Chapter 3
The Man Who Arrived on Time
“Where did you disappear to? Everyone’s been waiting. I only pushed you out to get some air—I didn’t tell you to vanish completely.”
Rufus grumbled as he hurried his master along. A man who had never been late to an appointment had, for once, appeared only when the party was already about to begin.
“The Prime Minister is waiting, and Miss Cecil has asked after you several times.”
Rufus’s nagging showed no sign of stopping.
“You really should be nicer to Miss Cecil. You’re going to be engaged anyway.”
“I didn’t hire you as my nanny, and I’m not interested in that kind of advice.”
At Christopher’s curt reply, Rufus let out a long sigh.
“My lord, please—just listen to me today. A nun even came demanding to see you. She knelt and begged. I’ve got a headache from it.”
“A nun came looking for me?”
Christopher asked sharply. Rufus tilted his head.
“Nothing’s changed since last time. Except she got down on her knees this time.”
Christopher paused mid-motion as he tied his bow tie in front of the mirror.
There were faint nail marks near the nape of his neck.
The party soon filled with the Prime Minister, cabinet ministers, and nobles.
It was the birth of a place where aristocrats and politicians gathered to negotiate interests and strike deals.
“Lord Belmore! I’ve been looking for you.”
“Prime Minister.”
At the sight of Christopher, the Prime Minister’s face lit up.
“I hear you acquired the glass factory in Everly? Quite the business sense.”
Lord Belmore had amassed enormous wealth like those who ventured to the New World—and he hailed from a venerable lineage.
“We judged that demand would rise once the glass tax was abolished.”
Christopher modestly credited the Prime Minister.
The information he had received from him had indeed been valuable. And the Prime Minister was seeking reelection—meaning he would continue to be a useful source.
“Abolishing the tax was what everyone wanted.”
The Prime Minister said this as if unaware, sipping his champagne. Christopher nodded.
Like his grandfather Archibald, he was steadily making power his own.
“There’s a lot of concern that the Exposition may run into delays.”
The Prime Minister rolled his glass between his fingers.
Recently, nations had been fiercely competing to host World Expos. Prime Minister Hobart had declared his intention to hold one, but the timeline was dangerously tight.
“At this rate, we’ll be lucky to put up a tent, let alone proper buildings.”
It was a clear request: offer something—money, materials, anything.
“An architect I know might be able to make it work.”
Pouring money into engraving one’s name on a single brick was foolish. Christopher had long learned that people were more grateful when given what they could not easily obtain.
“And who would that be?”
“An architect named Joseph Paxton.”
“I don’t recognize the name.”
The Prime Minister frowned.
Christopher added smoothly,
“He excels at creating something fast—and beautiful—under severe constraints.”
The words “as fast as possible” struck home.
In the end, the Prime Minister accepted the proposal.
As the conversation ended, Cecil Hobart—who had been chatting with friends—approached with a shy smile.
“Father, are you cornering Lord Belmore again with dull politics?”
The pairing of a powerful man’s daughter and a handsome young noble drew every eye.
“Lord Belmore, it’s been a while.”
Cecil smiled bashfully at him.
“Miss Hobart, thank you for coming.”
Christopher lightly kissed the back of her gloved hand.
“Shall we take a walk?”
“I can’t believe how beautiful this old estate looks now. It’s wonderful.”
She accepted eagerly.
The Prime Minister watched them with satisfaction. A northern-born Belmore was more desirable than any capital aristocrat.
The harsh lands of the north had long been scorned by nobles of the capital and the south—but times were changing.
Factories now crowded the wastelands, and minerals beneath the soil had become gifts from God.
It was Christopher Belmore who multiplied the wealth his grandfather Archibald had earned through finance.
The Belmore Hotel—built to shed the “potato north” image—made Christopher the most talked-about man in the capital.
A northern Belmore with weak political footing and a Prime Minister whose funds were drying up—this alliance reeked of calculation.
The engagement to Cecil was merely a beautiful wrapping for a dirty bond between money and politics.
As they strolled through the garden, Christopher suddenly presented a small velvet box.
“What’s this?”
Inside gleamed an emerald necklace—the same shade as Cecil’s eyes.
“I wanted to show it to you first.”
“Oh my goodness—it’s beautiful.”
It looked as magnificent as something taken from the Queen’s own vault.
“A gift to the House of Hobart.”
Cecil lifted her hair and offered her neck. Christopher fastened the clasp with practiced ease.
A man even the Queen would covet, if she had a daughter.
He always behaved in a manner befitting a noble destiny, and Cecil fell for him again and again.
She toyed with the necklace, trying to create a romantic mood—but he felt nothing beyond weary patience.
The atmosphere was broken by a voice urgently calling his name.
“My lord! Oh—you’re with the lady.”
“It’s fine. What is it?”
He even seemed relieved by Rufus’s interruption.
Cecil felt, for a moment, that she herself had been the intruder. Still—she stepped back gracefully.
There was no need to rush. She had learned well how unsightly desperate women looked.
“It seems you have matters to discuss. I’ll excuse myself.”
Christopher did not object.
The moment they left the garden, he turned to Rufus.
“Rufus. Where on earth did you buy that necklace?”
Pressing a finger to his temple, Christopher looked irritated. Rufus replied casually.
“Don’t blame the shop. I carefully chose it from the most reputable jeweler in Hatton Garden.”
“I’d hoped for something more restrained.”
“Then you should’ve picked it yourself. A little sincerity is required for romance, you know.”
“You really think I’m doing this for romance?”
Rufus sighed in defeat.
“You’d make a brilliant actor, my lord. At charity galas, you’d raise enough money to fund ten poorhouses. With that face and that acting—”
Ignoring the sarcasm entirely, Christopher issued instructions in a flat tone.
“Summon Joseph Paxton tomorrow. We’re going to the Prime Minister’s residence.”
“Already got him eating out of your hand?”
Rufus clicked his tongue.
The meeting to select a World Exposition design was thick with tension.
Joseph Paxton, introduced by Belmore, presented a radical blueprint.
“It looks like a greenhouse. And where exactly are we supposed to get all that glass?”
Minister of International Development Michael Rotts voiced his opposition openly.
The Prime Minister cleared his throat.
Christopher stepped in.
“This is the age of iron. Brick buildings won’t impress anyone.”
Murmurs spread.
His purpose—attending as Paxton’s guarantor—was nearly fulfilled.
“Our Belmore Company has recently succeeded in mass-producing large glass panels. For the sake of the Exposition, we’ll supply them at reduced margins.”
He paused, watching reactions.
Short-term losses were inevitable—but the publicity value afterward would be priceless.
With that single statement, the wavering meeting settled instantly.
Even the budget issue was resolved. No one could object.
Afterward, the Prime Minister summoned Christopher privately, clearly pleased.
Christopher expected talk of the engagement or the Exposition.
He was wrong.
“The convent. When exactly are you getting rid of it?”
Christopher’s eyebrow twitched.
The Prime Minister had assisted greatly with the hotel—but this was an overreach.
“Those troublesome nuns have been writing letters. That damned Phil Gordon caught wind of it.”
Phil Gordon—the Prime Minister’s rival.
If Gordon moved, his attacks would first target Belmore, then the Prime Minister who backed him.
Speaking with barely moving lips, the Prime Minister forced Christopher to lean in.
“He’s telling other members that my daughter’s fiancé is threatening helpless nuns.”
“About that—”
But the Prime Minister cut him off.
“There will be talk at the November assembly. Gordon is digging into who blocked the convent’s official license.”
The Prime Minister’s face twisted grimly.
Saint Margarita Convent met every requirement—yet had never received approval.
It was Belmore who had blocked the license, preventing subsidies and starving the convent.
The plan—to choke their funds and hold the orphans hostage—had been working.
But Phil Gordon complicated matters.
Christopher had to admit the nuns had chosen their ally wisely.
“Lord Belmore, I want this handled quietly. Seal their mouths.”
“I understand, Prime Minister.”
Only then did the Prime Minister relax.
“The gift you sent my daughter was splendid.”
“It was nothing.”
“She thinks highly of you. As do I. We should go riding together soon.”
“I’ll prepare a fine-blooded horse. One your daughter will like.”
A satisfied smile spread across the Prime Minister’s face.
Christopher returned to the hotel with Joseph Paxton, who was barely containing his excitement.
“I owe this all to you, my lord. To think I’d be entrusted with the Exposition design…”
“Thank me after the final plans are complete. And I’ll provide you with workspace in the hotel penthouse.”
Paxton adjusted his glasses, startled.
“But—that’s your office.”
“For now, I’ll stay in the cheapest room. I need to inspect the hotel myself.”
Hotel inspectors—who would soon arrive—always stayed in the least expensive rooms.
Christopher intended to do the same.
“My lord, what about dinner? And the nuns have requested another meeting.”
Rufus placed the key to Room 301 on the console.
“I’ll eat in my room. I need to review reports. And the nuns—”
The room was decent enough, aside from the fact that the convent attic was visible straight ahead.
“Don’t let them in.”
The convent’s fate had just been sealed—by the Prime Minister’s rebuke.
