The news of the King's illness was like a lit match tossed into the immense powder keg that was London.
On the surface, everything still maintained the decorum of the Empire. When nobles conversed in their drawing rooms, they prayed for the King's recovery with voices tinged with sorrow and regret. The newspapers published retrospective pieces recounting the King's heroic deeds in his youth.
But beneath this calm veneer, hidden currents were raging to their very limits.
Everyone, like sharks scenting blood, began rushing about frantically—choosing sides, scheming, and preparing for the imminent reshuffling of power.
And at the center of this storm stood Kensington Palace, the residence of the Princess and future Queen, soon to ascend the throne.
In recent days, the atmosphere in Kensington Palace had become so suffocating that one could practically wring moisture from the air.
Sir Conroy, that rabid dog who understood that time was slipping entirely out of his grasp, had launched his final and most desperate struggle.
He knew that once the King died and Victoria became Queen, he—and the Duchess of Kent with him—would be swept away at once. Everything they had done to Victoria over the past decade would become damning evidence that would condemn them for all eternity.
Thus, he had to force Victoria to sign one final "contract of servitude" before the King breathed his last.
That afternoon, the door to Victoria's room was violently thrown open.
Sir Conroy burst in, flanked by several fully armed palace guards. The polite façade he usually wore had vanished, replaced by an expression of almost manic ferocity.
"Your Royal Highness, I believe we need to have a little conversation," Conroy rasped, his voice like two plates of rusted iron grinding against each other.
"Out!" Victoria had been sitting by the window reading. Seeing him in such a state, she rose at once, her lovely face turning cold as ice. "Sir Conroy, who allowed you to enter my room without my permission?!"
"That is no longer for you to decide, my dear Princess," Conroy sneered. He pulled a document from his coat and slammed it heavily onto the table.
"This is a letter of appointment I have drafted for you." He pointed at the paper, his eyes gleaming with greed. "Once you sign it, you will, upon your accession, appoint me as your Chief Private Secretary and Comptroller of the Treasury—for life. And your mother, the Duchess of Kent, will become the permanent Chair of the Regency Council."
Victoria trembled with anger as she looked at the document.
A letter of appointment? It was clearly a shameless contract designed to strip her of all power and reduce her to a puppet!
"You are dreaming." She pointed sharply toward the door. "I will not sign a single word! Now take your men and leave my room at once!"
"Leave?" Conroy laughed—as if he had just heard the greatest joke in the world. "Victoria, you still don't understand the situation, do you? Do you think you are still the Princess who can pout before the King and have the Prime Minister behind her?"
He suddenly leaned closer, lowering his voice to a venomous hiss in her ear. "Let me enlighten you: the King is nearly gone—he cannot even speak. And the Prime Minister and his ministers are all stationed at Buckingham Palace, unable to move an inch. Here at Kensington Palace, I am in command."
"Until you sign," he continued, his eyes turning wicked, "you are not going anywhere. And you will see no one."
Then he stepped back and motioned to the guards behind him.
"Protect Her Royal Highness! Without my order, she is not to take even half a step out of this room. Anyone who interferes will be killed without mercy!"
"Yes, sir!" the guards barked, then stationed themselves like twin temple guardians before her door.
Victoria's face flushed crimson with fury.
She had never imagined Conroy would become so deranged as to place her under house arrest!
She tried pulling the bell cord to summon a maid, only to discover it had already been severed. Even Fräulein Lehzen, her most trusted companion, had been detained by Conroy's men.
At that moment, it felt as though she had been thrown back into her helpless childhood—weak, isolated, trapped in a cage.
No!
No. I am not that girl anymore.
Arthur's confident, composed, impossibly steady face flashed in her mind.
He had once told her: "You will be Queen one day, and the entire Empire will bow at your feet. These people are nothing but obstacles on your path to the throne."
Yes. Arthur. She still had him.
Victoria forced herself to calm down. In her present situation, Arthur was the only one who could save her—her only ally.
But how could she send him a message for help while under such strict control?
She paced the room anxiously, like a lioness trapped in a cage. Her eyes swept over every corner of the room, searching for any opportunity.
Suddenly, her gaze fell upon the delicate box on her writing desk.
Ah, yes—Arthur had given it to her. It held the tea he had bought for her to drink whenever she was distressed or in low spirits.
An exceedingly bold, nearly reckless plan took shape at once.
She walked to the door and, in the calmest tone she could muster, said to the guards, "I am thirsty. I want some water. Bring me the black tea imported from the Indies—the one in my mother's room."
The guard and Conroy exchanged glances. Conroy thought for a moment, decided a cup of tea posed no danger, and nodded.
A short while later, a trembling maid under Conroy's control entered with a tea tray.
Victoria personally took the teapot and poured herself a cup.
Just as she lifted it to take a sip, she "accidentally" let it slip from her hand.
"Oh dear!"
With a gasp, the entire cup of scalding tea spilled across her immaculate white silk dress.
"Your Royal Highness!" the maid yelped in panic, rushing forward to assist her.
"Don't touch me!" Victoria snapped. "Quickly! Fetch me a clean dress! Take this one to the laundry at once to be repaired!"
As she spoke, she removed the stained dress—and with a swift, imperceptible motion, tucked the dried tea leaves she had hidden in her palm into the lace lining of its bodice.
"Hurry!" She thrust the dress into the maid's arms, urging her loudly.
The maid, terrified, took the garment and fled.
Conroy observed all of this from the doorway, assuming the Princess was merely throwing a tantrum. He paid it no mind.
He had no idea that an urgent distress signal, carrying the future Queen's last hope, had just been sent out of that gilded cage in the most improbable way.
Now, the only question was—
Would Arthur understand her "code of help"?
And would he reach her in time?