Most of the nobles accepted, and things proceeded astonishingly smoothly; those lesser aristocrats—short of money or hungry for prestige—barely had the strength to resist Arthur Lionheart's precise "sugar-coated cannonball" offensive, surrendering one after another.
But he knew perfectly well that these people were only the outer ring.
The true arbiters of the House of Lords' direction were the "old stubborn stones," the most notorious and unyielding of all.
And the hardest bone among them was not the declining Earl of Derby, nor the reputation-obsessed Duke of Wellington, but an elderly man named **Viscount Palmerston**.
Henry had just returned from a thoroughly discouraging encounter with Palmerston.
"Boss, that old fox is completely impenetrable!" Henry reported, crestfallen. "I tried seven or eight different channels to arrange a meeting, but he rejected every single one, citing 'health issues.' I sent people to inquire about his tastes so we could send gifts, but everything we delivered was thrown away without being touched!"
"Oh?"
Arthur Lionheart raised an eyebrow, a faint gleam of interest passing over his face. "That Palmerston? Bring me everything we have on him."
A thick dossier soon landed on his desk—far larger than that of any other noble.
Henry added, "Boss, he's the most hard-line conservative in the entire Conservative Party, and the fiercest believer in 'bloodline theory.' He's attacked you openly in Parliament—called you a 'charlatan of unknown origin'—and privately rallied many nobles to form the 'Royal Bloodline Purity Protection Alliance,' all determined to support Prince Albert."
Arthur leafed through the material slowly, and with each page, his expression grew more intrigued.
Viscount Palmerston, in his sixties, was one of England's oldest Norman nobles, his family tracing back to William the Conqueror.
He lacked neither wealth nor status: his estates were vast, his income enormous, his honors innumerable.
His only obsession was defending the aristocratic order built on bloodline and land.
He sincerely despised "upstart industrialists" like Arthur Lionheart, whom he viewed as parasites corroding the Empire's noble spirit.
"A stubborn man uninterested in money, untouched by fame, ruled only by principle…" Arthur tapped the desk lightly. "Such a man is the hardest to deal with."
"Yes! Like a stone in a latrine—foul and impossibly hard!" Henry spat.
"No." Arthur shook his head, eyes gleaming like a hunter spotting prey. "No one is without desire. The more unshakable he appears, the deeper the weakness he's hiding."
"Then… what's his weakness?"
"Here." Arthur pointed at a seemingly insignificant line.
"Palmerston has a single son—Young Palmerston. He turns thirty this year, the apple of his father's eye. But this only son is a useless hedonist—drinking, gambling, frequenting brothels, living in the casinos of London, drowning in gambling debt. The old man has nearly bankrupted himself paying them off—he's even secretly mortgaged two estates."
"And here…" Arthur pointed again.
"The young Palmerston has recently become infatuated with a French courtesan named Marguerite. To please her, he spent recklessly—so recklessly that he forged his father's signature to secure high-interest loans. And the shadow-lender who gave him that money is… an enterprise Future Industries quietly acquired some time ago."
Henry froze.
He looked at the devilish smile on Arthur Lionheart's handsome face and felt a chill bolt down his spine.
So the boss… had already set the trap!
He had bought that shadow-lender not for profit, but to prepare a snare for this exact moment—for the old fox Palmerston!
Such terrifying foresight.
Such suffocating strategy.
"Now," Arthur asked with a faint smile, "do you still think this hard bone can't be cracked?"
"We can! Absolutely!" Henry rubbed his hands, excited. "Boss, should we go confront Old Palmerston with those promissory notes?"
"No, no, no." Arthur shook his head, his smile turning mysterious.
"A direct threat is the clumsiest form of coercion. Even if he complied, he'd only resent us. I don't want his submission."
"What I want… is his **gratitude**."
---
Three days later, Arthur's meticulously arranged grand performance began.
At London's most luxurious **Royal Casino**, Young Palmerston once again gambled himself into ruin, eyes bloodshot. He lost everything—then found himself owing five thousand pounds he didn't have.
"No money? Then pay with your hands!" the casino thugs growled, surrounding him.
Just as he trembled, imagining his hands being chopped off, an unexpected "savior" appeared.
Arthur Lionheart—the industrial titan known across London—happened to be relaxing in the same casino.
He "happened" to see the young man cornered.
He "happened" to recognize him.
"Oh? Isn't this Viscount Palmerston's son? What trouble have you stumbled into?" Arthur approached with gentle concern.
Under the respectful escort of the casino manager, Arthur casually paid the five thousand pounds.
Then—almost as an afterthought—he bought out all of Young Palmerston's high-interest debts, including those tied to forgery.
And before the stunned young man's eyes, Arthur tossed every incriminating promissory note into the fireplace, burning them to ash.
"We all make mistakes." Arthur patted his shoulder warmly. "I would hate to see the reputation of a venerable noble destroyed by his son's moment of recklessness. Go home. Speak honestly with your father. Tell him—this is my small gesture of respect for him, a senior statesman of the Empire."
With that, Arthur turned and walked away elegantly, leaving nothing but unanswered questions and smoldering ashes.
Young Palmerston was stunned.
His father's greatest political rival had just saved him—without demanding anything, without threatening him—only helping him erase the very evidence that could ruin the entire Palmerston lineage.
What kind of magnanimity was this?!
He rushed home and recounted everything in breathless detail.
In his study, Viscount Palmerston fell into a long, deathly silence.
His extinguished pipe lay forgotten, cold ash scattered across his silk waistcoat.
For the first time, an expression of deep complexity crossed his stern, stubborn features—shock, shame, disbelief… and helplessness.
He had been defeated.
Not by force, not by bribery—but by someone who purchased, with his own money, the dignity and future of the entire Palmerston family.
A favor so enormous it could neither be repaid nor refused.
He recalled Arthur's message:
"This is my small gesture of respect for him, a senior statesman of the Empire."
Respectful on the surface—yet sharper than any blade.
It exposed every weakness, making Palmerston's "principles" and "perseverance" feel like a farce.
After a long time, the old viscount rose, approached his desk, and picked up a pen.
He wrote two letters.
One to the members of the Royal Bloodline Purity Protection Alliance, announcing its immediate dissolution, claiming age and fatigue, declaring he would withdraw from all discussions about the Prince Consort.
The other was addressed to Arthur Lionheart.
It contained no thanks, no apology—only one simple, heavy line:
"Mr. Lionheart, my son will begin an assignment in Scotland next week. Your kindness is immeasurable. I hope… you take care of yourself."
When Arthur received the letter, he smiled.
He knew the strongest fortress in the House of Lords had been dismantled—from within—by his own elegant hand.
The plan to "buy the Parliament" now faced no more obstacles.
---