfair for their pipes and cigars.

But as Black Jack held the leaves up to the lantern light, he cursed loudly.

"BLAST!!!"

The tobacco was damp. It was supposed to be perfectly dry and brittle. Instead, it was limp, soggy, and covered in a fine layer of fuzzy, white mold. The moisture from the storm was spreading rapidly through the tightly packed crates.

"It is rotting," Black Jack spat, dropping the ruined leaves onto the dirty floorboards. "The damp is eating it alive. If this cargo sits here for two more weeks, the entire shipment will be completely worthless."

He turned away from the crates and marched over to a small, rickety wooden table in the corner of the warehouse. He sat down heavily. He pulled a piece of paper toward him and dipped a broken quill into a bottle of watery ink.

He had to warn his master in London immediately. The cargo had to be moved to a dry, ventilated cellar in the city before the month ended, or the massive fortune would literally turn to dust.

Black Jack quickly wrote the urgent letter, his handwriting messy and hurried. He folded the paper, lit a candle, and melted a thick drop of black wax over the fold. He pressed a special seal into the wax. It was the only way the letter would bypass the regular post and reach the Earl directly.

"Take this to London," Black Jack ordered, handing the sealed letter to his fastest rider. "Do not stop to eat. Do not stop to sleep. Put it directly into the Earl’s hands."

~ •• THE PRESENT •• ~

Lord Farrington stood perfectly still on the damp grass. He did not notice the footman standing nervously in the shadows of the trees, holding his hunting rifle. All of his attention was entirely focused on the small piece of paper in his hands.

My lord, there is a big problem.

Lord Farrington’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, lethal slits. He reached inside the thick parchment with his gloved fingers. He frowned deeply as he pulled the rest of the letter out.

He unfolded the paper. The paper crackled loudly in the quiet, tense air. He read the messy, hurried handwriting of his coastal smuggler, absorbing the remaining news that made his cold blood run completely still.

The massive shipment of the untaxed American tobacco is still sitting in the "blind" on the coast. The hidden warehouse is old, and the storm of two days ago was brutal. The heavy rain damaged the roof. Half the wooden shingles were blown away. The warehouse is incredibly damp, my lord. Water is leaking through the ceiling boards. If the tobacco isn’t moved to a dry, ventilated London cellar soon, the leaf will mold and rot. It will become completely worthless in a matter of days. We must move it as soon as possible.

Lord Farrington stopped reading.

His breathing turned incredibly slow and heavy. His chest rose and fell as he stared at the words. His hands began to tremble. He was not trembling from the sudden cold air. He was trembling from a sudden, violent surge of pure, uncontrollable rage.

He gripped the edges of the letter so tightly that his knuckles turned completely white beneath his fine leather gloves.

With a harsh, guttural sound of anger, Lord Farrington crushed the paper in his fist. He squeezed it so tightly that the sharp, folded edges of the paper actually pinched the soft leather of his glove.

"Fools," Lord Farrington hissed through his clenched teeth. His voice was a venomous whisper that carried across the lawn. "Incompetent, useless fools!" 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

He turned on his heel and marched back toward the manor. His heavy riding boots tore angrily into the green grass, leaving deep, ugly tracks behind him. The footman hiding in the trees quickly looked away, completely terrified to make eye contact with the furious Earl.

Lord Farrington walked through the glass doors and stepped into the warm, quiet hallway of his home. He did not stop to hand his coat to the waiting butler. He stormed directly toward his private study, his face as dark and terrifying as a thundercloud.

He entered the study and slammed the door shut behind him. The loud bang echoed through the entire ground floor of the manor. He turned the brass key, locking himself inside so no one could see his panic.

He threw the crumpled ball of paper violently onto his large wooden desk. He walked over to the marble fireplace, staring down into the crackling orange flames.

He needs to move this tobacco into London as soon as possible.

This was not a small, trivial shipment. This was the largest, most expensive cargo he had ever smuggled across the ocean. American tobacco was incredibly valuable in the drawing rooms of polite society. If he could get it into the city and sell it to the private gentlemen’s clubs, he would make a massive, unimaginable fortune.

It was enough money to keep him rich. It was enough money to pay off the men who knew his dark secrets. It was the absolute key to maintaining his power in the House of Lords for the rest of his life.

But tobacco was a very delicate plant. It was completely unforgiving.

If the dried leaves sat in a damp, leaking warehouse on the salty coast, the moisture would seep into the wooden crates. The expensive leaves would rot. They would turn to useless, foul-smelling mold. Hundreds of thousands of pounds would literally turn to dust in a matter of days, and Lord Farrington would be utterly bankrupt.

Farrington ran a heavy, shaking hand through his graying hair. He paced away from the fire, walking the length of his rug. He paced back and forth like a caged tiger.

He had a perfect plan. It was a brilliant, flawless strategy.

By putting the tobacco into large wooden crates marked with the proud, famous Hamilton Crest, he could move the entire shipment in broad daylight. He had already hired the private painters to recreate the dark green and gold colors of the Duke’s noble house. The paint was sitting in the cellars, waiting to be used.

He planned to use the Hamilton name freely as the father-in-law of the family. The very moment Rowan signed the marriage contract, announced the engagement to Lady Celine at the grand Hamilton ball and say his vows in front of the church, Lord Farrington would officially be tied to one of the greatest Duke in England. He would have the social right to move goods under the family’s banner.