Buckingham Palace — The Private Study
A rainy London afternoon wrapped the palace in a soft grey mist, the kind that made every room glow faintly with lamplight. Inside the Queen's private study, Arthur Lionheart stood beside Victoria with a map unfurled across the mahogany table, his presence radiating that unmistakable blend of charm and danger she found impossible to resist.
"Now, my heart," he murmured, leaning just close enough for her to feel the warmth of him, "tell me what you see here."
He traced with a gloved finger the long serpentine curve hugging the South American coast—Cape Horn, the old tyrant of mariners.
Victoria tilted her head, curls brushing her cheek as she studied the lines. "From New York to California… at least four, perhaps five months by sea. And through storms that have swallowed fleets." She said it with a delicate shiver.
Arthur smiled—proud and slightly wicked.
"Impeccably reasoned. You astonish me more with each lesson."
She flushed, though she tried—poorly—to maintain royal composure.
"Flatterer."
"Always," he replied softly, "but never without truth."
Then, with a decisive sweep, he drew a straight line across the narrow neck of Panama.
"But imagine, Victoria… imagine if we carved a channel here."
Her breath caught. "A canal?"
"A path cleaving the continents," he said, voice low with promise. "A gateway from the Atlantic to the Pacific."
She bent closer, eyes bright as they flicked from coastline to coastline. A moment later she gasped—small, sharp, utterly enchanting.
"Arthur… this would shorten the voyage by—good heavens—more than ten thousand kilometers! Travel reduced to mere weeks!"
"Yes." His eyes gleamed with the sort of ambition that could tilt empires. "Not just California. London to the East. India to the western Americas. Trade, diplomacy, war—all rewritten by a single stroke of engineering."
Victoria looked at him—truly looked—and her heart swelled with a tender, almost fierce pride.
"Another salvation of the world," she whispered. "Your world."
"Our world," he corrected, brushing his fingers lightly along the back of her hand.
She pretended not to notice the caress, but the slight tremor in her breath betrayed her.
Then she asked, with that earnest courage he adored, "But Arthur… can it truly be done? That land is treacherous. Mountains, swamps, fever…"
"In earlier centuries? Perhaps impossible." His voice dropped to a confident purr. "But, my love, you forget whom you married."
One by one, in the half-shadowed lamplight, he listed his hidden advantages:
"I have explosives that will shatter stone like pottery.
Steam excavators, tested in secret, capable of moving mountains of earth.
Medical stations equipped with quinine and trained surgeons."
Then he leaned close, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"And most importantly… I have found a partner both needy and terrified of its northern neighbour."
She turned toward him, caught between amusement and curiosity.
"Whom do you intend to bribe, my lion?"
"Not bribe," he corrected with a foxlike smile. "Merely… rescue."
He meant New Granada—a young, bankrupt republic trembling beneath American suspicion. A nation so desperate for survival that it would cling to any hand offering stability.
A week later, a discreet British vessel—flying the modest colours of the Royal Promotion Society—slipped into the port of Cartagena. No troops marched ashore. Only a handful of "geologists" and "engineers," led by the ever-affable Mr. Hanson, Arthur's most polished envoy.
President José Ignacio de Márquez received him without ceremony, expecting petitions, pleas, or imperial arrogance.
He received none of those.
Instead, Hanson opened a leather folder and, with the serenity of a man delivering a gospel, laid out gifts—lavish, calculated, irresistible.
"Five million dollars to stabilise your treasury," he announced.
"British riflemen and artillery to safeguard your borders from northern 'misunderstandings.'"
"A national university. A hospital. Entirely funded."
Márquez stared as though beholding a miracle.
"Why… why such generosity?"
"Because His Royal Highness Arthur Lionheart believes your nation's independence deserves to flourish," Hanson said warmly. Then, after a beat:
"And because friends help friends."
Only then did he place the true document on the table.
"Ninety-nine years of exclusive scientific exploration rights across the Isthmus of Panama. No infringement of sovereignty. Purely scientific."
"And, naturally, a modest academic endowment—five hundred thousand dollars—transferable to whatever private account is most… comfortable for Your Excellency."
The president scarcely read it.
A malarial mire of land? Worthless, dangerous, empty?
If the British wished to waste their fortune digging holes in it—so be it.
He signed without hesitation, sealing the quiet reordering of the world.
Meanwhile, in Washington, President Tyler thundered patriotically about "America for Americans," blind to the subtle empire knitting itself beneath his very nose.
The British had not merely entered the American backyard.
Arthur Lionheart had planted the first spade directly into its heart.
That evening, back in Buckingham Palace, Victoria rested her hand atop Arthur's as they gazed out at the rain-washed gardens.
"You will change the world," she whispered.
He kissed her knuckles slowly, reverently.
"We will."
And for a moment—just a moment—the storm outside could not touch them.