The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1564: Chapter 9: Does Ledley Dream of the Gallows?

The sun set, and the fog of London descended silently like a heavy veil over the streets and alleys of Covent Garden.

The gas lamps flickered with pale yellow light in the fog, and the wheels rolled over the cobblestones with a dull echo. An inconspicuous carriage quietly stopped at the back door of Nightingale Mansion.

Arthur stepped out of the carriage with his cane, and before he could knock, the door creaked open.

The blonde woman bent over and offered a bow: ”Welcome home, Your Excellency, Mrs. Yvonne is already waiting for you.”

Arthur took off his hat, nodded slightly in return, accepted a mask from the woman’s hand, and fastened it to his face before stepping inside the mansion.

Compared to two years ago, the interior of Nightingale Mansion hadn’t changed much. The same ambiguous conversations half-hidden behind velvet curtains reached his ears, and the noble gentlemen who indulged in ”punishment” and ”control” were presently lost in their reveries, masked with ribbons under the non-ordinary order of Night London.

However, Arthur had no interest in lingering here, even though he might encounter many old friends, such as Assistant Secretary August Schneider from the Foreign Office.

He ascended the spiral staircase to the third floor straightaway, and confidently pushed open the carved oak door.

Fiona was leaning on the long sofa, draped in a wine-red sheer nightgown, her curly black hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes sparkling with mischief, a sly smile at the corner of her lips: ”You finally came, I thought you’d be reluctant to leave that old Scotland Yard chair of yours.”

Arthur removed his coat, casually placed his hat on the corner of the table, letting his gaze slide over her bare legs, though his tone remained as cool as ever: ”Just this morning, I reminded Ledley who truly has the most weight in the Police Intelligence Department.”

Fiona sat up with mock seriousness and whispered in his ear: ”Then you should put on that Scotland Yard uniform. If you wore it every time you saw him, I bet he’d wet his pants even in his dreams.”

”I couldn’t care less about his dreams; he could dream of being Guy Fawkes planting explosives under Westminster Palace to blow Parliament sky-high for all I care.” Arthur turned his head, his eyes calm. ”But I need him to assure me that, at least when he’s awake, he gives his all to work.”

Listening to Arthur, Fiona slowly walked to the liquor cabinet, took a bottle of Portuguese Madeira Wine, dusted off the bottle’s neck, and poured him a glass with deliberate leisure.

”It seems my dear Sir Arthur Hastings is not in a great mood tonight,” she said, handing him the glass. ”Is the Duke of Wellington’s commission not going smoothly?”

Arthur did not take the glass but sat on the sofa, propping his chin with one hand, his gaze heavy on the flames dancing in the fireplace: ”Conroy’s a sly one, and Wilcock isn’t as docile as he appears. I need to investigate those around them without alerting the Home Office or the court affairs office, as any matter involving the Royal Family must always be triply cautious.”

Fiona turned to sit beside him, draping her legs over his lap: ”Why not come to me? Have you forgotten that the ears and eyes of Nightingale Mansion are always closer to the heart than Scotland Yard’s detectives?”

Arthur leisurely accepted the glass and took a sip: ”I did come to you; otherwise, do you think I planned to spend the winter in this ’monastery’? Fiona, I’m just not accustomed to using the word ’help.’ Besides, relying on a woman to advance one’s career, that sort of reputation isn’t pleasant to hear. I’m Arthur Hastings, not France’s Adolphe Thiers or Talleyrand-Perigord. In the realm of ’nepotism,’ Britain has Mr. Benjamin Disraeli spearheading it well enough.”

Fiona rolled her eyes: ”A truly touching proposal. Your prowess in emotional expression is even more questionable than the numbers filled out on a customs duty form.”

”I’m sorry, you know I excel more in creating political scandals than sentimental scripts.” Arthur set down his glass, leaning against the sofa: ”Besides, emotions are akin to taxes. If you fill them out too clearly, you’ll only end up paying more. And these days, not even diplomats can afford extra burdens. Unfortunately, I don’t even have the status of a diplomat now. Arthur Hastings, a mere commoner from York countryside.”

”You’re still the same; you should know it’s hard for anyone to fall in love with your ways.” Fiona raised an eyebrow: ”A heart divided, sixty percent for Britain, twenty percent for the King, twenty percent for oneself, and the remaining fractions probably for me.”

”I disagree.”

Fiona, hearing this, instantly flared up, glaring as she demanded: ”Do you mean I don’t even deserve a fraction?”

”Not at all, you’re welcome to take what’s left. But, dear, I think the remaining fractions belong firmly in the hands of a bullet. After all, this fact has already been certified by the Privy Council and a doctor.”

Fiona was about to act coy when Arthur’s sudden joke stomped out her temper.

She couldn’t help but chuckle, but then quickly realized that being so easily appeased might make her appear lacking in shrewdness, so she deliberately asked coldly: ”But you’re not here to banter tonight, are you?”

Arthur glanced at her with a half-smile: ”I’m here in search of souls. And in London, the best place to redeem souls is not Westminster Abbey, but Nightingale Mansion. At least, that’s what my friend Mr. August Schneider believes.”