In the austere study of the Winter Palace, Arthur Lionheart and Tsar Nicholas I sat opposite each other like two monarchs playing at cordiality. Their conversation, velvet on the surface, cut like steel beneath.
They debated with almost indecent ease, even discussing which rare timber was most suitable for the plaque of the proposed *Crimea International Free Port Management Committee*, an institution destined to be either legendary or catastrophic.
What the Tsar did not know was simple: Europe had no secrets.
Its embassies were hives of whispering agents, and Arthur Lionheart, with his immaculate British polish and predator's intuition, had allowed the perfect fragment of information to "escape" into the right ears.
The very next day, the Tsar and Arthur drank as sworn brothers.
And just as quickly, a sealed intelligence dispatch — detailing their private meeting — galloped across the continent toward Vienna, the nervous heart of conservative Europe.
Prince Klemens von Metternich, Chancellor of the Austrian Empire, was trimming his roses in the palace greenhouse with the tranquil precision of a surgeon.
He was a man who had held the European balance of power together for three decades, a spider at the center of an intricate diplomatic web. His creed was unyielding:
But when he finished reading the dispatch from Saint Petersburg, the legendary steadiness of his hands faltered.
With a sudden crack of temper, he severed not only the rose but half the stem.
"Reckless fools…"
The old statesman, famed for his elegance and composure, allowed himself a rare, growling curse.
**Britain and Russia. Allies?**
The thought alone quickened his pulse.
If those two colossi divided the Balkans between them, Russia's sphere of influence would stretch to Austria's very doorstep.
And the fragile, multi-ethnic Habsburg realm — already a mosaic of internal tensions — would splinter like rotted timber.
"No. Absolutely not."
He dropped the golden scissors.
The map of Europe was beginning to tear, and only he could stitch it again.
Summoning his closest advisers, he issued orders with the fervor of a general preparing for war.
"Send our best envoy to Saint Petersburg immediately. Tell the Tsar plainly: if he dares conclude a secret agreement with Britain over the Balkans, Austria will form an alliance with France — yes, with France — or even the Turks themselves. We will set the Balkans ablaze before we allow Russia to swallow them."
Then, with a glint of cunning sharpened by decades of political survival:
"And dispatch another messenger to Paris. Inform that timid Louis-Philippe that Britain and Russia intend to turn the Mediterranean into their private lake. If France hesitates now, soon it will sail only on the Seine."
With those words, the diplomatic stage of Europe erupted.
Louis-Philippe's reaction was dramatic: he spilled scalding chocolate onto his trousers and leapt up as though stung.
"WHAT?! The British — and Russia — together?!"
His outrage trembled on the edge of panic.
He had just sent Thiers to London practically begging for cooperation.
And the British — perfidious as only they could be — had negotiated instead with France's historical nemesis.
The insult was intolerable.
"Thiers! You returned with nothing! And that Englishman, Arthur… he dared make sport of France?!"
The poor minister paled and stammered uselessly.
"Return to Saint Petersburg. I don't care what you do — plead, threaten, throw yourself at their mercy — but you will sabotage that damnable Anglo-Russian accord. Tell Nicholas, and tell Lord Lionheart as well: if they spurn France's rightful place in the Mediterranean, the French Navy will burn its last frigate before allowing them to succeed!"
France was aflame.
Within a single week, the frozen Russian capital became the noisiest diplomatic bazaar in Europe.
Spies, special envoys, lobbyists, secretaries, socialites — an entire informal army — poured into the Winter Palace like vultures competing for the same carcass.
The Austrians and the French did not merely seek the Tsar;
**they sought Arthur Lionheart**, the Englishman whose influence seemed to expand with every whispered rumor.
The palace corridors filled with furtive footsteps and concealed intentions.
Promises were made, threats implied, bribes dangled.
The earlier warmth between Russia and Britain cooled instantly, replaced by a three-sided struggle of suspicion and veiled hostility.
Europe had become a chessboard with far too many players — exactly the kind Arthur preferred.
Victoria stood at the window, watching the foreign carriages hurry through the courtyard like agitated insects.
"Arthur… they're swarming. Every court in Europe has sent someone. And Nicholas is already behaving less… welcoming."
Arthur Lionheart, infuriatingly composed, sat sampling flawless Russian black caviar with a small silver spoon.
His serenity both comforted and exasperated her.
"They smell blood," he said calmly, crushing a glossy black pearl between tongue and palate. "Russia is good at two things: vodka… and this."
Victoria pinched him sharply.
"This is not the moment! Think. Strategize!"
Arthur leaned forward and pressed the next spoonful of caviar to her lips with deliberate intimacy.
"Victoria, my darling… a skilled chess player does not fear a crowded board."
He rose and looked out at the Winter Palace, now a fortress of frost, ambition, and lies.
"The more pieces there are, the more moves we can exploit.
And in chaos… the decisive move always belongs to the one who waits."
A thin, dangerous smile curved his lips.
"Let them stir the waters. Muddy waters are the only ones where the largest fish can be caught."