The sunlight in London was as stingy as a moneylender: it made only the briefest appearance before being quickly swallowed by thick clouds and fog.
Inside Kensington Palace, in a study that rarely saw daylight throughout the entire year, the atmosphere was even gloomier than the weather outside.
Sir Conroy stood by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, still as a silent statue. His gaze pierced through the glass, fixed on the small building where Princess Victoria resided; in his sunken eyes flickered a cold, hungry glint—like that of a starving hyena.
These past months had left him far from satisfied.
First of all, the mysterious boy who had saved Princess Victoria in Hyde Park seemed to have vanished into thin air. He had used every connection and informant at his disposal, practically turning London's entire underworld upside down, yet he had found not the slightest trace of the young man. It made him feel as if he were punching empty air: full of force, yet with no target to unleash it upon, brimming with frustration.
But what disturbed and irritated him even more was the change in Princess Victoria.
The girl who once behaved like a docile kitten before him and the Duchess—unable even to speak loudly—had changed drastically.
She no longer obeyed their arrangements blindly. She had begun forming opinions of her own, questioning their "teachings", and even refuting them with innovative ideas Conroy had never heard of. Especially after that dinner on the Poor Laws, the princess had shone with her own brilliance before the King and the Prime Minister, throwing Conroy into an unprecedented crisis.
The "Kensington System", which he had painstakingly constructed for over a decade—an invisible cage meant to confine the future Queen—seemed to be cracking.
Conroy could clearly sense the presence of an unseen hand, somewhere beyond his reach, silently influencing Princess Victoria. A hand attempting to steal from under his nose the pawn he considered his forbidden treasure.
"It must be that boy!" Conroy was now almost certain.
Aside from that mysteriously vanished young man, he could imagine no one else with such abilities and motives. It was like a venomous serpent hidden in the shadows, continually striking the princess in places he could not detect.
"Sir."
A raspy voice behind him interrupted his thoughts.
His confidant Martin—a man with a scar across his face—appeared like a ghost at the study's doorway. He was Conroy's right hand, responsible for the most unpleasant matters.
"Any news?" Conroy asked coldly, without turning around.
"Sir, as you ordered, I investigated all the 'newcomers' to London," Martin replied with a neutral tone. "Especially inventors and businessmen with some reputation. Most can be ruled out, but… there is one person I find very suspicious."
"Oh?" Conroy finally turned, fixing his hawk-like stare on Martin. "Speak."
"His name is Arthur Lionheart." Martin pulled a small notebook from his pocket and began to read. "He appeared suddenly two months ago. Rumor says he's the bastard son of a fallen noble. He made a fortune with a product called 'cleansing soap', extremely effective. It's selling very well in the East End markets. His partner, a man named Henry—nicknamed Fat Boss—I checked him: a greedy type."
"A bastard?" Conroy frowned with obvious disdain.
"That's only the beginning, sir." Martin continued, "About a month ago, this Arthur invested a considerable sum, opened a small workshop, and began producing a new 'sewing machine'. They say it sews ten times faster than handwork. Every tailor shop in London is going mad over it."
"A sewing machine?" Conroy was now intrigued. "Another novelty?"
"Yes, entirely new." Martin nodded. "The truly suspicious part is the speed with which Arthur has risen to prominence. First he invents a revolutionary soap, then a machine that could transform an entire industry. Don't you think… someone might be funding him?"
Conroy narrowed his eyes, drumming his fingers on the desk.
Martin's words echoed with sinister coherence.
Luck might help someone once.
But funding such brilliant inventions? No.
There had to be a benefactor. A source of money.
"There's something even more suspicious, sir." Martin stepped closer. "I paid to bribe an employee at the Patent Office. And guess what? The application for the 'sewing machine' was filed through *royal channels*. Secretly, yes, but the letter of recommendation bears the signature of a distant relative of Lady Frances."
"Frances!"
Conroy's pupils contracted.
Lady Frances was the princess's most trusted lady-in-waiting.
In an instant, all the clues strung together like pearls on a thread.
A young inventor rising at breakneck speed…
A patent submitted through Court channels…
A signature tied to the princess's trusted attendant…
The answer was obvious.
"Arthur Lionheart… heh, Arthur…" Conroy repeated the name with a cruel grin twisting his lips.
He had found him.
He had finally found him.
The little mouse hiding in the dark.
He was almost one hundred percent certain that this so-called inventor was the young man who had saved the princess at Hyde Park! Perhaps he had changed his identity, maybe even his appearance, but nature doesn't change: the tendency to invent, to shine, to influence the princess… it was the same.
"Well done, Martin." Conroy's eyes gleamed with excitement. He was pleased.
Once the target was found, the rest was simple.
"Sir, shall I send someone to… 'take care of him'?"
Martin mimed a throat-cutting gesture.
"Making a shady workshop owner disappear takes less effort than crushing an ant."
"No, no." Conroy waved a hand, smiling wickedly. "Killing him would be too easy. And no fun at all. Why rush to cook the goose that lays golden eggs?"
He picked up a pen and wrote slowly on a sheet of paper: *sewing machine*.
"An invention capable of revolutionizing an entire industry… there's a sea of pounds at stake." Greed gleamed in his eyes. "And it's also the thread connecting us to Princess Victoria. Oh yes… I very much want to meet this 'genius'."
Then he added, cold as ice:
"I don't want just his inventions. I want to turn him into a dog at my feet. An obedient dog that produces wealth for me, day and night."
He turned to Martin.
"Keep an eye on him. I want to know everything: who he meets, where he goes, how many workers he has, how much he earns. Every detail."
"And then… stir up a little trouble for him. Send tax inspectors. Have a few thugs 'visit' his workshop. He must understand that in London, without my permission, his good days are coming to an end."
"Yes, sir." Martin smirked and left.
A conspiracy against Arthur had begun weaving its web in the shadows.
The hyena had smelled blood.
Meanwhile, a sensational piece of news arrived from Buckingham Palace, enough to set London's high society ablaze.
To celebrate Princess Victoria's upcoming eighteenth birthday, King William IV had decided to host an unprecedented grand court ball. Not only would the most influential British aristocrats attend, but the King had also invited members of royal families from across Europe.
Among the illustrious guests, one name in particular made the capital's salons tremble:
**Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.**
Victoria's first cousin—handsome, cultured, and refined—he was widely considered the most likely candidate to become Prince Consort, the future husband of the Queen.
Arthur took the newspaper Fat Boss had handed him, and his gaze fell upon the name "Prince Albert."
He knew the inertia of history remained powerful.
His future *rival in love*, his predestined adversary, was about to step onto the stage.
And the grand ball would be the perfect arena to emerge from the shadows and confront the greatest players in the world.
"Looks like I'll need to get myself a decent evening suit."
Arthur let the newspaper drop onto the table, his smile full of fighting spirit.
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