St. Petersburg.
In the Anichkov Palace on Nevsky Prospect, laughter and chaotic music disrupted the tranquility of the evening.
Alexei raised his glass toward a young nobleman balancing precariously on the balcony railing. "Jump! Ha! I'll bet 100 rubles he can finish this song. Anyone dare to bet against ?"
A slightly chubby nobleman leaned closer and whispered, "Count Bobrinsky, Primakov has already downed an entire bottle. He'll fall for sure..."
"No, you haven't seen his drinking prowess." Alexei grinned, patting the black bear beside him that was clumsily holding a wine glass with its paws and gulping. "Ivan, isn't Sergei the kind who never gets drunk?"
The bear nodded human-like, then tossed aside its glass. It ambled over to the piano, shoved the pianist aside, climbed onto a chair, and began pounding the keys with its paws, producing an atrocious cacophony.
"Sergei, Ivan's urging you on! Start dancing already!" Alexei downed his drink in one gulp, glanced at a long-faced middle-aged man nearby, and casually remarked, "I'll bet 200 rubles Primakov won't fall!"
Thanks to the profits from his Twin Trade Company, Alexei had achieved financial independence and was now one of St. Petersburg's comrcial leaders. Two hundred rubles ant little to him.
"Three hundred rubles! Who's in?" he shouted, raising the stakes.
The long-faced man, infected by Alexei's wild enthusiasm, emptied his glass, glanced nervously at Primakov swaying on the railing, and shouted back, "Fine, I'll bet 300 rubles he falls!"
Alexei bead. "Wonderful! Let's start the music! Sergei, where's the tune?"
The musician glanced helplessly at the bear, which had taken over the piano. Grabbing a violin, he stepped onto the balcony and began playing.
Primakov, inspired by the music, began singing at the top of his lungs and dancing wildly on the handrail, which was no wider than a palm's breadth. Though they were on the third floor, he showed no fear—or perhaps the alcohol had dulled his senses. Several tis, he wobbled precariously, yet miraculously regained balance and continued waving his arms and legs chaotically.
The nobles inside the palace crowded to the balcony, cheering him on and handing him wine glasses to encourage his antics.
Alexei noticed the long-faced man—Count Chikolin—staring intently at Primakov. He sidled up and asked, "Count Chikolin, I hear the visiting Englishman is here for a big business deal?"
Chikolin, a second assistant to the Russian foreign minister and currently hosting Grenville, nodded absentmindedly. "Ah, yes. They're talking about increasing trade, maybe sothing about developing Cria."
"That's good news." Alexei smirked. "But if they're being so generous, surely they've demanded quite a few concessions?"
"Typical British—they probably want us to raise tariffs on French goods or reduce trade with France…"
Chikolin suddenly stopped mid-sentence and squinted suspiciously at Alexei. "Why are you asking about this?"
Alexei chuckled inwardly. Because the French ambassador asked to dig up so intel, of course.
Outwardly, he smiled and replied, "As a businessman, I need to keep track of international trade trends to make money, don't I?"
As he spoke, the black bear clambered onto the balcony, attempting to dance alongside Primakov. Startled, the latter lost his footing and tumbled off with a yell: "Ahhh—!"
Fortunately, the servants had laid out straw below, sparing him from any serious injury.
Feigning annoyance, Alexei exclaid, "Stupid bear! I knew we shouldn't have let it drink so much!"
He signaled his attendant to hand a pouch containing 300 rubles to Chikolin, who grinned broadly. "Ah, thank you for your generosity! That bear really is clever, ha ha!"
Pocketing the pouch, Chikolin felt obliged to offer a bit more information. Leaning closer to Alexei, he whispered, "Count Bobrinsky, you might want to prepare in advance—maybe consider the Baltic trade route."
"What do you an?"
"The Tsar seems quite intrigued by the British proposal," Chikolin said in a hushed tone. "She's even summoned Prince Potemkin back from Iași to discuss the matter."
Alexei feigned gratitude. "You've been a great help. I'd better divert so ships to the Baltic, then."
Prince Potemkin, effectively Russia's de facto pri minister, was currently overseeing developnt in Moldova, part of newly acquired Ottoman territories. If Catherine was urgently summoning him, the British must have made a compelling case.
Moreover, Potemkin was known to lean pro-British. It seed unlikely he would reject their overtures.
The next day, Alexei sought out his half-brother, Crown Prince Paul, hoping to gather more intelligence about the British visit. Unfortunately, Paul was excluded from Catherine's inner political circle, leaving Alexei with less information than he'd gleaned at the banquet.
Soon, the French ambassador sent Alexei's intel back to Paris in a coded letter, using the fastest possible courier.
North of the Black Sea.
On the steppes of the Euxine Plain, a golden carriage hurtled northward, flanked by over a hundred elite Russian cavalry.
Inside the carriage, Potemkin reclined weakly, his lone functioning eye fixed on the Tsarina's secretary seated across from him. "Baron Khrapovitsky, we're alone here. Tell the truth—what exactly do the British want?
"Her Majesty wouldn't have recalled from Iași over so trivial 'trade agreent.' Unless… she missed ?"
As one of Catherine the Great's enduring paramours, Potemkin clung to the hope of rekindling their once-passionate relationship, despite his failing health.
Khrapovitsky coughed awkwardly. "Well, the British are proposing significant trade initiatives. But… I hear they've also ntioned Poland."
"Poland?" Potemkin narrowed his eye, then shook his head. "Poland offers no opportunities at the mont. We can't tackle it alone—we need to keep watch on both the Ottomans and Persia."
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