shadow of britain

Chapter 832 Hastings, a Top-Tier Villain

The night was a deep, bluish-black. Standing on the balcony of the third floor of the Albion Hotel, looking out over the harbor of Ramsgate, the dark sea seemed like a bottomless abyss, swallowing all unrealistic dreams.

Arthur leaned against the balcony door frame, his cane casually resting to one side, his fingertips still carrying a faint scent of tobacco.

Beside the railing, Agares' figure blended into the night, with only the corners of his mouth, which seemed to be smiling or mocking, visible.

“Tonight was quite a show. To break into that villa, which was surrounded like a rat cage, all by yourself, and to escape unscathed from a room full of people who could put you on the gallows at any moment…” Agarest paused deliberately, as if searching for the right word of praise: “My dear Arthur, if it weren’t for your nauseatingly devoted 'to the sick princess' look, I would almost applaud you.”

Arthur glanced at him and said calmly, "Getting the word 'applause' out of your mouth is harder than getting the Conservatives and Whigs to agree, so thank you, Agares."

Agares licked his nose, a nasty grin spreading across his face. "Don't thank me yet, Arthur, because I have a feeling you'll be receiving my praise more and more often. You're getting better and better at using what others consider morality to get what you want. That's good news, you're becoming more and more like a real villain."

Arthur didn't deny it; he just lit another one: "You've used the word 'villain' too many times already. I'm tired of it."

“No, no, no.” Agares shook his finger critically: “You used to be second-rate, but now you’ve taken it a step further.”

"Are there different levels of villains?"

Agares seemed to enjoy the topic, slowly straightening his back from the railing and spreading his arms like a pastor preaching in a church: "Of course there are different levels of villains."

He held up a finger and gestured in the air with a hint of mockery, saying, "Third-rate scoundrels who make a living by stealing chickens and dogs. They climb over fences, steal silver spoons, and steal shirts that their neighbors hang out to dry in their yards. I can't even be bothered to look at these kinds of people. They only deserve to be grabbed by the ear and given a good scolding at the country market."

The second finger, held up with a metallic sheen, said, "Second-rate thugs, they know how to rob and plunder. They ride horses, carry guns, and work in gangs. At night, they break into shops and gentry's houses, steal what they can carry, and then set fire to the evidence. Their names will appear on notice boards, be printed on leaflets and nailed to the city gates, and perhaps even live on in the tavern's stories for months, or even years."

The third finger slowly rose, and his voice lowered: "And the best villains... they never lift a finger. They use other people's hands to get what they want, and other people's mouths to say what they want. They even let others bear the infamy and punishment for them. When the dust settles, they only need to raise their glasses in celebration under the lights and accept belated applause and cheap praise."

Arthur leaned on the railing, gazing at the distant sea: "So, I'm considered top-notch now?"

“First-rate? No, no, no, my dear, didn’t I just say that you’ve already taken another step forward?” Agares paused for a moment, his smile slowly spreading like a knife’s edge: “You’re different from them all. You’re now very close to those species that your human kin call great men.”

Agares shifted his position, resting his elbow on the cold railing: "However, my only complaint is that noble mother—do you really think she was moved to tears by you today? No, she just found a dignified way out. Isn't what humans excel at most about sewing hypocrisy and emotion together on the same hem?"

Arthur's expression remained calm: "Whether she is truly awakened or simply going along with it makes little difference to me. If it's the former, then that's her good fortune. If it's the latter, then I have already shown the maximum amount of goodwill within my capabilities."

Agares tilted his head to look at him, his tone tinged with a mixture of relief and speculation: "So you're planning to ignore the truth and just accept the results on paper?"

Arthur looked out at the sea, as if the undercurrent was more noteworthy than the irony before him: “Different perspectives reveal different truths, but only the outcome can be quantified. Agares, you must know, I am a graduate of the University of London, a disciple of Jeremy Bentham, and a utilitarian.”

"To exchange one smile for ten rounds of applause, and one tear for the sympathy of a hundred." Agares scoffed, "A utilitarian? Ha...maybe."

……

The night in Windsor was darker than in Ramsgate, with thick clouds pressing down on the sky and swallowing the castle spires into shadow.

The banquet hall was filled with candlesticks, their golden light shimmering among the luxurious tableware and crystal chandeliers.

Queen Elizabeth II sat at the head of the long table, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with the ladies on either side, while William IV's seat remained empty. He was summoned to the adjacent small reception room by his private secretary, Sir Herbert Taylor.

The door was gently closed by the servant, shutting out the singing, dancing, and laughter outside.

William IV stood before the fireplace, clutching a letter that had not yet been fully unfolded, his knuckles turning slightly white from the pressure.

"Damn it!" The king's voice was hoarse and violent. "Has that woman gone mad?! How dare they do such a thing to my niece, to the future queen?!"

He slammed the letter onto the ebony coffee table, the candlelight flickered, and the wax seal on the envelope reflected the mark of AH in the light.

William IV's chest heaved, and suddenly he felt a wave of dizziness, his knees buckled, and he almost fell to the ground.

"His Majesty!"

Herbert Taylor swiftly stepped forward, caught the king's swaying shoulders, and half-pulled, half-lifted him to sit down in the high-backed chair by the fireplace: "You mustn't be too agitated, Your Majesty. Don't forget, you've only just barely recovered from your last illness."

The king's heavy breathing sounded particularly jarring in the silent room. His hands, which had once shared rum with the sailors on deck, now trembled slightly on the armrests: "That German woman, that wretched Irishman..."

As Taylor loosened the tight buttons of his dress, she instructed a servant to pour him a glass of warm milk with brandy: "No matter how serious the matter in the letter is, it's not worth exchanging your heart for it."

William closed his eyes tightly, clutching his forehead. His breathing was heavy, as if he was suppressing a raging anger that refused to dissipate.

After a brief silence, he slowly opened his eyes: "Herbert, go and invite the Duke of Wellington, Peel, Melbourne... and the Queen over."

Taylor paused slightly. "Your Majesty, your current condition..." "I know what my body is like." William wiped the fine sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "That's why I don't have much time to waste. Tonight, they must know what Kensington Palace is up to."

Seeing the king's resolute expression, Taylor said no more, bowed, and quickly walked to the door to deliver the decree.

A moment later, footsteps were heard outside the door. The Duke of Wellington was the first to step into the room, followed by Peel and Melbourne, and then the Queen of Adelaide, who arrived late.

The Duke of Wellington glanced at the guests and sensed that something was amiss.

He suddenly asked, "Your Majesty, have you summoned us?"

William IV did not speak immediately, but simply had Taylor push the letter to the center of the table, indicating that they should read it themselves.

Several influential figures, capable of determining the future of Britain, unfolded the pages, and several lines of elegant yet sharp handwriting immediately came into view.

"This……"

The Duke of Wellington reached out and unfolded the letter, his rugged brows furrowing even more deeply.

Peel, on the other hand, appeared much more cautious. He stared at the letter for a long time before slowly raising his head and exchanging glances with the Duke of Wellington.

The Duke of Wellington wanted to speak, but after noticing Peale's prompting, he ultimately gave the opportunity to speak to the new Conservative leader who had succeeded him as party leader.

Peel closed the letter and said solemnly, “Your Majesty, I do not question Ser Arthur Hastings’ loyalty. But I fear that a single letter and a few words are insufficient evidence… I think…”

The Duke of Wellington raised an eyebrow and gave Peel a strange look.

To be honest, he thought Peel would stand up for Arthur at this time.

After all, his and Peel's initial purpose in sending Arthur to Kensington Palace was to create an opening in the Kensington system and reduce the Whig influence that Conroy and the Duchess of Kent exerted on Victoria.

Now that Ramsgate is in such a terrible situation, it's the perfect opportunity to have Arthur kill Conroy, but at this crucial moment, not only does Peel not help, he actually...

Just as the Duke of Wellington was thinking about this, a flash of inspiration suddenly struck him.

He seemed to suddenly understand Peele's intention.

This guy……

He wasn't refusing to help; on the contrary, he was doing Arthur a huge favor, without putting the Conservative Party at too much risk.

After all, what he just said was, to some extent, a way of distancing himself from the Conservative Party and Arthur, and proving to the king that there was no connection between Arthur and the Conservative Party.

As expected, William IV, upon hearing Peale's words, flew into a rage and slammed his hand on the armrest: "You think? Robert! My dear Robert! Sir Robert Peale! How could you be so foolish? That lad Arthur Hastings risked so much to break into Albion Villa, not just to provide Fleet Street with some gossip! Would anyone tell such an obvious lie on such an important matter? What benefit would he gain from spreading this rumor if Delinea hadn't fallen ill? Besides, I don't believe a lad who always steps up in crucial moments would be so reckless in this matter!"

Queen Adelaide quickly reached out and gently pressed William IV's trembling arm, softly comforting him, "William, don't get so agitated. You know your body can't take this. As for Sir Arthur Hastings, his courage and loyalty need no further proof; everyone here, and even those not here, has seen it. You don't need to use your anger to prove anything for him."

She subtly rebuked Sir Peel, saying, “Whether Sir Arthur’s thoughts lean towards a particular party is irrelevant. I know you may have been arguing with him recently about the merger of University College London and King’s College. It’s true that University College London was founded by radicals, and it’s also true that he is a graduate of University College London and its Provost. However, I believe that Sir Arthur is first and foremost the protector of His Majesty’s niece, and secondly, a brave, upright, and kind young man, a refined natural philosopher and artist. The fact that such a young man could risk his life to confront what ordinary people consider unshakeable power speaks volumes.”

The previously silent Viscount Melbourne suddenly spoke up: “Verifying the situation is quite simple. We can use the pretext of visiting the ailing patient, and have the royal physician come forward. Windsor Castle isn’t particularly far from Ramsgate, and Sir Holland can depart tonight. We should know the results by the day after tomorrow at the latest. Once he has verified the situation, His Majesty can then decide on the next steps.”

Upon hearing this, William IV's anger finally subsided slightly: "If this is true, there shouldn't be any resistance from you in dealing with Conroy, right? I've heard that quite a few Whig MPs are very close to Conroy?"

Viscount Melbourne spoke in his usual gentle tone. He placed one hand on his chest and bowed slightly, saying, “Your Majesty, what you are worried about is indeed what all those loyal to the Royal Family are worried about. Sir John Conroy does indeed often associate with some of our young men, but if we have solid evidence, even the most unruly fellow in the party will not stand against you and Britain on such a matter of national loyalty.”

The Duke of Wellington, who had long disliked Conroy, also spoke up, saying, "Your Majesty, if anyone in the Conservative Party tries to stand firm on this matter, I will step in to resolve it. In any case, Her Highness the Princess must be protected. She is still young and easily swayed by the slightest disturbance. Allowing people like Conroy to continue stirring up trouble around her will harm her both physically and mentally."

William IV's face, sometimes ashen, sometimes flushed in the candlelight, slowly exhaled a breath of stale air and finally nodded: "Very well. Let's do it that way then, Herbert!"

Sir Herbert Taylor stepped forward: "Your Majesty."

"Immediately order Sir Holland to go to Ramsgate and give me a definite answer as soon as possible, day or night!"

"Understood, Your Majesty."

Herbert Taylor was about to turn around and issue the decree when William IV stopped him again: "And... Arthur, Sir Arthur Hastings, have Sir Holland send a message to him that I want to see him and ask him in detail about the situation at Albion Villa, right here, at Windsor Castle, the sooner the better!"

(End of this chapter)