The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1798 - 101: London Nightlife_2

"How about something less argumentative? The beds here are quite sturdy."

Mr. Wheatstone, upon hearing this, suddenly realized that this was not a good place for an argument.

If Arthur got upset and stormed off, he might end up getting taken away alone by Lady Rose later.

At this thought, Wheatstone’s face turned beet red, and beads of sweat began to pour down his forehead like a dam breaking.

"Let’s go, let’s get out of here, Arthur."

Compared to the flustered Wheatstone, Arthur was much more composed. He removed his hat and politely greeted them: "Lovely evening, ladies."

"Oh, we have a gentleman here indeed."

"Sir, would you like us to offer you a warm cocktail?"

Arthur smiled, raising his silver cane slightly: "Thank you for your kind offer, but perhaps another day. Tonight, I’ll have to pass."

With that, he walked ahead leisurely, as if taking a stroll in a street corner park.

Wheatstone, however, scrambled and stumbled after him, whispering urgently, "What’s going on with you? Is it... is it..."

He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to muster up great courage to ask, "Of course, I’m not saying you like them for real, but... but you don’t like ’them,’ do you?"

Arthur, with a pipe in his mouth, answered lazily without turning his head: "Charles, you shouldn’t be so naive. Do you think it’s only two people piling up in a bedroom? Haven’t you considered the ears and mouth?"

Hearing this, Wheatstone’s hair stood on end, and he stammered, "Ears... and mouth?!"

The thought of such a scene almost made Wheatstone faint on the spot.

Even the few street tabloids he secretly subscribed to had never published such wild stories.

Arthur, looking at this startled nerd, was at a loss for words.

Suddenly, he thought that at least in terms of imagination, Wheatstone’s level might be a notch above Eld’s.

Still, he didn’t bother to explain to Wheatstone.

Arthur led Wheatstone out of Yellow Chrysanthemum Street, crossed the narrow alley along the river, and headed straight to George Inn, the oldest tavern on the South Bank.

As soon as they sat down, Arthur immediately ordered a glass of porter. Perhaps due to the overwhelming visuals he experienced tonight, even Wheatstone, who rarely drank, specifically ordered a glass of light malt beer.

Arthur leaned back against the chair, watching Wheatstone down his beer in one go, and couldn’t help but say, "Take it easy, Charles. We’re here to talk business, not to give you a stomach cleanse."

Wheatstone slammed his glass down, a bit of beer foam clinging to his glasses: "Damn it! Arthur, don’t tell me you dragged me out here in the middle of the night just to mess with me! I will report you to Parliament, and I’ll see you hanging on the gallows in front of Newgate Prison tomorrow, you damned bastard!"

Arthur seemed genuinely taken aback by Wheatstone’s fury. He raised his glass, sighed sincerely, and softly said, "I’m sorry, Charles. I didn’t think this through. It’s my fault. Just consider that my brain was waterlogged tonight, and please... please don’t report me to Parliament."

His tone sounded somewhat genuine, as though he truly felt a bit ashamed.

But Wheatstone wasn’t easily fooled; he knew this A.H.’s duplicity all too well.

"Of course I’ll report you!" Wheatstone’s stance was as firm as a steel rod from Birmingham. He gritted his teeth and said, "How dare you treat me like this! A serious researcher of Natural Philosophy! I’ll let the University of London know their Dean of Academic Affairs spends his nights in... those kinds of places!"

Arthur sighed, adopting an expression as if to say "if you really want to do it, I can’t stop you."

"Alright," Arthur said, "if you really want to go through with it, then I might have to make a run for it."

"Run for it?" Wheatstone sneered, "I knew you were guilty. Where would you run to? New South Wales? Or America?"

Arthur raised his eyes and slowly exhaled a puff of smoke: "Belgium."

"Belgium?" Wheatstone’s eyes widened. "You don’t think there’s no sodomy law in Belgium, do you?"

"It’s not like there isn’t," Arthur replied nonchalantly. "However, my relationship with the King of Belgium is quite good, and given our friendship, he probably wouldn’t send me to the guillotine over such a trivial matter."

"You... you and the King?" Wheatstone asked suspiciously. "You know Leopold?"

"Can’t say very well." Arthur took a sip of beer. "But he’s planning to hire the England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company to construct a telegraph line across Belgium. He’ll have to deal with the company, won’t he? Through me?"

As he spoke, he pulled out an envelope embossed with the Belgian royal crest from his pocket and waved it lightly between his fingertips.

Wheatstone, seeing this, nearly spat the beer he had just drunk right onto Arthur’s face: "When was this decided?"

Arthur was about to explain the details about the telegraph company, but just as the smile on his lips hadn’t completely faded, a clamor came from the alley across the street.

"Alexander, put down that bottle of champagne! Miss Lucy gave it to me!"

"Shut up, Eld, Miss Lucy gave it to you? I gave her that bottle earlier, see, there’s my signature on it!"

"Enough, Alexander, Mr. Carter, both of you, say no more."

Accompanied by a burst of laughter with a mix of French accent and British slang, three staggering figures emerged from the depths of the alley.

One was a chubby man in a velvet coat, hair messy like a bird’s nest. He was waving a champagne bottle wrapped in a red silk scarf, with what looked like a theatrical feather hat tucked under his arm, his face flushed from drinking.

Another, in a crumpled wool coat, seemed to be trying to seize the trophy in his hands, but clearly, his head wasn’t quite clear. As he lunged forward, not only did he miss the champagne, but he also hit a gas lamp post, sitting on the ground cursing and rubbing his head.

The one bringing up the rear was Louis Bonaparte, like a matron, taking care of his two drunken friends.

Wheatstone gaped, eyes wide, as he watched these two familiar faces pass by outside the window: "Isn’t that... Dumas and Mr. Carter? And the last one... is that the one from the Bonaparte family... little Napoleon?"

"It’s them," Arthur said helplessly, removing the pipe from his mouth. "Judging by the situation, they probably got entangled with some sly actress again. Eld I can understand, considering he hasn’t had any decent produce for years, but Alexander... this fat man, just last month in Paris, he wrote to me swearing to the heavens he would only ever love Ida Ferrier..."

Seeing this, Wheatstone couldn’t help but gloat: "Lucky for them they didn’t end up in another alley, like the one we were just in. Otherwise, the ladies on Yellow Chrysanthemum Street would have shown them what true skill is."

Just as they were speaking, the drunken Great Dumas suddenly seemed to sense someone talking about him. He turned back sharply, spotting Arthur and Wheatstone.

The hefty man paused for a moment and then, in a drunken haze, opened his arms wide and charged towards them: "Oh, my dear Arthur, and Mr. Wheatstone... ugh..."

Fortunately, Arthur had been on guard when the Great Dumas rushed forward, so at least he didn’t get vomited on.

And the only clear-headed one among the trio, Louis, also came over, supporting Eld’s arm: "Arthur, Mr. Wheatstone? What are you two doing here?"