The Shadow of Great Britain

If further actions can lead public opinion to believe that he, Benjamin Disraeli, is a young politician crushed by the old system, vulgar coercion, and the pressures of election campaigns, then perhaps he can seize the opportunity to win some sympathy votes from centrist voters.

”That’s a ruthless move, Arthur.” Disraeli took a deep breath, but a smile gradually appeared on his face. ”When you lay in St Martin’s Church for those three days, were you really meeting with the Devil in Hell?”

”You’re right, I came from there in the first place.” Arthur turned his head, surveying the surrounding crowd until he was sure no one was paying attention to them, then he spoke: ”One last thing, you need to meet her for your own sake.”

Disraeli’s shoulders visibly trembled, revealing a brief yet genuine hesitation: ”You mean... now? At this moment? Will she see me?”

”I might not be a master of romance like you, but you have to listen to me on this one.” Arthur was afraid Disraeli might be careless: ”You have to go. Immediately. The sooner, the better. You should be aware of her current situation, it’s not just debts or scandals, but isolation. I’m afraid she won’t hold up, and then out of despair or resentment, she’ll spill everything.”

Disraeli’s eyes widened, and after calming down, he too realized this possibility.

”If she starts talking to a reporter from the Chronicle Morning Paper or The Observer,” Arthur continued, ”and spins that two thousand pounds as a personal gift between you, then you can say goodbye to your dreams of the Lower House and No. 10 Downing Street.”

Arthur’s words had barely left his mouth when Disraeli felt as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head. He was stunned for two seconds, and then, with a sudden realization, slapped his forehead.

”Damn it!” He hurriedly stuffed the check, which he hadn’t yet put in his pocket, and turned to leave without looking back, muttering as he went: ”I have to find her, I have to go to her now, immediately, right away, or tomorrow The Observer’s front page will write ’Benjamin Disraeli: From Tower Hamlets to Tartarus’.”

His figure quickly disappeared between the streetlights and the mist, leaving behind only a trace of cigar smoke.

The front of the Carlton Club briefly fell into silence.

Arthur stood in place, slowly placing the extinguished cigar back in his mouth.

”Tsk tsk tsk...” A familiar voice echoed softly, filled with sarcasm and amusement: ”Arthur, my dear Arthur, you are truly a talent.”

Arthur did not turn his head, he merely struck a match for his cigar, the flame illuminating his faint expression: ”Here again, Agares?”

From the shadows behind the gas lamp post, the Red Devil emerged like a wine stain brewed from the night, slowly spreading out from the puddle.

”I thought you were doing a good deed this time.” Agares leaned against the lamp post, his echoing voice winding like silk: ”In the end, you went through such a roundabout way, claiming to save a friend, but actually bringing that old, moldy case back to light.”

Arthur said indifferently: ”If you want Fleet Street to shut up, you have to feed them some old stories to satiate them.”

”Old stories?” Agares tilted his head, grinning like a lunatic who just escaped from an asylum: ”Whose old accounts are you revisiting? Lady Norton? Judge Norton? Oh, perhaps it was Viscount Melbourne’s court declaration of ’there is no improper relationship between us’?”

Arthur exhaled a puff of smoke: ”What are you trying to say?”

”I am saying...” Agares leaned closer, his voice like a thorn on red velvet: ”Digging up the Norton case at this time isn’t just to suppress Disraeli’s little scandal, is it?”

Arthur didn’t immediately refute, he merely gazed into the distance, at the carriages coming and going on St. James Street: ”Agares, don’t think too badly of me. The stock price of Empire Publishing Company has fallen recently, and as chairman of the board, I have to release some good news that will boost newspaper sales, to bolster market confidence, right?”