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.
