shadow of britain

Chapter 870 Scandal (Thanks to Alliance Leader BuMaiJian for the donation)
The doors of the Carlton Club closed slowly behind him, shutting out the noise, the smell of alcohol, and the voices of politicians behind the heavy wooden planks.

The night breeze outside the door swept in, carrying a faint mist and the smell of horse manure.

Arthur slowly walked to a cast-iron gas lamppost on the street corner, took off his gloves, and took out a cigar box from his inner pocket.

When the match lit, the faint light shone below his brow bone, and the white smoke he exhaled swirled in the mist. The lamplight cast a dim yellow halo through the smoke, stretching his profile long and casting it obliquely onto the wet stone pavement.

He was gazing intently at the carriages waiting across the street when, without warning, a hand patted his shoulder.

Arthur turned his head and saw a face with an exaggerated smile emerging from the mist.

The man, dressed in a well-tailored coat and with a white neckerchief tied meticulously, was Mr. Benjamin Disraeli.

"What are you doing here at Carlton House?" Disraeli familiarly took a cigar from the box Arthur handed him, sniffed it lightly, and asked, "Could it be that you've finally come to your senses and realized that the House of Commons is the ultimate destination for politicians?"

Arthur squinted, tapped his cigar lightly, and the ash fell onto the edge of a puddle beside his boots. "Benjamin, judging from your tone, you don't seem to be here for comfort. So, is your election campaign... already a sure thing?"

Disraeli whistled, lit a cigar, and the smoke illuminated his cheerful face: "'Stability' is probably as rare as virtue in politics. I've only heard some pleasant rumors from my supporters, like my opponent's mistress saying things she shouldn't have in the tabloids, or the town pastor publicly quoting my speech from three years ago during his sermon last night. Arthur, this time even God is on my side."

Arthur chuckled and shifted his position against the lamppost: "Looks like when Parliament opens next year, I'll still be seeing you in your red vest and green shorts, setting the fashion trend in the House of Commons?"

“Theology, fashion, political commentary, debt, poetry—which politician doesn’t make a living off these things?” Disraeli shrugged. “But what about you, my dear Arthur? I heard you just went to see Peel, so why are you out here smoking alone now? Did you run into trouble with ‘Two-Face’?”

"A two-faced man?" Arthur looked Disraeli up and down with interest. "I remember two years ago, when Peel appointed you as Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for the Foreign Office, you were practically begging to kneel down and wipe his boots. How come two years later, you sound like you're about to join the Whig Party?"

Disraeli sipped his cigar, squinting at the gas lamp on the street corner: "Kneeling down to polish boots? Arthur, you underestimate me. If I had actually knelt down back then, I probably wouldn't have gotten a vice minister title from Peel. As for my current situation... you'll understand politics after you've been in it long enough; not every belief is worth sacrificing for."

Arthur found the boy's earnest attempt to appear aloof amusing and teased, "In the end, isn't it just that Peel refused your request to change your constituency? Benjamin, even though we're friends, I still think it's a bit much to ask to change your constituency from Toul Hamletts to Oxford."

“Oh, Oxford University?” Disraeli’s hooked nose shuddered in the mist. “Yes, I did have that thought. To run for the seat at the university that’s the most rhetoric-loving and least rhetoric-loving in the country. And what happened? Peel looked at me like I was going to marry his daughter.”

Before Arthur could even speak, Disraeli, already engrossed in his monologue, launched into a long tirade about his ordeal: "When I walked in, Peel was all smiles and friendly, saying my recent writing had become more composed. But the moment I mentioned Oxford, his smile vanished instantly, his face completely falling. I thought he'd at least offer some excuse, something like a difficult choice, a necessary sacrifice, a reluctant measure. After all, I know those two seats at Oxford were never meant for someone like me. I only mentioned Oxford hoping he'd give me a more respectable constituency, like Harrow or Elling... But, but! Peel only said one thing, and do you know what he said?"

Arthur suddenly spoke up: "We already have Gladstone in Oxford?"

"How did you know?!" Disraeli almost jumped up.

"Because apart from that woodcutter, there shouldn't be anyone else who could make you this angry."

Disraeli's lips twitched. He took a deep breath and it took him a while to calm himself down: "Arthur, to be honest, if you join the Conservative Party, I will definitely support you in running for the Oxford University seat, with my bunch of young English brothers!"

Arthur waved his hand and said, "Come on, Benjamin, I can't do that. Oxford University members of parliament are the kind who can sit on the pulpit, recite the Apostles' Creed from memory, and endure a pastor's sermon for more than half an hour. Those Oxford alumni want the bishop's megaphone, the Catholic Church lecture notes in evening gowns, and a nice face that doesn't smoke, drink, or socialize. Do you think I fit that description?"

Upon hearing this, Disraeli couldn't help but add sarcastically, "Now that you mention it, I suddenly feel that Gladstone's face is actually a walking James I Bible. It's just that this version is printed so densely that it doesn't even have a punctuation mark to breathe."

"You have a keen eye for Gladstone, but... Benjamin, don't just focus on him. What about yourself? You haven't been implicated in Mrs. Sykes's affair, have you?"

Arthur's words were like water poured into a furnace, and Disraeli almost dropped his cigar.

He blinked, and the smile on his face suddenly became subtle, half awkward and half resigned to the fate that no longer needed to be faked in front of an old friend: "Arthur, I thought we were going to discuss the future of the country and the mental health of Oxford University voters today."

Arthur took out his pocket watch and glanced at it: "The political arena is certainly full of tension, but if you can't even get rid of the perfume smell in your room, how can those middle-class voters feel comfortable casting their ballots for you?"

Disraeli coughed. "Actually... Mrs. Sykes and I haven't been in touch much since we returned from our vacation in Ramsgate..."

Arthur lit another cigarette: "Of course I know that, otherwise Sir Francis Sykes wouldn't have caught you cheating on the handsome Irish painter Daniel MacLeigh, but you."

"Caught in the act?" Disraeli was stunned for a moment. "You mean, Henrietta and MacLeish were caught by Sir Sykes..."

“That’s right, caught her in bed.” When Arthur first heard the news, he was just as shocked as Disraeli: “I heard from the people at the Chronicle of the Morning that Sir Francis Sykes bought an entire page to expose in detail the facts of his wife’s infidelity, and also publicly declared that he would no longer pay any of his wife’s debts, and that he intended to seek back the £2000 that Mrs. Sykes had lent her.”

Disraeli's smile froze instantly, as if a court summons had suddenly appeared in the smoke. "You mean..." his voice was a little hoarse, "they've already started legal proceedings? Publicly filed a lawsuit?"

Arthur nodded, his expression devoid of any exaggeration, yet the news seemed all the more real and deadly because of his excessive calmness: "It is said that a lawsuit for adultery is being prepared, and Sir Francis Sykes has retained his column in both the Morning Chronicle and the Observer. If their editors are not lying to me, then Sir Sykes's exact words should be: 'I will no longer pay for a bill, a perfume bottle, or even the postage for an old love letter delivered by the postman for Ms. Henrietta Sykes.'"

Disraeli instinctively took a step back, as if he had been shot at the foot of the Tower of London.

His previous mocking demeanor towards Gladstone vanished, replaced by an expression that said, "I'm doomed."

“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath, “I’ve already spent all two thousand pounds…”

Arthur, feigning ignorance, slowly turned his head and asked, "What did you just say?"

“I said…” Disraeli suddenly came to his senses and immediately put on a bleak but forced smile: “I said that painter MacLeigh is indeed a menace. All Irish people are like that, just like John Conroy.”

“Is that so?” Arthur said casually. “Thank God, the £2000 loan that Sir Sykes wants to collect from his wife has nothing to do with you.”

Disraeli didn't respond. He just stood there, frozen in place, the smoke swirling in front of him, as if God himself was waiting for his next words: admission, denial, or perhaps a fancy lie.

He finally moved his lips, his voice so soft it was almost carried away by the night wind: "Arthur... that was the winter I was most short of money in my life."

Arthur gave a soft "hmm," his voice flat and without any judgment.

He was simply listening, like a patient judge sitting in a dark dock, waiting for the defendant to speak.

“I mean…” Disraeli took a step forward, the last vestige of arrogance in his voice fading into humility: “It was during the most crucial part of the election campaign. I had to write during the day, and at night I had to appear in three different salons in a tuxedo, smiling and urging people to drink. Every day I also had to find time to get close to bankers and factory owners, talking about rhetoric, about Abraham, about the vintage of champagne. You know, my publishing business has never had any problems; the distribution accounts for *The Englishman* are clearer than those of the Treasury, but…”

Disraeli clutched his head, looking utterly regretful: "But politics... is the most expensive business in the world. I have to spend a fortune hiring dancers, bands, and banquets. I have to entertain the parish priest, the country gentlemen who come to London for the summer, their wives, and even their dogs. I have to buy them seats, hire carriages, and rent theater boxes... Just to let the wives of a few wealthy voters in the Toulhamlett constituency enjoy the flowers in Holland Park, I spent the royalties of one of my books."

Arthur wasn't particularly surprised, but he did have a question: "But weren't you the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in Peel's cabinet? I remember the salary for that position was 1500 pounds a year, right?"

“1500 pounds does sound like a lot,” Disraeli sighed. “But that’s on the premise that you can actually make it a full year. How long did Peel’s cabinet last? Four months and sixteen days! To be precise, it was from December 21st when he was summoned by His Majesty William until April 8th of the following year when he bowed in the House of Commons and then slunk away home.”

Arthur nodded in agreement: "I had completely forgotten about that."

“That cabinet experience wasn’t even as long as the reprint cycle of my book, Vivian Grey.” Disraeli shrugged. “I hadn’t even had time to familiarize myself with the layout of the Foreign Office before I was dismissed. I had hoped to use that position to get closer to respectable people, but what happened… I didn’t even manage to hand out a few of those gold-plated business cards.”

"So you took that money from Mrs. Sykes?"

“I didn’t accept it, I… I originally intended to return it.” Disraeli stuck out his neck: “She said the money was a private gift, and she even said with a smile that if I really became a cabinet minister, she would treat it as a political investment.”

Arthur glanced down at the sparking cigar tip: "Did you write an IOU?"

“I…” Disraeli opened his mouth, then stammered, “She said… she said it wasn’t necessary, we never hold these things against each other.”

“Hmm…she’s a good girl…” Arthur almost laughed in exasperation upon hearing this: “At least that’s how it is to you.”

Disraeli nodded guiltily: "Of course, although my relationship with her has ended, at least during our time together, the feelings were truly genuine. However..."

Before he could finish speaking, Disraeli began pacing anxiously: “If he really intends to sue, it won’t just be me… there’ll be Henrietta, and that damned MacLeigh, all three of us will be thrown into the Fleet Street newspaper slaughterhouse… Once that two thousand pounds is traced, those tabloids will relentlessly pursue me, saying I accepted a married woman’s ‘emotional donation’! They’ll say I’m a male prostitute! That I squeezed campaign funds from a socialite! Damn it, that’s exactly the kind of story those third-rate Fleet Street newspapers love to tell… Even if I pay to settle, they might not let me off the hook… My political career will be over… My seat in the House of Commons will be over, and my opponents in Toul Hamletz will plaster my name everywhere! Knowing Peel’s personality, he might even expel me from the party… Gladstone, that woodcutter, will write me a eulogy after morning prayers…”

“Alright,” Arthur interrupted him. “Stop howling. Benjamin, aren’t you a lawyer? Even if you’ve never practiced, you don’t need to panic like this, do you?”

“That’s true.” Disraeli straightened his back and said, taking advantage of the situation, “Arthur, lend me two thousand pounds, and I’ll give you an IOU right now.”

“The money isn’t urgent. Her Majesty the Queen just gave me a three thousand pound annuity. Now, let alone two thousand pounds, I can lend you all three thousand pounds.” Arthur tossed his cigar into a puddle and slowly dusted off the ash from his hands. “But the problem is, how do you plan to explain how Mrs. Sykes’ two thousand pounds ended up in your hands?”

(Thanks to Alliance Leader BuMaiJian for the donation, there will be an extra chapter for Alliance Leader.)
(End of this chapter)