The sequence of bold moves Arthur Lionhaert had unleashed upon London hadn't merely rattled the foundations of British politics—it had sent shockwaves across Europe. What had begun as the meteoric rise of a young industrial magnate, a "new rich" man whispered about in disdainful drawing rooms, now grew into something far more unsettling after the revelation: the self-made entrepreneur was, by blood, the last surviving descendant of the noble Nassau-Saarbrücken line.
The discovery had turned London on its head. And naturally, the news crossed the Channel with lightning speed.
Paris, Tuileries Palace
In the refined dusk light filtering through tall French windows, King Louis-Philippe—the shrewd Citizen King—sat listening to his Minister of Foreign Affairs with increasing amusement.
"…So," the king murmured, tapping a finger thoughtfully on his gilded armrest, "the young Queen of England married not Prince Albert, but this Arthur Lionhaert—once a mere industrial upstart—and now suddenly revealed to be of the old Nassau-Saarbrücken blood?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," the minister replied with a bow. "It seems the man had no idea of his lineage until recently. Lost documents, newly identified witnesses, and a surviving genealogical record all confirm it. A forgotten branch, now restored."
Louis-Philippe gave a soft chuckle.
"A self-made tycoon who climbs into nobility by accident… or destiny. England has quite a taste for surprises these days."
The minister continued, "What is even more striking, Sire, is the influence he has accumulated. He founded a powerful industrial consortium, gained the support of Prime Minister Melbourne and the Duke of Wellington, and now dominates social and political circles."
The king folded his hands.
"A man who rose from nothing, rebuilt himself through ambition, and now carries a noble name? Fascinating. And dangerous."
His eyes sharpened with calculation.
"It is time we test him."
London, Buckingham Palace
Arthur Lionhaert's life had become a whirlwind of endeavors and triumphs. After his proposal to Wellington for the creation of the "Royal Society for the Advancement of Industry and Science" finally came to fruition, he found himself reaping the rewards—benefiting not only from the institution's rapid success but also from extraordinary firsthand insights into Wellington's battles against Napoleon, details that had never appeared in the history books of his previous life.
During the day, Arthur moved with the precision of a commander—running factories, supervising engineers, securing investments, expanding production. By night, he navigated salons and banquets with effortless charm, gradually bending London's elite to his rhythm.
But every evening, without fail, he returned to Buckingham Palace—to Victoria.
Tonight, however, something felt off the moment he stepped inside her private chambers. Victoria sat alone, clutching an ornate letter sealed in violet wax. Her usually bright expression had darkened into a small, adorable frown.
"My Queen," Arthur murmured, circling his arms around her shoulders and brushing a kiss against her cheek, "what troubles you?"
Victoria sighed with theatrical misery and handed him the letter.
"It's from our irritating old friend across the Channel."
Arthur broke the seal. The elegant handwriting and faint violet perfume made the sender unmistakable: King Louis-Philippe.
The message overflowed with honeyed compliments—congratulations on their marriage, praises of her beauty and wisdom—before arriving at its real purpose: an invitation to Paris for a state visit, "to strengthen the friendship between France and Britain."
Arthur arched a brow.
"They want us in Paris? That doesn't sound too terrible. Why the unhappy face?"
Victoria puffed her cheeks.
"Oh, Arthur, please. The French don't do anything without a hidden motive. They've challenged us for centuries. Now they suddenly want to be friendly?"
She curled closer to him, her voice soft and vexed.
"The letter looks lovely, but it's a trap. I'm sure they want to measure us… or embarrass us. And I've heard Paris is the capital of arrogance. Their noblewomen—ugh. They've definitely heard of you already. They're probably gossiping at this very moment."
Her fingers drew anxious circles on his chest.
"I just know they want to test us publicly."
Arthur laughed softly, unable to resist her expression.
"You understand them better than most diplomats."
"Then why would you want to go?" she demanded, looking up with wide blue eyes. "I don't want to! They'll try to belittle us—and I don't want them to treat you badly."
He cradled her face between his hands.
"My dear Victoria… that's exactly why I must go."
"Why?"
"Because we are the ones who stand stronger. And the strong do not retreat. If we decline, it will look like fear. Diplomacy, at its core, is sometimes nothing more than children fighting in a courtyard—when the boy you already defeated screams for another round, do you hide inside the house… or step out and silence him again?"
Victoria burst into reluctant laughter. Her tension loosened.
"But… you would really go alone?" she whispered. "Paris isn't London. And what if they… disrespect you?"
Her greatest fear was not political. It was personal.
Arthur embraced her tightly.
"It is better that I go alone. You are the Queen. Leaving the kingdom so freely would be improper. And I—your husband—am the perfect representative."
He kissed her hair, his voice warm.
"And besides… have you forgotten who I am?"
She blinked up at him.
"Well? Who are you, then?"
A playful smile tugged at his lips.
"Arthur Lionhaert—once a nobody, a man who built his fortune with his own hands… now confirmed heir to Nassau-Saarbrücken, and husband to the Queen of the British Empire."
Victoria's cheeks flushed. Her heart steadied.
"I trust you," she murmured. "But promise me one thing."
"Anything, my fiercely jealous Queen."
"You will write to me every day. And you are forbidden to dance with any French woman. Not one."
Laughing, Arthur kissed the tip of her nose.
"My eyes see no woman but you."
Their smiles met—warm, intimate, unbreakable.
Europe Waits
The next morning, through official diplomatic channels, it was announced that His Royal Highness the Prince Consort, Arthur Lionhaert, would undertake a solo diplomatic visit to France.
The courts of Europe stirred like an audience awaiting a duel.
A confrontation of elegance, pride, and political theater was about to begin.
And Arthur Lionhaert—self-made man, restored noble, and husband to the Queen of England—was more than ready.
Paris thought it was inviting a parvenu.
Instead, it had summoned a prince forged by ambition and sharpened by adversity.
And Arthur had every intention of showing France exactly who he was.