The chamber of the House of Lords vibrated with something close to fever.
If the Commons had been loud, the Lords were incandescent.
Here sat men whose titles stretched back centuries—dukes, marquesses, viscounts—steeped in hereditary pride. The merchants of the Commons might still calculate, still weigh the cost of war against profit. But the aristocracy cared only for abstractions:
Honor. Prestige. The splendor of the British Empire displayed across the world.
Palmerston had fanned their passions brilliantly, invoking outrage at events in Guangzhou, where the Imperial Commissioner Lin Zexu had seized and destroyed vast quantities of opium at Humen—an action that many in London described as a humiliation without precedent.
"An insult to the Empire!"
"A challenge to British sovereignty!"
"They must be taught obedience!"
Fists slammed against desks.
Voices rose.
Calls for war multiplied.
And then the great doors opened.
A tall, austere figure stepped forward—His Royal Highness Arthur Lionheart, Prince Consort.
His appearance drew the room into sudden, reverent silence.
Since his marriage to Queen Victoria, Arthur had rarely engaged in overt political debate. His absence had made him a legend; his unexpected arrival made every peer sit straighter.
He ascended the dais unhurriedly, eyes calm, posture unwavering.
"My lords," he began softly. "I have not come to debate emotion. Nor anger. Nor national pride."
A few brows rose.
"I have come to present an economic calculation."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the aristocracy.
Economics? Among the Lords?
War, to them, was not a matter of arithmetic but of grandeur.
Arthur unfolded a sheet dense with figures.
"We are discussing," he said, "mobilising a naval expedition to the shores of the Qing Empire. Lord Palmerston proposes fifteen warships, thirty auxiliaries. Let us begin there."
Palmerston stiffened but nodded.
Arthur continued with the serenity of a man reading an account ledger.
"Personnel: thousands of sailors and Royal Marines. Wages, risk bonuses, pensions, replacements. A minimum of half a million pounds."
Some peers shifted.
"Provisioning: a voyage from London to Canton and back is no trivial journey. Even the most conservative estimates place the necessary supplies, maintenance, medical stores, and operational requirements at several hundred thousand pounds."
He did not specify items—only costs.
"Structural wear: long-range voyages damage hulls, rigging, engines, and weaponry. Each trip shortens the lifespan of a vessel. Should even a single ship fall to weather, to miscalculation, or to conflict, the cost would be considerable."
Then he lifted his gaze.
"When all is accounted for—mobilisation, operations, attrition—the first year of this war will not cost less than…"
A pause.
"Two million pounds."
The chamber froze.
Two million pounds.
Nearly a twentieth of the entire Crown revenue of the previous year.
A breathtaking sum.
Suddenly, the Lords who had clamored for war felt the weight of their own indulgence.
Palmerston shot to his feet.
"Your Royal Highness grossly inflates the figures! The Qing Empire is weak. Once our fleet anchors off Canton, they will bow at once. This will last months, not years."
Arthur turned his head slightly, expression unreadable.
"And tell me, Lord Palmerston—what is the source of this confidence?"
Palmerston faltered.
Arthur's tone remained calm, but steel threaded each syllable.
"Have you ever walked the streets of Guangzhou? Traversed the Pearl River? Studied their fortifications? Do you know how many men the Qing Empire can muster? How many hidden ports braid their long coastline? What weapons they possess, what terrain advantages they command?"
He paused.
"You know nothing with certainty."
Several Lords drew sharp breaths.
"And thus," Arthur continued quietly, "you gamble. With British lives. With British treasure. With British prestige."
The chamber now listened in grave silence.
"And even if we win," Arthur pressed on, "what then?"
"Will the Qing treasury—strained by decades of internal corruption and the opium crisis—truly pay indemnities of the size we demand? And if they refuse, shall we remain indefinitely? Station ships along China's southern coast? Maintain distant treaty ports at continual expense?"
He let the implications unfurl like smoke.
"This war, as proposed, is not a demonstration of strength. It is a financial abyss."
Then he delivered the final stroke.
"Until a more measured, economical, and strategically sound plan is devised, any immediate military action would be an act of profound irresponsibility toward the British Empire."
He bowed fractionally.
Walked down from the podium.
And left behind a silence more powerful than any applause.
Arthur knew he had not halted the march to war.
But he had shifted its rhythm.
He had planted doubt—cold, rational, undeniable.
Cost.
The one argument that could fracture even the most fervent imperialist dreams.
And in doing so, Arthur Lionheart moved—not as an observer—but as a player whose influence none could afford to ignore.