A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 216 - Two Hundred And Sixteen

Lord Farrington tore the letter in anger. He ripped the thick paper straight down the middle with a sudden, violent, jerky motion. He crumpled the pieces into a tight, hard ball in his fist and threw it violently against the stone fireplace.

He was so furious that his face was completely red. The blood rushed to his head, making his pale skin flush with a hot, ugly, purple rage. The veins on his forehead stood out thick and pulsing against his skin.

"Everything was going well," Lord Farrington hissed through his clenched teeth. His voice was a harsh, ragged whisper. "Where did I go wrong? I planned everything perfectly!"

He asked himself the question, completely unable to accept that nature had ruined his brilliant, flawless scheme. He was supposed to be completely above such common, pathetic failures.

He raised both of his hands and ran his fingers roughly through his thinning gray hair, entirely disheveling his usually perfectly neat, heavily pomaded style. The gray strands stuck out wildly around his red face, making him look completely mad.

"My money," Farrington breathed out, his chest heaving up and down. He leaned his hands flat against the polished top of his desk. "My money has gone down the drain. All of it. Gone!"

The sheer magnitude of the financial loss finally hit him fully. The anger inside his chest was no longer a cold, calculated tool. It was a wild, burning, uncontrollable beast. His frustration boiled over completely. He lost all sense of his usual, aristocratic control. He stood up straight and looked at his pristine desk.

With a loud, furious roar, he swept his arm across the wooden surface.

He started trashing his study.

The heavy silver inkwell flew across the room, smashing against the dark wooden paneling of the wall. Black ink splattered violently everywhere, staining the expensive wood and dripping down onto the fine rug. A stack of clean, white parchment papers fluttered into the air like frightened birds, scattering all over the floor.

He grabbed a leather-bound book from his desk and hurled it directly at the window. It hit the thick glass with a terrifying, loud thud, though the glass thankfully held. He kicked a wooden chair, sending it crashing onto its side with a loud, wooden clatter.

He was breathing heavily, his eyes wild and completely unfocused. He paced back and forth like a trapped, starving wolf, searching for something else to break.

Outside in the quiet, carpeted hallway, the loud sounds of destruction echoed clearly.

Lady Farrington was walking down the hall, holding a small, embroidered handkerchief. She stopped dead in her tracks when she heard the loud crash of the silver inkwell hitting the wall. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"My Lord?" Lady Farrington’s voice came from outside his study door.

She stepped closer to the wood. She was not a warm or loving wife. Their marriage was a cold, bitter business arrangement. But she was terrified of a public scandal, and the gentlemen were still shooting on the lawn.

"Are you alright?" she asked, choosing her words very carefully through the thick wood. Her voice carried her genuine worries. She did not want the servants to hear her husband acting like a madman.

A few yards away, hidden in the shadows of the grand hallway, Celine also heard the terrible commotion.

The young girl had been walking quietly toward the music room, thinking of how she would steal the ledger when the loud shouting began. She completely froze in terror. She stayed at a good, safe distance, pressing her back firmly against the cold stone of a tall marble pillar. She held the pillar tightly, peeking around the smooth edge, watching the scene with deep confusion and overwhelming worry.

Celine trembled. She had never, in all her years, heard her father make this kind of loud, violent commotion. Her father was a cruel man, yes. But his cruelty was usually delivered in cold, quiet whispers and sharp, stinging slaps. This loud, wild destruction was entirely new, and it terrified her to her very core.

Inside the ruined study, Lord Farrington heard his wife’s voice. The sound of her whining, concerned tone only added pure fuel to his raging fire. He hated her. He hated her weakness, and he hated her questions.

He stopped pacing. He glared at the closed door, his chest heaving.

"GET OUT!!!!" Lord Farrington shouted at the top of his lungs.

The sheer, terrifying volume of his voice shook the thick wooden door.

Outside in the hall, Lady Farrington gasped softly. She took a quick, frightened step back away from the door. She stood there for a while, clutching her handkerchief tightly to her chest, listening to the horrifying sounds coming from within. She heard another heavy thud, followed by the sound of tearing paper.

She bit her lower lip nervously. Every instinct she possessed told her to turn around, walk away, and stay in her room until his terrible mood passed.

But her fear of social embarrassment was slightly stronger than her fear of her husband. Count Rutherford and Viscount Colin were important, gossiping men. They would soon finish their shooting practice. They would come inside expecting a grand luncheon, hot tea, and their charming host. She had to know what to tell them. She could not simply leave them standing in the foyer.

Lady Farrington took a deep breath, gathering her fragile courage. She stepped forward again. She put her trembling hands on the cool brass handle and slowly turned it.

She pushed the heavy door open and stepped hesitantly into the room.

The moment the door opened, Lord Farrington spun around. He grabbed a heavy, thick crystal drinking glass from a side table. Without a single second of hesitation, he threw it violently toward the door.

The heavy glass missed her head by mere inches.

Smash!

A glass cup shattered into a hundred sparkling, dangerous pieces against the doorframe directly in front of her. The sharp shards rained down onto the carpet at her feet.

Lady Farrington let out a short, terrified shriek. She threw her hands up over her face to protect her eyes.

She slowly lowered her hands and looked around the room. The study was like a complete, terrifying madhouse. The expensive rug was covered in black ink and scattered papers. Chairs were overturned. And her husband stood in the center of the wreckage, his face purple with rage, his gray hair sticking up wildly, panting like a wild animal.

"My... my Lord," she stammered out, her voice trembling so badly her teeth chattered. She stared at the broken crystal on the floor.

Farrington glared at her with pure, unadulterated hatred. He hated her simply because she was there to witness his failure.

"The gentlemen..." Lady Farrington tried again, taking a tiny, frightened step backward toward the safety of the hallway. "The gentlemen are still outside practicing. They will be asking for you soon for luncheon. What... what do I tell them?"

The mention of the other noblemen—the men he had just been boasting to, the men who would surely laugh at him if they knew he had lost his entire fortune—completely snapped the last remaining shred of his sanity.

Farrington turned his violent anger entirely to his wife.

He crossed the messy room in three long, terrifying strides. Before she could even turn to run, he reached out with his large, strong hands.

He grabbed her throat.

His fingers wrapped tightly around her pale neck, squeezing hard. He did not choke her enough to lift her off the ground, but he squeezed tightly enough to completely cut off her air.

Lady Farrington’s eyes widened in absolute, sheer terror. The delicate lace of her high collar crushed under his brutal grip. She grabbed his wrists with both of her hands. Her manicured fingernails dug desperately into his skin. She tried to pry his strong hand away, her feet shuffling backwards as he backed her up against the doorframe.

"My Lord," she choked out, the words nothing but a pathetic, breathless wheeze. Her face began to turn a terrifying shade of pale blue. Tears of pure pain and absolute fear spilled from her eyes.

From her hiding spot down the hall, Celine covered her mouth with both hands to stop herself from screaming. She watched her father choke her mother, her entire body shaking with horror.

Farrington leaned his face incredibly close to his wife’s. He sneered at her, his lips pulling back to reveal his teeth in a vicious, ugly snarl.

"Handle it yourself," Farrington hissed directly into her face, his breath hot against her cheek.

With a sudden, violent movement, he pushed her hard.

He released his tight grip from her throat and shoved her backwards by her shoulders.

Lady Farrington stumbled heavily backward into the hallway. She lost her balance on her fine leather shoes and fell hard onto the carpeted floor. She gasped loudly, her hands flying to her bruised throat as she finally dragged in a huge, desperate gulp of air. She coughed violently, her chest heaving.

She did not look back at him. She did not ask another question.

Lady Farrington scrambled to her feet, her silk skirts tangling around her legs. She quickly turned and ran away down the long hallway, fleeing as fast as her legs could carry her, absolutely terrified that he would kill her if she stayed a single second longer.