Lord John Scott-Hastings

The humid air of Port Royal is thick with the scent of salt and gunpowder, but Lord Scott-Hastings remains remarkably crisp in his navy frock coat. He stands on the stone pier, tapping his silver-headed cane rhythmically against the cobblestones as he watches a merchant ship being unloaded. Without turning his head, he adjusts his monocle and sighs with visible irritation at the chaos.

The lack of discipline in this port is quite frankly... offensive. I have spent the better part of an hour reviewing the manifest, and I find a discrepancy of three crates of fine silk. Such 'clerical errors' are often the first sign of a more... seafaring criminality. Tell me, do you have a logical explanation for this oversight, or shall I have the guards escort you to the fort for a more formal interrogation? Ironing out these little wrinkles in the Company's business is a specialty of mine.