shadow of britain

Chapter 871 Hastings, You Have No Heart (Bonus Chapter for Alliance Leader)

Disraeli's face flushed red. He opened his mouth slightly, and after a long pause, he finally managed to say, "Are you kidding me, Arthur? How did that money end up in my hands? Of course, Mrs. Sykes gave it to me!"

“You think I’m asking how Mrs. Sykes gave it to you?” Arthur leaned against a lamppost, looking at him. “No, I’m asking how you’re going to explain to the judge, the jurors, and the Fleet Street reporters if this really goes to court why you have money that a husband who’s currently on an adultery case is trying to get back.”

"I... I can say that she entrusted it to me, her friend, for safekeeping..."

"Then why didn't she give the money to her lawyer? Why did she give it to you? Was there a receipt? Were there any witnesses? Was there any third party involved?" Arthur paused, then added, "Or did she just slip the money into your inner pocket, and you just accepted it without a second thought?"

Upon hearing this, Disraeli looked at him with a resentful expression: "Arthur, that's a very harsh thing to say."

“Critical?” Arthur took off his hat and fanned himself. “If you went to a civil court to observe an adultery case, you’d know that what I’m saying is far from being critical.”

“Not only do you not offer me any advice, but you also keep making sarcastic remarks.” Disraeli coughed repeatedly in anger. He threw the cigar in his hand on the ground and stomped it out with the sole of his boot. “Since you’ve already decided to make me the talk of the town for afternoon tea in London, why are you telling me all this?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you.” Arthur reached out and pulled him back. “But if you want me to give you advice, you have to listen to the truth first.”

“I’m listening,” Disraeli said irritably. “But your truth isn’t much better than Gladstone’s moral speech.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur didn't retort. Instead, he slowly took out a pen and checkbook from his inner pocket, casually drew three zeros on them, and added a 2 at the very beginning.

Disraeli, who had been furious and itching to utter a cynical remark, immediately replaced his indignant demeanor with gentle sincerity when the check refracted a dark blue halo under the dim light and made a soft "rip" sound.

“My dear Arthur, my dear old friend.” Disraeli’s previous resentment vanished, replaced by a sweet tone as if he had just been drinking cherry wine: “You know, I’ve always felt that the most trustworthy thing in the world is the noble friendship between friends, where one helps the other without reservation. Your composure in the face of danger and your timely help are just like something out of Cicero’s collection of speeches.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur looked around blankly.

Seeing this, Disraeli couldn't help but frown and ask, "Who are you looking for?"

“I’m looking for Mr. Heinrich Heine. Has he come to London?” Arthur scratched the back of his head. “I’ve only ever heard him use that kind of fancy rhetoric before.”

“Heine?” Disraeli raised an eyebrow, barely able to contain his anger. “You mean that Jewish guy who always complains that his royalties aren’t enough to live on, and that writing poetry is like signing checks for a Paris bank? Arthur, you’re insulting me!”

“Oh? I thought you admired him.” Arthur shrugged. “After all, you two have something in common: you’re both good at publicly presenting shameful arguments as works of art.”

Disraeli pretended to clutch his chest: "Come on, Arthur. When it comes to shame, there's probably nothing in the world more shameful than hearing your own name appear in the same sentence as Heinrich Heine."

Arthur waved the check in front of Disraeli: "But like you, he has a problem: he can't resist checking checks."

“Nonsense! At least I know how to choose my timing.” Disraeli smoothly snatched the check from Arthur’s hand, then rolled his eyes and said, “Besides, I’m taking political donations, he’s taking dirty money to suck up to someone. One is a political investment, the other is a mercenary deal, how can they be the same?”

Arthur didn't reply, but simply tapped the gas lamp post lightly with his knuckles.

Da da da……

He looked as if he were counting Disraeli's guilty heartbeats.

Disraeli stared at Arthur's expressionless profile as his knuckles fell, swallowing hard as he tried to salvage his image: "Alright, you win. I didn't take Mrs. Sykes's two thousand pounds honorably, but I did do it for the election, not for anything shady. I was thinking that as long as this didn't blow up, I'd find a chance to slowly return the money to her, at least half before Sir Francis Sykes found out... that would be more than enough."

Disraeli's still-oily face suddenly froze as he spoke. He stared at the number on the check for a moment, as if he had suddenly remembered something: "By the way, Arthur... have you heard... how is she now?"

Arthur didn't answer immediately, but simply raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for him to finish speaking.

“I mean… Henrietta, Mrs. Henrietta Sykes.” Disraeli paused, finally uttering her name, his tone devoid of its usual sarcasm and nonchalance for the first time: “If Sir Sykes actually publishes that piece in the Morning Chronicle, she’s finished.”

His voice lowered, as if he were talking anxiously to himself: "No one will invite her to dance on Brook Street anymore, and the ladies' tea parties in Belgravia, Berkeley Street, and Mayfair will all avoid her. Even if she goes to Hot Springs, when she comes back, she'll probably only be seen as a woman her husband denounced in the newspaper... not to mention, she's still in debt..."

Arthur stared at him for a moment, his voice flat: "When you were dating her, when you took money from her, why didn't you think of these things?"

"Thought of it?" Disraeli, flustered and red-faced, tried to defend himself. "Are you blaming me? Why don't you blame that damn..."

He spat out the name through gritted teeth: "Daniel MacLeish! If it weren't for that Irish painter interfering, this whole situation wouldn't have come to this! Do you know what he did? He actually took her to his studio, used her as a model, and even drew two nude sketches of her!"

Arthur expressionlessly put his hat back on, not because he wasn't surprised by the news, but because he was used to it by now.

“Besides!” Disraeli seemed to realize he had overstepped his bounds, and his tone softened. “You know Sir Francis Sykes, he’s not as conservative as the newspapers make him out to be. He actually knows about us. He was certainly uncomfortable at first, but after I introduced Mrs. Bolton to him, he even bought me a sherry and asked if I would consider joining the Christian educational charity he founded in Oxfordshire.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow: "So you think your affair can be settled with a glass of sherry? You've still given him leverage over you."

Disrael tapped his temple with his finger: "Arthur, I know what you're going to say. I was wrong, I admit it. But you have to admit... I'm not the one who deserves to die the most."

“Alright…” After listening to this soap opera, Arthur couldn’t help but reach for his cigar case again. But before he could even take out a cigar, Disraeli had already lit a match and presented it to him. Seeing that the future prime minister had promptly repented, Arthur took a deep drag of his cigar through the flame: “Benjamin, these two thousand pounds aren’t for nothing. You have to promise me three things first.”

Disraeli's hand holding the check clenched unconsciously, and the corner of his mouth twitched: "You're going to treat me like a coachman again."

“Being a coachman is better than being in the newspapers,” Arthur flicked his cigarette ash. “Especially before the election results are in this year. After all, once you lose your seat in Parliament, you lose your political privilege of being immune from creditors’ lawsuits. By then, I think it will take more than two thousand pounds to resolve the issue.”

Disraeli shuddered at the thought of his creditors trampling down his doorstep.

While his entry into politics was indeed partly driven by a desire to realize his political ideals, in reality, his status as a member of parliament was also a safe haven for heavily indebted individuals like himself.

Although he has paid off a lot of debt over the years, he has also borrowed a lot of new debt. Even if he excludes the several thousand pounds he borrowed from his friends at The Englishman, he still owes nearly 20,000 pounds in debt.

Disraeli hesitated for a moment, then finally sighed: "Tell me, what three arduous tasks will be added to my indulgences?"

Arthur began, “First, have your campaign aides look through the campaign logs from a few years ago. If Mrs. Sykes really did record in some account that you took £2000 from her, then you should do something to turn it into a politically reciprocal expenditure. For example, during the 1835 election, you rented several venues in Tallhamletz in her name to host sponsored dinners, charity lectures, or print thousands of campaign leaflets for middle-class voters.”

“If I can’t find those accounts…” Disraeli hadn’t finished speaking when he sighed and lowered his head, “Oh well, how could I not find them? An accounting firm can ‘get’ them out in an afternoon…”

Seeing that Disraeli was so cooperative, Arthur stopped holding back: "Secondly, find some time to invite Mr. Longworth to dinner. You know, Longworth is now the editor of *The Economist*. I got him from *The Times*, and he even wrote a few articles for me before, attacking some people's false statements about police reform. If you're really willing to invite him to dinner, no need to say more, the food doesn't matter, the drinks are fine too. Once he's in a good mood, you can subtly bring up the adultery case that Judge Norton brought against the Viscount of Melbourne and Mrs. Norton a few years ago..."

Disraeli immediately understood Arthur's subtext. Longworth was originally a key figure under Thomas Barnes, the editor of The Times, and The Times had followed the Norton case, which caused a sensation in London, closely.

If you bring up this case with Longworth now, he'll surely remember it. And if Longworth is willing to help, and find Thomas Barnes of The Times to help publish a few pages of follow-up reports on Mrs. Norton, then before Sir Sykes sues Mrs. Sykes, they can guide the public to recall the behavior of a husband defaming his wife, and re-emphasize the shame of publicly accusing a spouse, then let this wave of public opinion dilute the impact of Sir Sykes' case.

If he could go even further and convince the public that Benjamin Disraeli is a young politician crushed by the old system, vulgar blackmail, and campaign pressure, he might even be able to win over some centrist voters with sympathy.

"That's a ruthless move, Arthur." Disraeli gasped, but a smile gradually spread across his face. "Those three days you spent lying in St. Martin's Church, did you really go to hell and meet with the devil?"

“You’re right, that’s where I came from.” Arthur turned his head and looked around at the crowd. Only after he was sure no one was paying attention to them did he speak. “One last thing, you have to go see her. It’s for your own sake.”

Disraeli's shoulders visibly trembled, revealing a brief but genuine hesitation: "You mean... now? At this time? Will she see me?"

“I may not be as skilled in love as you, but you have to listen to me on this matter.” Arthur was afraid that Disraeli might be careless. “You have to go. Immediately. The sooner the better. You should know her current situation. It’s not just about debt, not just about scandals, but also about isolation. I’m afraid she won’t be able to handle it and, out of despair or resentment, will spill everything.”

Disraeli's eyes widened, and after calming down, he also realized this possibility.

“If she speaks to a reporter from the Chronicle or the Observer,” Arthur continued, “and presents that two thousand pounds as a gift for your private affair, then you can say goodbye to the House of Commons and that dream at 10 Downing Street for good.”

As soon as Arthur finished speaking, Disraeli felt as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head. He was stunned for two seconds, and then, as if belatedly realizing what was happening, he slapped his forehead.

"Damn it!" He hurriedly shoved the check he hadn't yet put in his pocket, turned and walked away without looking back, muttering to himself, "I have to go find her, I have to go find her now, immediately, right now, or tomorrow the front page of The Observer will be titled 'Benjamin Disraeli: From Taulhamletz to Tartarus'!"

His figure quickly disappeared between the streetlights and the fog, without even having time to say goodbye to Arthur, leaving only a lingering scent of cigars.

A brief silence fell over the area in front of Carlton Club.

Arthur stood still and slowly put the extinguished cigar back into his mouth.

"Tsk tsk tsk..." A familiar voice rang out softly, with sarcasm and laughter: "Arthur, my dear Arthur, you are truly a talent."

Arthur didn't turn his head, but simply struck a match with his cigar, the smoke illuminating his indifferent expression: "Here we go again, Agares?"

In the shadows behind the gas lamp post, the Red Devil, like wine stains brewed by the night, slowly emerged from the puddle.

“I thought you really went to do a good deed this time.” Agares leaned against the lamppost, his echoing voice lingering like silk: “But after all this, you came full circle, saying you were saving a friend, but you ended up putting that old, moldy case back on the window.”

Arthur said calmly, "If you want to shut up Fleet Street, you have to feed them some old stories."

“Old stories?” Agares tilted his head, laughing like a madman who had just escaped from a mental hospital. “Whose old stories are you digging up again? Mrs. Norton? Judge Norton? Oh, it wouldn’t be the one where the Viscount Melbourne said in court, ‘There was no improper relationship between us,’ would it?”

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

“I want to say…” Agares leaned closer, his voice like a venomous thorn on red velvet: “You’re bringing up the Norton case now not just to overshadow Disraeli’s scandal, are you?”

Arthur didn't immediately refute; he simply gazed at the carriages coming and going on St. James's Street through the distant mist: "Agares, don't think too badly of me. Imperial Publishing's stock price has recently fallen, and as chairman of the board, I have to release some positive news to boost newspaper sales and lift market confidence, right?"

(End of this chapter)