The Shadow of Great Britain

401: Chapter 232: The Prime Minister’s Peak Showdown (6K)_3 401: Chapter 232: The Prime Minister’s Peak Showdown (6K)_3 “You can’t exactly say that,” Disraeli murmured softly.

“When the Earl of Eldon was High Chancellor, he was certainly a ruthless character, but maybe he’s grown sensitive from the attacks in the press over the years, or perhaps he’s just gotten old.

Surprisingly, he’s quite nostalgic.

Bernie Harrison has followed him for so many years; it might be difficult for him to completely let go of Harrison all at once.

I’ve heard that even if the party doesn’t allocate a seat to Harrison, the Earl of Eldon might still hand over one of the pocket boroughs he controls.

After all, he knows Harrison still has a case on his back; if he’s not given the status of an MP, Scotland Yard surely won’t let him off easily.

Unless…”

“Unless what?”

Disraeli, hand cupped over his mouth, said, “Unless they can dig up some more negative news on him soon.

You know, the Earl of Eldon, Mr.

Drummond, and the former Naval Minister Sir John Crook, they’re all in it together.

And they share one common trait: they’re all devout Christians.

So you understand, Harrison has already disappointed them greatly; if Scotland Yard can expose some moral shortcomings, then he’s done for.”

At this, Arthur couldn’t help but smile and stared at Disraeli for a good while.

Disraeli felt uncomfortable under his gaze and couldn’t help but say, “Arthur, what are you doing?”

Arthur simply reached for his hat on the coat rack and put it on his head, the police badge of Scotland Yard shimmering above.

Arthur gave Disraeli a light pat on the shoulder.

“Benjamin, the proud are indeed exceptional!”

Disraeli blinked and gave a sly grin.

“Of course, as I’ve said, one day I’ll climb to the very top of this slippery pole in Britain.

Arthur, watch and see; I’ve already reserved the position of Permanent Undersecretary of the Treasury for you.”

Arthur donned his tailcoat and brushed the dust off his St.

Edward’s Crown Badge.

“By the way, about that Tory rising star you mentioned, what’s his background?”

Disraeli pursed his lips and shook his head.

“That’s a bit tricky.

He’s a distinguished graduate from Eton College, finished Oxford University with a First-Class Honours degree, and was the president of the Oxford Debating Society throughout university.

I’ve heard the Lords who graduated from Oxford say at banquets that the Oxford professors can’t stop praising him, calling him ‘the next Robert Peel.’ Plus, he made a sensational speech at Oxford last year against parliamentary reform, so right after graduation, he caught the Tory Party’s high regard.

The Duke of Newcastle even personally extended an olive branch to him during his visit to the Oxford graduation ceremony recently, inviting him to join the Tory Party.

Arthur, now you understand how much pressure I’m under, don’t you?”

Arthur, stroking his chin, said, “Benjamin, the way you describe him, he sounds like a character out of a novel.”

“A character from a novel?” Disraeli rolled his eyes.

“Unfortunately, there’s another one like that in the Tory Party.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Who else but our own party leader, Sir Robert Peel.” Disraeli complained.

“Sir Peel received even more exaggerated accolades than this newcomer when he was studying at Oxford.

The Principal of Oxford outright stated that Sir Peel would surely become Prime Minister someday, and Sir Peel didn’t disappoint.

His first speech in the House of Commons was met with universal acclaim.

The Speaker of the House, Sir Charles Abbot, even stood up clapping and praised Sir Peel’s Commons debut as the best since the former Prime Minister William Pitt the Younger.

And to know that William Pitt the Younger was one of the greatest Prime Minister contenders of the 18th century Britain—what an honor it was!”

Seeing Disraeli’s anxious face, Arthur quipped, “Benjamin, you don’t need to worry so much.

Your first speech in the Commons doesn’t have to surpass Sir Peel; you just need to outdo that new kid.”

“That’s easy for you to say, but indeed, there’s no better way.

Damn it, being excellent—I was born to be more excellent than anyone else!” Disraeli said, giving himself a pep talk while taking deep breaths.

“I, Benjamin, must definitely surpass that woodcutter Gladstone, who can only chop wood!”

“Gladstone?

Woodcutter?” Arthur was taken aback by these two words and paused.

“Benjamin, what are you talking about?”

“Arthur, you have no idea how damn strange the new guy is!”

Disraeli complained, “He doesn’t have the slightest trace of a 19th century British gentleman about him; instead, he looks like a medieval mummy just dug up from a church graveyard.

I have tried dealing with him, considering we are all newcomers, and though we are rivals, it’s always right to build good relations.”

But that guy has no clue about how to make friends.

Apart from work, his biggest hobby is actually chopping wood!

I invited him to go to the theater to watch a play, and he flatly refused me—and you won’t believe his reason.

He said he was off to persuade streetwalkers to reform!

And he’s been doing this for several months.

While studying at Oxford, he would persuade the prostitutes nearby, and now he’s brought this habit with him to London.

In my opinion, he should not be running for Parliament; he should be seeking a church to become a Priest.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur immediately understood why Disraeli felt such a sense of crisis.

The actions of this newcomer, Mr.

Gladstone, almost perfectly fit the Tory Party’s hardliner requirements for a member of Parliament, not only opposing parliamentary reform but also evidently his moral views align with the most austere and conservative Anglican ethics.

Such a man evidently had the edge over someone like Disraeli, who just spouted pieties about ‘yearning for the good old country life’ and ‘reviving the British nobility’s spirit.’

“Gladstone…” Arthur muttered to himself, feeling as if he had heard the name before.

Suddenly, his heart skipped a beat: “Benjamin, do you know the full name of that Mr.

Gladstone?”

“Full name?” Disraeli thought for a moment and replied, “William Ewart Gladstone.

His father was originally a big slave trader in the West Indies.

After Britain declared the abolition of slavery, he shifted to industry and finance.”

Arthur muttered, “So it is him…

but I never imagined his family would have ties with Alexander too…”

“Oh!

That’s right!” Disraeli’s eyes lit up: “Maybe we should dress up Alexander and send him to Parliament to accuse their family business?”

Hearing this, Arthur’s mouth half-opened as if to speak, then stopped, patting Disraeli’s shoulder after a long while: “You better talk to Alexander about this yourself.

You know he’s recently bought a revolver flintlock gun; it might be good for you to accompany him to try it out.”

Seeing Arthur wouldn’t go, Disraeli felt uneasy on his own: “Do you have other plans?”

Arthur nodded slightly, lifting his hat to bid farewell: “Didn’t you just mention it?

It’s time for me to cast my net with Mr.

Bernie Harrison.”

Upon hearing this, Disraeli quickly intervened: “Arthur, don’t be rash.

Haven’t you forgotten what I said?

To cast your net, you need to give him another push.”

“Of course, I remember.”

Arthur took out a business card Fiona had given him from the inner pocket of his tailcoat and lightly waved it: “You might not be aware, but I’ve heard Mr.

Bernie Harrison enjoys frequenting certain pleasure establishments.

His mood hasn’t been very good lately, so he has been seen wandering about these places more frequently.

I originally didn’t think this small matter warranted public display, but since the likes of Earl Eldon place such importance on private virtue, I reluctantly have to drag him out of his comfort zone.

Benjamin, you should have told me this intel earlier; it wouldn’t have taken me so long to act.”

Arthur slightly curled his mouth into a gentle and charming smile, the red glint in his black eyes obscured as he squinted, leaving only the mesmerizing curve at the corner of his lips visible.

Puffing out his chest, Arthur grabbed the police saber hanging on the coat rack, pulled open the office door, and the lustrous black boots made a dull, crisp sound as he walked across the wooden floor.

Disraeli leaned by the window, a breeze blowing past and pushing aside the bead of sweat on his forehead.

He watched as Arthur’s figure disappeared outside the editorial department’s door, shaking his head with a bitter smile: “I just hope you don’t bump into that antiquated Gladstone during your venture.

He, like Harrison, has a penchant for pleasure places, but of course, his reason for going there is too peculiar, even for most men.”