The Shadow of Great Britain

In St. Petersburg, no one cared if his identity was just a flunky, simply because he was from the British Embassy, one of the faces representing the British Empire, which alone was enough to earn him immense respect.

Back then, after work every evening, he could order a cup of real black coffee at a café on Neva Street, along with an apple pie topped with maple syrup, gazing at the golden dome of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral shimmering under the winter night’s moonlight.

He remembered once being invited to the Summer Palace for an outdoor ballet, where sitting next to him was a Countess who even praised his French, saying it was better than her husband’s family tutor.

But now?

Now he even has to think twice before going to Covent Garden Theater for a play.

A senior copyist at the Foreign Office Secretariat?

This title is worth nothing in London!

In Whitehall, if you throw a brick casually, you could hit three people with higher positions than his.

He once thought that returning to London, to England, to the Foreign Office meant getting closer to power, to those who decide the fate of the world.

But now he realized that those people never needed him close; they were already surrounded by plenty.

Blackwell looked around at the crowd on Whitehall, bid farewell to a few colleagues, watched them board their private carriages, then walked down the road to Trafalgar Square, only then hailing a relatively clean-looking cab parked at the roadside.

Blackwell glanced at the sky and felt a tightness in his chest, concluding that today he should indulge and find a high-end place to have a few drinks.

"To... Mayfair District, Grosvenor Square."

He reached out to open the carriage door, but froze the moment it swung open.

Someone was already sitting inside the compartment.

The person sat casually, body slightly leaning against the corner of the seat, right leg naturally resting on the left knee.

The hem of the gray wool coat still carried some dampness from the night fog, the brim of the hat pressed low, obscuring his expression.

Only the silver-headed cane’s tip was lightly tapping the side of the boot, rhythm unhurried, as if pondering or reminding.

He didn’t rush to speak, merely slightly raised his head, revealing a small section of a smoking pipe under the light, appearing both amused and scrutinizing.

But his amusement wasn’t very obvious, yet it felt inexplicably familiar.

"Good evening, Henry."

The familiar voice seeped slowly from the smoke, mingling with a unique hardness from the northern England accent, along with his usual infuriating confidence.

Blackwell jumped back half a step as if electrified, almost instinctively blurting out: "Sir Arthur?!"

"You look thinner," Arthur said, patting the seat beside him with the glove he had taken off. "Come on up, let’s have a drink today."

Blackwell was stunned for a few seconds, then quickly glanced around, ensuring the surrounding pedestrians were busy with their own affairs, not noticing their carriage.

Only then did he lower his voice, half-surprised, half-hesitant, asking: "You...you just got off work too? I thought you had left long ago..."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, smiling: "Why? Do senior officials from the Foreign Office leave very early?"

"Not all leave early, mainly depends on whether Viscount Palmerston came to the Fore...," Blackwell said halfway, realizing he shouldn’t be discussing this, then awkwardly smiled: "You know, I thought it was the same at the Home Office too..."

"It’s not entirely wrong for the Foreign Office to do so," Arthur said, "The Home Office indeed wishes to relax a bit. Unfortunately, robbers, thieves, and murderers never wait for us to sit at the negotiation table."

After saying this, he lowered his head to take a puff from the pipe, seemingly just a casual joke, not intending to spend more words on this topic.

Blackwell stood at the carriage door, hesitating for a few seconds.

He didn’t immediately step in, but softly asked: "Did you... look for me tonight, for something?"

Arthur didn’t answer his question.

He simply lifted his chin slightly, lazily indicating the empty seat with his eyes, as if asking, "Are you getting in or not?"

The compartment suddenly fell into a brief silence.

Blackwell’s grip on the carriage door tightened.

Seeing him like this, Arthur didn’t fuss further but gently knocked twice on the carriage wall, instructing the driver: "Let’s go, tonight’s guest is not coming."

However, just as the carriage started, barely moving two feet, Blackwell anxiously ran up from behind: "Wait a minute! Sir! I’m coming! I’m coming!"

He heard a short nasal sound from the compartment, like a laugh, then the wheels slowly stopped.

Blackwell hurriedly climbed into the compartment, closing the door behind him.

After sitting down, he still seemed a bit flustered, his knee almost bumped into Arthur’s cane, so he quickly retracted his leg, awkwardly adjusting his sleeve.

Only then did Arthur remove the pipe, tilting his head to glance at him: "Let’s go have a drink then. Henry, you indeed look like you need a drink."

Blackwell said nothing.

He just nodded, placing his hands neatly on his knees, shoulders slightly tensed, eyes looking out at the mist, as if deliberately avoiding Arthur’s gaze.

Watching him like this, Arthur gently exhaled a puff of smoke: "A few days ago, I discovered a fur shop near Greenwich, the owner is a Russian named Feodor. I asked him if he was from St. Petersburg, he said yes. I then asked if he used to sell tea on Neva Street. He actually remembered you, saying there was once a British diplomat who always came to buy black tea in winter and tipped every time, looked like a noble."