The Shadow of Great Britain

330: Chapter 207: Network Monitoring (5K4) 330: Chapter 207: Network Monitoring (5K4) If you ask a Londoner to name areas that represent the dwellings of London’s elite and prominent merchants, Marylebone and Mayfair would certainly top the list.

And right at the border between Marylebone and Mayfair lies the most dazzling architectural star of Marylebone.

In a location adjacent to the bustling Oxford Street and the Royal Regent’s Park, there is an emerging residential area—Regency Crescent.

The Royal architect, Sir John Nash, had planned and designed many renowned architectural projects in his lifetime, such as the Buckingham Palace renovation plan, the landscape design of Regent’s Park and Marylebone Park, and the construction of Trafalgar Square, St.

James’s Park, and the Haymarket Theatre.

But this did not prevent Regency Crescent from becoming the most outstanding work of his life.

Since Regency Crescent was completed in 1820, royal family members, dignitaries, and wealthy merchants have flocked here, and those socialites who aimed to build relationships with them regarded this place as the pinnacle of social circle parties.

Naturally, the completion of Regency Crescent also drove nearby house prices to soar rapidly, with countless luxury shops and large commercial districts springing up nearby.

Arthur once had the opportunity to secure a small suite here.

At that time, he only had a vague concept of the housing prices.

It wasn’t until later that he felt quite grateful he hadn’t taken it from Lionel Rothschild’s hands; otherwise, the favor would have seemed too substantial.

But looking back, he also felt it was a pity not to have secured this place.

After all, aside from Buckingham Palace, there probably wasn’t any other place where one could wake up in the morning and see so many distinguished figures that shook Europe.

However, regrets aside, fortunately, one of Arthur’s friends was about to move into a new home, and his new residence was right here.

On a foggy morning in London, before the mist had cleared, the wheels of the carriage stopped slowly in front of Regency Crescent.

A black riding boot stepped onto the hard grey brick road.

Under the wide-brimmed hat, a plume of smoke curled up.

Arthur looked up at the ivory-white buildings resembling the moon in their winding beauty, and behind him lay the breathtaking scene of Regent’s Park—one of George IV’s most favored creations.

Just that gesture was enough to catch the attention of the guards stationed at the various entrances of Regency Crescent.

The guard walked up to him in step, looked up and down at his attire, and then asked, “Sir, may I know whom you are looking for?”

Arthur simply replied, “Mr.

Charles Wheatstone.

I have an appointment with him.”

Realizing who he was, the guard said, “Then you must be Mr.

Hastings?

Mr.

Wheatstone informed us last night.

Once you arrive, you can go straight up.

The door number is 2-1B.

Let me show you the way.”

Arthur nodded slightly, and under the guard’s guidance, he quickly arrived at the door adorned with a black iron and gold-trimmed nameplate.

The guard rang the bell gently, and after a few tinkling sounds, the door was soon opened, revealing the face of Mr.

Wheatstone, shadowed with heavy dark circles under his eyes.

Wearing a nightcap and yawning as he stretched, he said, “Arthur, you’re early, aren’t you?”

Arthur, noticing Wheatstone’s appearance, only asked, “Did you just go to bed?”

Wheatstone let him into the house, poured himself a cup of coffee, and nestled in the sofa next to the living room fireplace, “I’ve just moved in, and I’m a bit too excited.

I kept tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep.”

Arthur surveyed the two-story, six-bedroom room and placed the gift he brought on the coffee table, saying, “It looks nice.

This place mustn’t be cheap.”

Pleased and sinking back into the sofa with his eyes half-closed, Wheatstone felt as if his head were floating in the clouds, “Indeed, it’s not cheap—four thousand pounds.

If this was Greenwich, I could have bought a whole street with that money.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, “No wonder you refused to accept the perfume yesterday, insisting on cash instead.

It’s all because of this house.

Mr.

Aitell wasn’t wrong—women can be appeased by flattery, a bottle of perfume would settle them, but it’s usually not the same with men.”

While sipping his coffee, Wheatstone asked, “Who’s Mr.

Aitell?”

Arthur took off his hat and hung it on the coatrack, “A painter, also a Professor at the Royal Academy of Arts.

If you’re interested in having your portrait painted, I have his card here.

But just to mention, his prices aren’t cheap.”

After considering it, Wheatstone finally said, “I’ll pass for now.

This house has nearly drained all the money I made from selling phonographs.

I’m planning on opening a branch on Regent Street, so I can’t touch the rest of the money for now.

But, speaking of which, what brings you over this early?

Surely you’re not just here to deliver a gift?”

As Wheatstone said this, he suddenly asked, “By the way, the perfume you had yesterday, Riddle, was it really expensive?”

Arthur took a sip from his coffee cup, “It depends on how you define it.

If it’s two hundred pounds a bottle, then certainly it’s not worth it.

But for those high-society ladies, I believe some would be willing to spend a few or even a dozen pounds to pre-order a custom-made one.

You haven’t met Mr.

Riddle, so you probably don’t know he actually has considerable experience in handling ladies of high society.

Hunger marketing, custom orders—if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have known someone had already mastered that in the 19th century.”