Just as Arthur Lionheart and his wife, together with Lord Melbourne, were holding an unusually "pleasant" discussion at Buckingham Palace regarding how they would "reluctantly" take control of that boiling political potato—the Suez Canal—joyous news arrived from within the royal household, sending a spark of exhilaration through the entire British Empire.
After several weeks of careful diagnosis and observation, the royal physician Sir James Clark was finally able to announce with absolute certainty: Her Majesty the Queen—barely a year after giving birth to Princess Vicky—was once again with child.
And judging from the heartbeat and physical signs, the unborn child was vigorous and perfectly healthy.
The news ignited London instantly.
The royal bloodline would continue once more.
For a monarchy that worshipped lineage and legitimacy, no political development carried greater weight.
Inside the royal bedchamber at Buckingham Palace, Arthur Lionheart pressed his ear gently to Victoria's slightly rounded belly.
"Hey! Did you hear that?" he whispered, looking up with the unabashedly foolish joy of a man about to become the father of two. "I think… I think I felt a kick!"
"Silly ," Victoria murmured happily, resting on the velvet couch as she stroked his hair with maternal affection, her face glowing softly. "It's only been a few months; the child isn't strong enough for that. But—tell me—are you happy to become a father again?"
"Of course I am!" Arthur sat upright, wrapped her in a warm embrace, then leaned over to kiss little Princess Vicky—who was babbling over her doll nearby.
"Vicky, you're going to have a brother or a sister. Aren't you excited?"
The little girl blinked at him, then burst into giggles, drooling generously onto his sleeve.
Arthur Lionheart's chest swelled at the sight—warmth, pride, and a growing sense of responsibility.
But just as he let this domestic bliss wash over him, a sealed, encrypted commercial letter—written in the most complicated mercantile cipher—was placed discreetly into his hands.
It had travelled across the Atlantic, from the New World.
It came from his Agricultural and Mineral Resources Friendly Investigation Team, a group of veterans and geologists he had dispatched months earlier.
Its contents made Arthur Lionheart's heart pound.
"Your Highness! We found it!
We truly found it!"
"Following that unbelievably accurate ' geological map' you provided, in a remote region still belonging to Mexico—'California'—in a small, unknown river valley…"
"We discovered gold."
"Not gold dust! Not scattered nuggets! A visible—vast—massive vein of gold shaped like a hound's head!"
"Even a conservative estimate suggests the reserves within our initial exploration area are enough to… purchase the entire island of Ireland!"
The California Gold Rush.
The Sacramento River Valley.
Reading the excited, almost illegible handwriting, Arthur's breath quickened.
He had beaten history by eight years.
The great Gold Rush—destined to reshape America and shock the world—was now his discovery.
His alone.
A mountain of gold large enough to buy Ireland.
If this news were announced now, the world would erupt.
But he did not announce it.
A cold, controlled, predatory gleam—a true capitalist's instinct—flashed across Arthur face.
He immediately took up his pen and wrote only three instructions:
"First: Seal the news.
By authority of the Queen, anyone who leaks a single word is to be tried for treason."
"Second: Continue the survey.
I want to know exactly how much gold lies beneath that valley."
"Third: In the name of the Future Industrial Group, purchase that land from the corrupt Mexican government—at any price.
Drown them in silver until they sell not only the land but their ancestors' graves if necessary."
This was no longer a game of finding gold.
It had become a contest of enclosing land.
Whoever secured the territory before the world learned the truth would become the sole, supreme victor of this feast of wealth.
And while Arthur silently carved out a golden mountain on the map for himself—and for the Empire—another letter arrived from America, presenting a very different sort of opportunity.
This one came from the Southern cotton magnates he had previously "supported" with unusual generosity.
After opening with lavish gratitude for the five-million-pound loan he had extended, their tone shifted to bitter complaint.
The Yankees were pressing them mercilessly, they wrote—not only refusing concessions on tariffs but pushing aggressively in Congress to pass those accursed abolitionist laws.
"Your Highness," they pleaded near the end,
"we know you are a true friend—one who understands us.
We beg you for a small additional favour."
"We have heard that in Europe—Prussia, Austria—arsenals have produced excellent 'new-type rifles' and 'cannons'.
We wish to place an order for the defence of our homeland.
But funds are short.
Might Your Highness grant us another small… 'special agricultural-machinery loan'?"
Arthur almost burst into laughter at their euphemism—agricultural machinery indeed.
Ah, splendid.
The seeds of armed resistance he had planted were finally bearing fruit.
He wrote his answer swiftly, warmly, convincingly:
"My dearest and most loyal friends," he began,
"I am grieved and outraged by the injustices you have suffered.
I stand firmly with your righteous struggle to defend your property, your homes, and your traditional way of life."
"As for your small loan to purchase 'agricultural machinery'—
You shall have it."
"Not only may you buy Prussian and Austrian cannons—I can even transfer a number of retired Royal Navy sailing patrol ships at a most favourable price.
They will serve you well in forming your grand Confederate Coastal Guard."
Of course he knew what those loans and weapons would become—bullets fired into the chests of Union soldiers, the sparks of a civil war that would bleed America white.
But that was precisely what he wanted.
A divided America.
A weakened America.
A permanently fractured America.
The ideal America—for Britain.
He would pour gold and steel onto the growing embers of conflict until the flames devoured the entire republic.
Let the war be long.
Let it be brutal.
Let both sides collapse from exhaustion.
And then Britain—through Arthur Lionheart—could march in as benevolent "mediator,"
and in the name of "regional stability,"
ensure America was split forever—into two, even three mutually hostile states.
Arthur laid down his pen and gazed out the window.
His eyes glimmered with a serene, sense of control—as though he were surveying a vast chessboard.
On the western coast of the New World, he planted seeds of gold, laying claim to limitless wealth.
On the eastern coast, he ignited fires of division, powerful enough to overturn a nation's destiny.
And all the while, Victoria softly breathed behind him—his warmth, his solace, the one pure thing untouched by the cold machinery of empire he set into motion.