10 Downing Street, London.
The official residence of the Prime Minister.
A single dim lamp flickered against thick tobacco smoke as the Empire's most powerful men sat around the long mahogany table, their faces carved with anxiety.
Prime Minister Lord Melbourne.
Foreign Secretary Palmerston.
The First Lord of the Admiralty, Earl of Minto.
The Duke of Wellington, silent and stony.
And the Chancellor of the Exchequer—who looked as if a second fiscal crisis might kill him outright.
Gathered here, in secrecy, was nearly the entire wartime Cabinet.
And the conclusion of their meeting could be summarized in just one word:
Destitution.
"Gentlemen," the Chancellor began, opening a heavy ledger with the grimness of a man reading his own obituary. "The situation is as follows. Owing to the massive domestic construction works already underway, the Treasury can scrape together no more than—at the most optimistic estimate—one and a half million pounds."
He turned the page with a shudder.
"That is barely enough to send the fleet across the globe, let alone re-equip the War Department with ten thousand updated rifles. As for the Admiralty—the Earl of Minto pleads daily for those new explosive shells, and I can only offer him prayers!"
He slammed the ledger shut and winced, the pain spreading from hand to heart.
"To wage war against a vast Eastern empire with this?" he cried. "It is madness!"
Palmerston, who only hours earlier had shaken Parliament with thunderous declarations of Imperial pride, now looked sickly pale.
He had shouted for war.
He had demanded it.
And now reality had arrived with its cold bill.
"No…" Palmerston muttered through clenched teeth. "We cannot possibly retreat now. If we falter—if we bow before that distant empire—Britain will become the laughingstock of Europe!"
The room fell silent. No one could propose a solution. Not the generals. Not the ministers. Not the magnates.
They stared at one another, sharing the same sinking dread.
And then—
A soft creak of hinges.
The conference room door swung open.
A figure stepped inside with unhurried confidence, his expression calm, almost amused.
Every man at that table shot to his feet in disbelief.
Arthur.
The Prince Consort.
The man Parliament feared, the press adored, and the public could not fully decipher.
"Your Royal Highness?!" Melbourne gasped, nearly knocking over his chair.
Ordinarily, even senior ministers learned about these wartime meetings only minutes before they occurred.
How had Arthur known?
How had he entered so effortlessly?
He merely offered a pleasant smile.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, seating himself with graceful ease beside the head of the table. "Do relax. I have not come on behalf of the Crown, nor to oversee your deliberations."
His gaze swept across the sea of budget sheets, deficit calculations, and despair.
Then, with the slightest lift of his lips, he spoke words that stunned the room into stone.
"I am here, in my own capacity, and on behalf of the Royal Advancement Society, to propose a commercial arrangement."
"A… commercial arrangement?" Melbourne managed, blinking rapidly. "Your Highness, what on earth—?"
Arthur leaned back, fingers steepled.
"I hear you are struggling with the financial foundations of this noble expedition. The public is roused, yet the Treasury is… well…"
He gestured delicately toward the Chancellor, who looked like a dying man.
"…incapacitated."
A beat of silence.
Then Arthur uttered the line that would later appear in every political memoir of the era:
"Therefore, I have decided—personally—to invest in this war."
Gasps filled the room.
"Invest…? In the war?!"
"Is that even—can one—?"
"This is unprecedented!"
Never in the history of the Empire had a private individual—or a royal consort, no less—offered to invest in a national war effort. War was funded by taxes, bonds.
It was unorthodox.
Audacious.
Utterly new.
And deeply tempting.
The Chancellor swallowed. "Your Highness… you are not joking?"
"Do I appear to be joking?" Arthur replied coolly.
He rose and approached the large military map on the far wall—the one marked with trade routes, strategic ports, and the globe's vast curving oceans.
"I opposed the war initially," Arthur admitted. "Because from an economic standpoint it appeared reckless. But Parliament has acted. The die is cast. And for someone in my position, the only meaningful question that remains is this:"
He turned, eyes gleaming with steely clarity.
"How do we ensure this venture pays dividends instead of bleeding the nation dry?"
The ministers exchanged uneasy glances.
Arthur continued, his voice smooth and cutting:
"I, and the Royal Advancement Society supporting me, can finance all required modernization of weaponry and logistical supply for this expedition."
A deliberate pause.
"Our initial assessment estimates the cost at approximately seven hundred thousand pounds."
The Chancellor nearly collapsed.
Seven hundred thousand!
Enough to stabilize half the military shortfall in a single stroke.
Arthur lifted one finger.
"However, my investment comes with conditions."
The room braced.
"First: Since the new weapons and logistical systems will be developed with my capital and technology, the technical authority must rest with me alone—as Director of Technical Operations for the expedition. The Admiralty may advise, but the final decisions must be mine."
Minto stiffened.
A civil servant, not a soldier, he could not openly defy such an offer—especially when the new weapons had already gained an almost mythical reputation.
"Second," Arthur continued, raising another finger, "this is not charity. After the war, before any other allocation of spoils or indemnities, my investment shall be repaid in full—with an additional twenty percent share of net profits."
Several ministers inhaled sharply.
"And," Arthur concluded, "should the war succeed in opening new trade ports in the East, all enterprises under my Future Industries Group—and every firm within the Royal Advancement Society contributing funds—shall receive priority rights for industrial development there."
Silence.
Absolute, breathless silence.
The Cabinet understood instantly what Arthur had done.
He had bought entry into the war machine.
Not as a noble patron, but as a controlling stakeholder.
He was transforming a national conflict into a commercial venture.
And positioning himself as the architect of its tools, its logistics, its profits.
A new aristocracy of capital—with Arthur at its center.
Palmerston's fists tightened.
He had wanted this war to glorify the Empire.
Instead, Arthur had turned it into an instrument of power—his own.
But refusing him was impossible.
The Empire needed him.
At last, the Chancellor broke.
"I… agree in principle."
"So do I," Minto added, bowing his head.
Palmerston's pride cracked like old paint.
"For the sake of the Empire," he spat, "I have… no objections."
Arthur studied the men before him—titans of Britain, each now caught in the orbit of his capital—and offered a small, satisfied smile.
You understand politics, he thought.
You understand speeches.
But none of you understand the power of capital.
Not yet.
But you will.
He had not merely joined the game.
He had become the one who shuffled the cards.
And later—when he requested the post of Special Military Overseer, to accompany the expedition and "supervise the deployment of new technologies"—who would dare refuse?