A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 170 - Hundred And Seventy

Farrington closed his eyes, visualizing the grand scheme he had spent months building.

He had planned to transport the illegal cargo in a long train of fine, covered carriages. The carriages would be led by his own hired men, but they would be dressed perfectly in the Duke of Ford’s personal uniform.

The shipment would travel up the main roads and approach the heavy stone bridges leading into the city of London.

Normally, the city guards stopped every single merchant wagon at the bridges. They carried long iron spikes, driving them deep into hay bales and wooden boxes to search for smuggled goods. They demanded heavy taxes on all imported items, tearing apart anything that looked suspicious.

But with his plan, the shipment could bypass the heavy inspections at the London bridges completely.

The guards would see the dark green and gold Hamilton colors. They would see the men wearing the Duke’s proud uniform. They would look at the grand, golden Hamilton crest painted on the side of the wooden crates.

They would immediately assume it was the Duke’s private household goods. They would think it was expensive, antique furniture being moved from a country estate, or rare imported wine, or heavy library books for his study.

No common city guard would ever dare to stop and search the private property of the Duke of Ford. The guards would simply step aside, wave the carriages through with a respectful tip of the hat, and let the massive fortune roll directly into Farrington’s hidden cellars.

This has been his plan from the very beginning. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The forced marriage. The blackmail over the railway consortium. The sudden, desperate push to secure the engagement before the end of the month. It was never truly about giving Celine a good life. It was never about simply gaining a Duke for a son-in-law to boast about at his clubs.

It was always about acquiring the absolute, untouchable protection of the Hamilton name for his illegal businesses.

Lord Farrington stopped pacing. He stood behind his desk and looked down at the crumpled letter again.

He needed that protection now more than ever.

He walked over to a small side table and poured himself a large glass of dark red wine from a crystal decanter. He took a long, slow drink, trying to calm the nervous, fearful energy buzzing beneath his skin.

He could not simply use his own Farrington carriages to move the goods. He could not just bribe the guards as he used to do in the past.

A new, completely incorruptible Commissioner of Excise had taken over the office just recently.

The previous Commissioner was a fat, lazy man who gladly accepted heavy bags of gold to look the other way when Farrington’s ships arrived in the dark of night. The current guards working the docks and the bridges were heavily bribed and completely in Farrington’s pocket.

But the new Commissioner was entirely different. He was a strict, harsh man with a sharp eye for crime. And worse, the new Commissioner was bringing in "The Flying Squad."

Lord Farrington’s lip curled into a sneer of pure disgust at the name.

The Flying Squad was a mobile unit of elite, highly trained officers. They rode fast horses. They struck without warning. They set up surprise checkpoints on the dark country roads leading to the city, constantly changing their locations. They were fiercely loyal to the Crown, and they did not care about bribes. If Farrington tried to hand a gold coin to an officer of the Flying Squad, the officer would likely arrest him for bribery on the spot, throwing him into the Tower of London.

If Farrington tried to move the tobacco in unmarked wagons, the Flying Squad would catch them. They would open the crates, find the untaxed leaves, and seize the entire fortune. The trail of evidence would lead straight back to the Farrington estate, and the Earl would be completely ruined. He would be stripped of his title and imprisoned.

However, the new Commissioner had one distinct weakness.

The new Commissioner had a deep, profound respect for the Hamilton family. The new Commissioner was a former military general. He knew that the males in the Hamilton family had risked their lives for the country, participating bravely in terrible wars across the sea. The former Duke of Ford, Rowan’s father, had bled for the Queen, taking a musket ball to the shoulder to save his men.

To the new Commissioner, the Hamilton name was a symbol of absolute honor and patriotism.

Farrington had known this. He had built his entire smuggling plan around this single, vital fact.

He just needed that name. He just needed that connection to the Hamilton family, and his illegal business could continue without a single interruption. The Flying Squad would never dare to search a carriage bearing the colors of a decorated war hero.

But now, everything was ruined.

Just then, a sharp knock sounded at the study door.

Farrington glared at the heavy wood. "I said I am not to be disturbed!"

"It is me, my lord," Lady Farrington’s voice called out from the hallway. Her tone was sharp and complaining.

Farrington unlocked the door and pulled it open. Lady Farrington stood there, wearing a purple day dress. Her face was twisted into a sour frown.

"The dressmaker just sent the bill for Celine’s gown," Lady Farrington complained, stepping into the study uninvited. "And the cobbler is demanding payment for the custom made shoes. This delay is costing us a fortune. You must go to Hamilton House and demand that the Duke sign the papers in his bed. We cannot look weak."

Lord Farrington stared at his wife. He felt a sudden, violent urge to strike her. She was a foolish, shallow woman who understood absolutely nothing about the true danger they were in. She only cared about her social standing and her dresses.

"Shut your mouth," Lord Farrington snarled, his voice a low, terrifying growl.

Lady Farrington gasped, stepping back slightly. "My Lord?"

"You understand nothing!" Farrington shouted, completely losing his temper. He pointed a shaking finger at her face. "You worry about dressmakers while we are standing on the very edge of the gallows! The tobacco is rotting on the coast! If I do not move it two weeks, we are bankrupt! We will lose this house. We will lose the title. You will be a beggar in the streets!"

Lady Farrington’s eyes widened in absolute horror. The color drained completely from her powdered cheeks. "Rotting? Bankrupt? But... but the Hamilton crest... the plan..."

"The plan requires the Duke’s signature!" Farrington roared, slamming his hand down on the desk. "And the Duke is currently unconscious with a wound to the skull! He cannot sign a legal document while he is indisposed!"

Lady Farrington covered her mouth with her hands, finally understanding the sheer magnitude of the disaster. She backed away toward the door, terrified of her husband’s violent wrath. She turned and fled the study without another word.

Lord Farrington slammed the door shut again.

He walked back to his desk. He dropped into his heavy leather chair. He leaned back and stared blankly at the ceiling.

For the first time in his long, wicked life, Lord Farrington was truly, deeply worried.

The cold, creeping sensation of panic began to settle permanently in his chest. His perfect trap had completely stalled, and he was running out of time.

He could not force the issue. He cannot persuade Rowan for an engagement now that a massive disaster has occurred.

Farrington understood the rules of polite society perfectly. The Ton was a vicious, watching beast. The lords and ladies of Mayfair loved nothing more than a juicy scandal. If Lord Farrington marched into Hamilton House, demanded to see an unconscious man, and tried to force a wedding while the family was weeping, the gossips would tear him to pieces.

The Ton would point fingers at him. The society matrons would whisper behind their fans.

Why is the Earl so desperate? Why can he not wait a few weeks for the Duke to heal? Is he hiding something? Is the Farrington family in financial ruin? Is something wrong with the bride?

That was the absolute last thing he wanted. If society began to ask questions, the magistrates would begin to ask questions. The new Commissioner of Excise would look closely at the Farrington accounts. His hidden smuggling operations would be exposed to the bright light of day.

He had to remain perfectly polite. He had to act like a concerned, patient father. He had to wait for the Duke to heal naturally.

But the rotting tobacco sitting on the damp, rainy coast could not wait. The mold was already growing. The fortune was literally melting away with every passing hour.

Lord Farrington opened his eyes. The silent study suddenly felt very small, exactly like a closing trap. The walls seemed to press in on him, suffocating him.

He looked at the crushed, ruined letter sitting on his desk. His brilliant, flawless plan was falling apart because of a single, unpredictable carriage accident.

He slowly leaned forward. He rested his elbows on the hard wood of the desk and buried his face in his hands. The Earl was completely out of options. He had no backup plan for this.

He asked himself, his voice a harsh, desperate whisper in the empty room.

"What do I do now?"