A Scandal By Any Other Name

The next morning, the Farrington estate was quiet. The thick, gray clouds from the night before were finally breaking apart, letting weak rays of sunlight touch the damp green lawns and cold winds filling the atmosphere.

Inside his study on the ground floor, Lord Farrington was incredibly anxious.

He sat behind his desk, thinking. The massive, chaotic mess he had made days ago had been perfectly cleaned by terrified maids, but the dark stain of spilled ink still marked his rug. He drummed his fingers rapidly against the polished wood of his desk.

He had not received any feedback from the coastal warehouses.

He had sent a fast, trusted rider to Mr. Higgins with explicit, dangerous orders: destroy the ruined tobacco entirely. Push it into the sea. Leave absolutely no trace for the Crown. The rider should have returned by dawn, but the morning had stretched into the late hours, and there was still no word.

Lord Farrington hated silence. Silence usually meant someone had made a terrible mistake.

Outside the study, hidden in the shadows of the long hallway, Lady Celine was keeping quiet tabs on her father. Her mother had gone out, socializing with the women of the Ton, leaving her with enough room to act.

Celine leaned against the cool stone wall, watching his every move.

Suddenly, the quiet of the hallway was broken by the sound of slow loud footsteps.

Celine shrank back into the shadows. She saw the elderly butler walking toward the study doors. He was carrying a small silver tray with a letter placed in the middle.

Inside the study, Lord Farrington heard the knock on his door. He sat up completely straight, smoothing the lapels of his dark morning coat.

"Enter," Lord Farrington commanded sharply.

The door opened. The butler stepped inside.

Lord Farrington’s dark mood was instantly elevated. Finally, some news from the coast. Finally, Higgins had reported that the evidence was completely gone. He relaxed slightly into his leather chair.

But as the butler approached the desk, Lord Farrington’s sharp eyes noticed something very wrong. He noticed the man’s extreme nervousness.

The butler was walking very stiffly. His face was pale, and he would not meet his master’s eyes. When he held out the silver tray, his hand was visibly shaking, causing the single letter resting on it to rattle slightly against the metal.

Lord Farrington frowned deeply. His brief relief vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp suspicion.

"What is wrong with you, man?" Farrington asked. His voice was not angry, but it was incredibly cold and demanding.

The butler swallowed hard. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the edge of the desk. He replied, his voice a tight, fearful whisper. "Nothing, my lord. It is just... it is just that the letter is from the House of Lords."

Lord Farrington’s thick eyebrows drew together in deep confusion. He looked at the white parchment resting on the tray. It was true. The letter was sealed with the intricate wax crest of the High Chancellor’s office. It was different from the ones Higgins sends.

Farrington scoffed softly. He reached out and took the thick letter from the shaking tray.

"There is nothing important happening in the House of Lords right now," Farrington said dismissively. "Parliament is barely in session. It is likely just a routine matter regarding land taxes or a boring committee assignment."

He used his thumb to break the heavy wax seal. He unfolded the thick parchment.

He read the first line.

Then, he stopped breathing completely.

To the Earl, Lord Farrington,

You are hereby formally and urgently summoned to stand before the High Chancellor and the gathered committee of peers in the House of Lords. You are required to answer direct charges of high treason, smuggling, and the murder of a royal subject.

Your immediate presence in London is strictly mandated.

Lord Farrington stared at the crisp black ink. The words seemed to blur and swim before his eyes.

"Why am I being summoned?" he asked himself in a quiet, stunned whisper, completely ignoring the butler standing in front of him.

He read the charges again. High treason. Illegal smuggling. Murder.

Those were not minor political disagreements. Those were absolute, fatal accusations. They were the very crimes he had spent twenty years covering up with bribes and violence.

Then his mind suddenly clicked. The pieces fell together with terrifying clarity.

"Have I been caught?" Farrington thought to himself, his heart suddenly hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He stood up slowly from his chair. The letter slipped from his fingers and fell onto the desk.

"Have they found out about the coastal warehouses?" he wondered, his mind racing through every single possibility. "But how? How is it even possible? I covered my tracks so incredibly well! Higgins was sworn to absolute secrecy!"

The silence from the coast finally made perfect, horrifying sense. Higgins had not written back because Higgins was likely already sitting in a cold iron cell. The Crown Guards had moved faster than his rider.

Lord Farrington looked at the shaking butler. He did not ask any more questions. He knew exactly what a formal summons meant. If the High Chancellor had enough evidence to write the words high treason, then everything is over. They had the proof. They had the witnesses.

He was an Earl, but he was not invincible against the full weight of the Crown.

He would not stay. He would not take any chances. He needed to run away, immediately, before the magistrates received orders to arrest him.

Lord Farrington pushed past his desk. He did not say a word to the butler. He burst out of the study doors and practically ran down the grand hallway, completely abandoning all aristocratic dignity.

Celine, hiding behind the tall marble pillar, gasped softly. She pressed herself flat against the cold stone, watching her father rush past her hiding spot. She had never seen him run before. He looked completely unhinged.

"What is making Papa so afraid?" Celine asked herself silently, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

She watched her father run up the grand sweeping staircase, taking the marble steps two at a time. He headed directly for his bedchamber.

Celine followed him slowly, creeping quietly up the stairs. She hid near the top landing, listening to the loud, frantic sounds coming from his room. She heard drawers being yanked open violently and slammed shut. She heard the clinking sound of heavy gold coins being poured into leather bags.

"Is he leaving?" Celine asked herself, her blue eyes wide with pure shock. "Where is he going in such a hurry?"

Inside the master bedchamber, Lord Farrington was packing with desperate, frantic speed. He did not call for his valet. He threw open his safe, grabbing the remaining stacks of gold coins and thick rolls of paper bank notes he kept for emergencies. He shoved the money roughly into a small, sturdy leather travel bag. He threw in a few practical items of clothing and a silver pocket watch.

He did not even think about his wife or his daughter. He was a deeply selfish man, entirely focused on saving his own skin. He planned to ride hard for the coast, find a smuggling ship that did not work for him, and buy his passage to France.

He grabbed the leather bag. He tucked a loaded pistol securely into the belt of his trousers, hiding it beneath his dark morning coat.

He practically flew back down the grand staircase.

Celine stayed completely hidden near the top landing. She watched him descend, feeling a strange, confusing mixture of immense relief and lingering terror. If he left the country, she would finally be free. But she knew that cornered men were the most dangerous.

Lord Farrington reached the bottom of the stairs. He marched directly toward the front doors, intending to order his fastest horse saddled immediately.

He entered the open foyer.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The front doors of the manor were wide open. The bright morning sunlight was blocked by the figures standing on the stone steps.

Standing directly in the center of the foyer, completely blocking his path to freedom, was a tall, stern man wearing a crisp, dark blue uniform with shining buttons. He held a long, gleaming silver sword resting casually against his shoulder.

It was Captain Reynolds of the Crown Guards.

Behind the Captain, a dozen heavily armed guards stood in perfect formation, completely filling the grand entrance of the manor. Their rifles were held loosely, but their eyes were completely alert and focused directly on the Earl.

Captain Reynolds looked at the shocked Earl and offered a very small, entirely cold smile.