The Shadow of Great Britain Chapter 1707 - 64: The Millennium Fox (Part 2)

The content of the letter was not lengthy, one might say it was exceedingly brief, yet its weight was as heavy as a brick.

——Mr. Disraeli: I hope to et at the Carlton Club this evening at eight o’clock; the Duke and I both desire to hear your words personally.

——Robert Peel

This sentence sent chills down Disraeli’s spine, not out of flattery, but because he had botched the matter of bringing Arthur into the party.

With this thought, Disraeli could not help but sigh, but he eventually got out of the carriage.

Raindrops hit his top hat; he carried no umbrella, simply adjusted his cloak closer, took a deep breath, and headed towards the main door.

No welcoming attendant stood before the door, no doorman was present, only a dim gaslight hanging, casting light on an insignia barely visible on the door ring, engraved with a line of Latin in black and gold: Conservare quod bonum est (To preserve what is good).

He had just raised his hand when the door "clicked" open of its own accord, as if long anticipating his arrival.

Behind the door was a spacious and substantial foyer; an elderly butler dressed impeccably, with a gold key badge on his chest, glanced at him, nodded without a word, and turned to lead him inside.

They walked across thick carpets, past portraits of outstanding Tories, and turned into a dim corridor, at the end of which was a half-open door, from within ca the formidable voice of the Duke of Wellington.

"How is the election in Bristol?"

Sir Peel did not rush his reply, first casting a glance at the morandum in his hand: "The situation is not ideal, but considerably better than in 1832. The current election outlook is roughly as we predicted, with seventy percent of rural constituencies still securely in our hands... However, this also ans the urban constituencies remain decidedly not in our hands."

The Duke of Wellington took a sip of sherry, as indifferent as ever: "I do not expect every borough constituency’s election to be as outstanding as London’s, but our support in Sheffield and Birmingham seems rather like a declaration of surrender, does it not?"

Sir Peel rubbed his temples helplessly: "Your Excellency, I have always been cautious with my words, nor would I label it surrender; I would prefer to say that in so borough constituencies, our support appears more as if we have yet to make an entrance."

Just as these words were spoken, the attendant responsible for pouring the wine inadvertently lifted his mouth’s corner into a slight smile.

The Duke of Wellington noticed this small gesture, leisurely setting down his glass: "Robert, you see, this gentleman seems to imply that as long as the Conservative Party’s support isn’t in the negatives, they are all potential stocks."

The attendant quickly bowed his head: "Pardon , Your Excellency, I just thought..."

"No need to apologize." The Duke of Wellington jested, "Having fought a Waterloo myself, how could I forbid others from mocking it?"

Sir Peel gave a light cough to interrupt this little episode: "Actually, what we truly need to pay attention to is the sentint of the middle class. They do not heed bishops like the squires, nor do they enjoy speeches like the workers; relatively speaking, they prefer to focus on money. Only by letting them calculate and understand that supporting us is more lucrative than backing the Whig Party will they truly cast their votes for us."

"Is that why you tirelessly ntion constituency associations?" General Wellington placed a hand on the armrest of the sofa: "Is the pilot sche in Birmingham and Lancashire worth all this fuss?"

"Honestly, the rchants in Birmingham still like to complain about tax rates, and the mill owners in Lancashire still have many comnts about the rise in raw material prices." Sir Peel paused: "But the newly established Conservative constituency associations in these places at least learned how to win a battle over noticeboards with printed materials. Our voting deficit has reduced from eighteen points to within five."

Wellington pondered for a mont: "So we’ve moved from an outright defeat to a partial stalemate."

Peel nodded slightly: "Your Excellency, in this season, this could be considered the spring of the Conservative Party."

Knock, knock, knock!

Three knocks at the door, and both the Duke of Wellington and Sir Peel looked up towards it.

Disraeli nodded slightly, pulled his chest forward in his purple frock coat: "Your Excellency, Sir, thank you for the summons today."

Peel set aside the morandum in his hand, smiling as he spoke: "We are glad you ca too, Diz, please sit down."

The Duke of Wellington, however, did not speak, rely lifted his gaze and nodded.

Disraeli had just sat down, adjusted the slightly damp coat under his cloak from the rain, and cautiously worded his statent: "Your Excellencies summoned , I suppose, to make a brief account regarding that mutual acquaintance of ours..."

Peel nodded slightly, gesturing to the attendant to pour Disraeli a drink: "Indeed, Sir Arthur Hastings."

"Yes." Disraeli coughed lightly, showing a forced smile: "I had a lengthy conversation with him recently. His trust in both of you is indisputable, and he is grateful for the Conservative Party’s longstanding goodwill. However, he still holds a cautious attitude toward publicly participating in any party affairs at present."

Wellington smiled faintly: "Cautious? Was his reply truly so formal? This sounds more like a diplomatic note. Does he take us for Palrston?"

Peel laughed softly, continuing the topic to help resolve it: "If he truly saw us as Palrston, I fear he would have long appended a French note saying Avec s plus sincères assurances (With my sincerest regards). rely using ’cautious’ suggests our relations may not be so distant after all."