shadow of britain

Chapter 789 London Nightlife

Charles Wheatstone originally thought that the most terrifying experience of his life was when he read his scientific findings at the Royal Society and was mistaken by the audience for someone who was there to sell snuff because his voice was too low.

But he was wrong.

The moment he stepped onto Huang Chunju Street, he realized that there was something more terrifying in the world than giving a speech at the Royal Society.

When asked why he came to this place...

It all started with a note left to him by a superior from the University of London.

Wheatstone was engrossed in his work in the physics laboratory at the University of London when a lab apprentice suddenly informed him that Provost Hastings wanted him to come to his office.

However, when Wheatstone arrived at the provost's office, he found a note stuck on the door.

The note said that Arthur had to go out temporarily, but the matter he needed to discuss with Wheatstone was urgent. Therefore, he arranged to meet Wheatstone at 8:30 p.m. that evening at the intersection in front of the Old Lady's Inn on Huang Chunju Street, and also reminded Wheatstone not to be late.

Although Wheatstone has lived in London for quite some time, that doesn't mean he's familiar with every neighborhood in the city.

At that time, he thought that "Chrysanthemum indicum" was some kind of aristocratic horticultural variety, and that "Chrysanthemum indicum street" was perhaps a high-end London neighborhood named after Dutch tulips.

It wasn't until a "lady" wearing lace stockings and with a voice even deeper than his that he realized he had entered a den of wolves and tigers, and had come to a place he shouldn't have been.

That bastard Arthur Hastings is probably playing a prank on him again!

"Oh, young sir, that little top hat you're wearing is really exquisite. Did you style your hair specially so you could come see me?"

The man pressed himself against Wheatstone in a coquettish voice, placing one hand on Wheatstone's waist while the other hand slid unceremoniously down the seam of his shirt.

"Don't, don't touch me!" Whistler shuddered violently, jumping up as if he'd been electrocuted. He clutched his backpack with one hand and tugged at his tie with the other, his face paler than the London morning mist. "You...you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm not one of you...not the kind of person you think I am..."

"Shy?" The "lady" giggled. "What's your name? Come on, tell me, what do you want to do tonight?"

"I...I...I...I don't want to think about anything..."

Before Hui Si finished speaking, a voice that was both utterly detestable and incredibly reassuring rang out from behind him: "Excuse me, this gentleman has an appointment with me tonight."

The voice was like a salvation bestowed by God. Whistler turned around sharply and saw Arthur, dressed in a black tailcoat, appear at the street corner.

He glanced down at his flip-top pocket watch, muttering to himself, "It's exactly 8:30, Charles. Thank goodness I didn't keep you waiting."

"Hmm..." The "madam" was taken aback, then rolled her eyes and looked Arthur up and down: "So he's your friend. You should have said so earlier. I don't want to steal someone who's already taken."

As he spoke, he blew Arthur a kiss and winked at Wheatstone: "Sir, if you ever get tired of him, remember to come find me. The third house on Beech Lane. Once you're inside, just tell them you're looking for Mrs. Rose."

After speaking, Madame Rose waddled away, leaving behind only a strong, almost intoxicating scent of perfume.

As for Wheatstone, he sat down on a wooden crate by the roadside as if he had just been rescued from the electric chair, his eyes glazed over, looking completely dazed.

"Hey, Charles." Arthur lit a cigarette, put his pipe in his mouth, and walked over. "Let's not sit here, let's go."

It took Wheatstone a while to recover from the shock. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and glared at Arthur.

"You..." He finally found his voice, and the spittle he spat out was enough to wash Arthur's face: "Are you fucking crazy?!"

This was probably the loudest shout Wheatstone had ever given in his life, so loud that his glasses bounced off his nose: "Why did you choose to meet me... in a place like this? Do you know what that person... what that person did to me?"

Arthur wasn't surprised by Wheatstone's reaction. He simply spoke in his usual calm tone, which made people want to punch him, "If you insist on telling me in detail, then I'd like to hear it."

Upon hearing this, Wheatstone choked back the curse that was on the tip of his tongue.

He was so angry that he pointed his finger at Arthur's nose, but his hand trembled in the air for a long time, and he couldn't utter a complete sentence.

Wheatstone's mouth opened and closed repeatedly: "You, you...you're simply...pretending to be ignorant when you know the truth!"

Arthur, pipe in mouth, calmly brushed the ash from his sleeve and said nonchalantly, "It's just a pinch on the butt, is it really that big of a deal?"

"What did you say?!"

“I said, is it really that big of a deal?” Arthur said casually, “When I got shot under the Tower of London, I didn’t react this strongly as you do.”

“Yes!” Wheatstone cursed, “Of course you didn’t react! Lying in a coffin, you’re already hard! What kind of reaction could you possibly have?”

At Wheatstone's shout, several "Countess Huang Chunju" turned their interested gazes toward them under the street's gaslights.

"Did you two have a fight?"

"That sweet little voice is so charming, even when she's arguing, it's so romantic."

"How about something quieter? Our beds here are very sturdy."

Upon hearing this, Wheatstone suddenly realized that this was not a good place to argue.

If Arthur gets angry and runs away now, Lady Rose might come back and take him away alone in a little while.

When Wheatstone thought of this, his face turned bright red, and beads of sweat dripped from his forehead like a dam bursting.

"Let's go, let's go quickly, Arthur."

Compared to the flustered Wheatstone, Arthur was much more composed. He took off his hat and greeted them politely, "The weather is nice tonight, ladies."

"Oh, there really is a gentleman here."

“Sir, would you like us to treat you to a warm cocktail?” Arthur smiled and slightly raised the silver cane in his hand. “Thank you for your kind offer, but perhaps another day. I cannot join you tonight.”

As he spoke, he walked ahead on his own, as if he were taking a stroll in a corner park.

Wheatstone scrambled after him, stumbling and staggering, asking in a low voice as he ran, "You... what happened? Are you... are you..."

He hesitated for a moment, then, as if he had made a great decision, continued to ask, "Of course, I'm not saying you really like them, but... but, you don't actually like 'them,' do you?"

Arthur, with his pipe dangling from his lips, said lazily without turning his head, "Charles, don't be so naive, okay? You think that once you're in the bedroom, it's just two people stacked on top of each other? You forgot that people also have ears and mouths."

Upon hearing this, Wheatstone felt a chill run down his spine. He stammered, "And...ears? And...mouth?!"

When Wheatstone thought of that scene, he covered his forehead and almost fainted on the spot.

Even the tabloids he secretly subscribed to had never written such a wild story.

Arthur looked at the hysterical nerd and felt somewhat speechless.

He suddenly realized that, at least in terms of imagination, Wheatstone might be a level above Elder.

However, he was too lazy to explain to Wheatstone.

Arthur led Wheatstone out of Chrysanthemum Street, across the narrow alleyway along the river, and straight to George's Inn, the oldest tavern on the south bank.

As soon as the two sat down, Arthur ordered a porter. Perhaps because he had experienced too many shocking scenes that night, even Wheatstone, who doesn't drink much, specifically ordered a light malt beer.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, watching Wheatstone gulp down his beer in one go, and couldn't help but say, "Slow down, Charles. We're here tonight to talk business, not to give you a stomach lavage."

Wheatstone slammed his glass down, beer foam clinging to his glasses. "Damn it! Arthur, don't you dare tell me you called me out in the middle of the night just to mess with me! I'm going to report you to Parliament, I want to see you hanging on the gallows in front of Newgate Prison tomorrow, you damned hanged man!"

Arthur seemed completely stunned by Wheatstone's anger. He picked up his glass, sighed sincerely, and said softly, "I'm sorry, Charles. I really didn't think this through. It was my fault. Just think of it as me being out of my mind tonight, don't take it to heart, and please... please don't report me to Parliament."

His tone even sounded somewhat genuine, as if he were truly ashamed.

But Wheatstone wasn't so easily fooled; he knew all too well how two-faced AH was.

“Of course I’m going to report you!” Wheatstone’s attitude was as steely as a Birmingham steel bar. He gritted his teeth and said, “How dare you treat me like this! A serious natural philosophy researcher! I’ll let the University of London know that their provost hangs out with… places like that every night!”

Arthur sighed, looking like he had no choice but to accept it.

“Alright,” Arthur said. “If you really want to do this, then I might have no choice but to run away.”

"Run away?" Wheatstone sneered. "I knew you were guilty. Where are you going to run off to? New South Wales? Or America?"

Arthur raised his eyelids and slowly exhaled a puff of smoke: "Belgium."

“Belgium?” Wheatstone’s eyes widened. “You don’t actually think Belgium doesn’t have sodomy laws, do you?”

“Not necessarily,” Arthur replied casually. “However, I have a good relationship with the King of Belgium, and considering our friendship, he probably won’t send me to the guillotine for such a trivial matter.”

“You…you and the King?” Wheatstone asked suspiciously. “You and Leopold…you know him?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re particularly close,” Arthur said, taking a sip of his beer. “But this time he’s planning to hire the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company to build a telegraph line across Belgium. When he needs to deal with the company, he’ll have to go through me, right?”

As he spoke, he pulled out an envelope from his pocket, sealed with the Belgian royal coat of arms, and gently shook it between his fingers.

Upon seeing this, Whistler nearly spat the beer he had just drunk onto Arthur's face: "When was this decided?"

Arthur was just about to explain about the telegraph company when a commotion arose from the alleyway across the street, before his smile could fully fade.

"Alexander, put down that bottle of champagne! Miss Lucy gave it to me!"

"Shut up, Elder. What do you mean Miss Lucy gave this to you? This bottle of wine is something I gave to her before. Look, it even has my autograph on it!"

"Alright, Alexander, Mr. Carter, you two should both keep quiet."

Accompanied by a burst of laughter in French accents mixed with British slang, three figures staggered out from the depths of the alley.

One was a fat man wearing a velvet coat, with hair as messy as a bird's nest. He was waving a bottle of champagne wrapped in a red silk scarf, which appeared to be from somewhere, with a feathered hat that looked like it was used in a theater performance tucked under his arm, and his face was flushed from drinking too much.

Another man in a wrinkled wool coat seemed to be trying to snatch the champagne from his hands, but he was clearly not thinking straight either. He lunged forward, but instead of grabbing the champagne, he bumped his head into a gas lamp post. In pain, he could only squat on the ground, cursing and rubbing his head.

As for the last one, it was Louis Bonaparte, who was taking care of his two drunken friends like a mother hen.

Wheatstone stared wide-eyed as the two familiar faces passed by the window: "Was that...Dumas and Mr. Carter? And the last one...was that Napoleon's son...Napoleon Jr."

“It’s them.” Arthur sighed, taking his pipe from his lips. “Judging by this, they’ve probably been tricked by some cunning actress again. Elder is one thing, after all, he hasn’t had any real fruit in years, but Alexander… that fat man, last month when he was in Paris, he wrote to me swearing to God that he would only ever love Ida Féliès…”

When Whistler saw this, he couldn't help but feel a little smug: "Luckily they didn't turn into other alleys, like the street we were just on. Otherwise, the ladies on Huang Chunju Street would have shown them what real power is."

As they were talking, suddenly, the drunken Alexandre Dumas, as if he had heard someone talking about him, turned around sharply and saw Arthur and Wheatstone.

The fat man was stunned for a moment, then, reeking of alcohol, he opened his arms and lunged forward: "Oh, my dear Arthur, and Whistler... ugh..."

Fortunately, Arthur was on guard when Dumas pounced on him, so at least he didn't get vomited on.

Louis, the only one of the three who was still conscious, caught up with Elder, who was holding his arm: "Arthur, Mr. Wheatstone? What are you two doing here?"

(End of this chapter)