Chapter 2283 - 274: Secret Histories of the Palace, or Hastings’ Little Schemes

Fiona stared at Arthur for a few seconds and suddenly laughed.

"You really are... I should have known. Just give you some time, and you’ll take what everyone else has played with, break it apart, reassemble it, and use it even more skillfully than before."

Fiona walked to the chair opposite him, but did not sit down, just casually leaned against the back of the chair, her fingers tracing the wood grain mindlessly: "However... you seem in a good mood today. Not like last year, where you looked like you were about to flip the whole street over at any moment."

"It’s not so bad lately." Arthur took a sip of wine: "Everything is moving forward according to plan."

"I’ve heard." Fiona turned her head to look at him: "White Hall, Buckingham Palace, Home Office... wherever you go now, your name arrives first. You know, some guests who come to play occasionally mention you and have started seriously discussing one thing. They’re guessing whether you’re a policeman, a politician, or... something harder to classify."

Arthur raised an eyebrow: "That doesn’t sound like praise."

"Of course not." Fiona chuckled: "Rather than praise, it’s more like jealousy. I suppose that’s why you’ve been visiting me less frequently lately."

Arthur put the glass back on the table: "There’s been a lot going on lately, and with so many people around, some places aren’t convenient to visit regularly."

"Nightingale Mansion is inconvenient, I understand." Fiona tilted her head, as if scrutinizing the parts of Arthur’s words he deliberately left out: "After all, this has never been a place where you could confidently show your face."

Her fingers stopped on the chair back, then slid off again nonchalantly: "But oddly enough... you don’t seem to be visiting Kensington Palace much lately either."

Arthur’s expression didn’t change noticeably, he just raised his eyes to look at her: "You, sending people to track me?"

"Tracking you?" Fiona seemed amused by something absurd: "Do you have some overly romantic notions about our relationship? Do I need to send people to follow you to know your whereabouts? When you leave home every day, when you reach White Hall, which day you meet which minister, which day you go to the palace, when you leave the city, when you return to London. Your schedule is more precise than a train timetable."

"What does tracking have to do with romantic notions?" Arthur asked: "I just recalled recently when Her Majesty the Queen mentioned to me that someone in the palace caught a foreign thief. Fiona, that person isn’t your subordinate, is it?"

"Her Majesty the Queen, Her Majesty the Queen again. Now when you speak, it’s all about her?" Fiona couldn’t hold back anymore: "Arthur Hastings, is she the only woman in this world?"

The air in the room suddenly tightened.

But Arthur seemed oblivious; he just gently shook his head: "Of course not, there are plenty of women in the world, only she’s the one sitting in that position."

Fiona’s chest heaved; she was clearly still upset: "You shamelessly speaking the truth like this, the worst thing I ever did in this life was not being born into the Romanov family, or not marrying into it. If I were Catherine, I wonder if you would dare speak like this to me."

After hearing this, Arthur not only didn’t refute, but instead softly laughed: "If you truly were Catherine, I’d even plead shamelessly at your feet, begging my Empress to let me kiss your courtly shoes. Then, whether I become Orlov, Potemkin, or Zubov, I’d gladly accept my fate."

Portrait of Count Grigory Orlov by Russian painter Feodor Rokotov, painted in the mid-to-late 18th century

Portrait of Prince Grigory Potemkin, Army Marshal of the Russian Empire, by German painter Johann Baptist von Lampi, painted in the 1780s

Portrait of Prince Platon Alexandrovich Zubov by German painter Johann Lebrecht Eggink, painted at the end of the 18th century

Fiona was stunned for a moment, then snorted with laughter.

"Look at that mouth of yours." She shook her head, her tone full of mockery: "Orlov? Potemkin? Zubov? You really dare to flatter yourself."

She raised her chin, her gaze swept over him, deliberately slowing her speech: "If you think about it, you’d at most be like Alexander Vasilychikov. You can have the privileges and fame you deserve, but you are forbidden to leave the palace without permission, and must always await my orders."

Arthur wasn’t the least bit displeased at being demeaned, instead nodding, cheerfully accepting the title.

"That’s not bad." He spoke quite naturally: "At least Vasilychikov was an honest gentleman."

Fiona was taken aback, then narrowed her eyes and asked: "Do you know who he is? You just say he’s an honest gentleman."

Arthur replied: "Of course I know, when I was in Russia, I read about Vasilychikov and his biography. To Catherine, Mr. Vasilychikov’s role was merely to prove she still had the power to choose men when the Empress needed it. If Vasilychikov were to be ironic about it, he’d say he was merely a male prostitute to her."