The Queen's decision struck **No. 10 Downing Street** like a sudden thunderclap.
"What? Her Majesty… she **agreed**?!"
Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, nearly let his teacup slip from his hand. It rattled against the saucer as he turned toward **Arthur Lionheart**, who had come merely to "inform" him of the news.
Melbourne's eyes practically said:
*What sort of scheme are you hatching this time, young man?*
"Lord Melbourne," Arthur said mildly, rescuing the endangered teacup, "there is no need for such alarm. Her Majesty simply believes that the summer in St Petersburg must be delightful. We wish to take a romantic… 'honeymoon' of sorts, while we are still young enough to enjoy one."
"A honeymoon?!"
Melbourne's beard bristled like a startled cat.
"Your Royal Highness! Do not trifle with me! This is **Tsarist Russia**, not the Champs-Élysées! You are gambling with the security of the entire Empire!"
"Of course I understand the risks."
Arthur's smile vanished; his posture sharpened into seriousness.
"But you must also recognise the opportunities concealed within those risks."
He placed a sealed intelligence dossier directly onto the Prime Minister's desk.
"These are the latest reports from Berlin."
Melbourne skimmed only the first page before his expression hardened.
A veteran politician needed no further explanation.
"Nicholas will undoubtedly seize this moment to influence the newly crowned Frederick William IV…" he murmured.
"Precisely."
Arthur leaned forward, his analysis crisp and irresistible.
"Prussia is our most crucial piece on the Continental chessboard—our counterweight to both France and Russia. Now that piece stands at the most delicate crossroads of its history.
Should Britain appear hesitant, uncertain, or withdrawn, all of our prior investment in Berlin would evaporate in an instant. Prussia would tumble willingly into the Tsar's embrace."
Arthur tapped the desk once, firmly.
"And then—a **new Holy Alliance**, dominated by Russia and encompassing Prussia and Austria, would arise again. Britain would find herself isolated on this side of the Channel.
Is that the future you desire, my Lord?"
Melbourne said nothing.
He did not need to: Arthur had struck at the core of the matter.
"Therefore," Arthur continued, "we must go—straight to the Tsar's doorstep, before all of Europe, and particularly before the romantic young monarch in Berlin. We must demonstrate Britain's resolve, Britain's vigour, and Britain's unshakeable place at the helm of modern civilisation."
He paused only long enough to let the words settle.
"We must make Prussia understand that by standing with us, it shall have steel warships to command, cheap industrial goods to enrich its people, and access to modern innovation.
By standing with the Tsar, it shall have nothing but black bread and cold bayonets."
"This is psychological warfare, Lord Melbourne—an Image War among the great powers of Europe.
And Britain must win it."
The old statesman felt his earlier dread slowly replaced by the familiar, dangerous excitement of grand strategy. He sighed, half-resigned, half-admiring.
"Very well, Your Royal Highness. You have convinced me… once again."
But his expression soon darkened.
"Yet there remains a formidable obstacle—**Parliament**. According to constitutional practice, a monarch's state visit constitutes the highest category of national action. It requires parliamentary approval. And Palmerston—along with half the Conservatives—is eager for a chance to strike at us. They will oppose this journey to the last breath, citing Her Majesty's safety."
"I know."
Arthur's expression regained its confident composure.
"Which is why, dear Prime Minister, *your* part in this play now begins."
"My part?"
"Yes."
Arthur clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"You will inform Parliament that this is not an official 'state visit.'
It is merely a private invitation from the Tsar—a family-style **royal hunt**."
"And," he added, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial glint,
"you may—rather casually—mention a certain possibility to a select group of Members.
Particularly those who have profited lavishly from the East India Company's restructuring."
"Tell them that during this friendly little sojourn, I may also find opportunity to discuss with the Tsar the **opening of Black Sea trade routes**, and the **reduction of tariffs on British manufactured goods**."
"If successful, they would gain a market richer and larger than even the Qing Empire."
A light ignited in Melbourne's eyes.
He understood at once.
Arthur intended to perform one thing openly—while manoeuvring another beneath the surface.
Publicly:
A harmless, private journey, stripped of political tension.
Privately:
A golden lure for Parliament—a promise of vast commercial advantage if Russia's markets were opened to British industry.
With such a proposal—
one that improved Britain's prestige, hinted at immense profit, and presented itself as "low-risk"—
what reason would Parliament have to oppose it?
Melbourne exhaled a helpless, admiring breath.
"Your Royal Highness… you are a born devil."
---
Exactly as Arthur predicted, when Melbourne presented his carefully crafted motion to Parliament, only Palmerston and a few hard-line Tories resisted, shouting about "the Queen's safety."
But the majority—especially those who had grown wealthy in railways and East India schemes—voted in favour without hesitation.
Thus, the bill approving the Queen and Prince Consort's "St Petersburg Hunting Trip" passed by a decisive margin.
It was extraordinary.
In any other era, no Prince Consort—least of all someone with no constitutional authority, like poor Prince Albert—could have pushed such legislation through.
But **Arthur Lionheart**, now revered as the Empire's *Fortune-Bringer* and *War-Saint*, was no ordinary consort.
---
Before departure, one last controversy arose.
The Admiralty proposed that the formidable ironclad **HMS Vengeful Queen** escort the royal couple across the North Sea.
Arthur rejected the notion immediately.
"No. This is a private visit between 'friends,' not a show of intimidation. Arriving at another sovereign's doorstep aboard an ironclad warship is not diplomacy—it is a provocation."
The First Lord of the Admiralty blinked.
"Then, Your Royal Highness… on what vessel shall you travel?"
"Why, on our own, of course."
Arthur's expression turned almost boyishly enthusiastic as he unfurled a newly drawn set of plans across the table.
The assembly gasped.
Before them lay the design of a vessel like none they had ever seen.
A ship of pure white and royal gold.
Graceful, dolphin-like lines.
No cannon emplacements.
A promenade deck with lawns.
An elevated garden filled with flowers.
Elegance itself—yet built upon a long, knife-sharp hull and a revolutionary **triple-expansion high-pressure steam engine**, the newest triumph of the Future Industries Group.
"Gentlemen," Arthur announced, "allow me to present the world's first true **Royal Princess of england **." Name born from my daughter's title.
"It bears no armour, no monstrous guns. But it possesses what matters more—unrivalled speed, peerless luxury, and the clearest demonstration of Britain's industrial supremacy and civilised grace."
"I ordered its construction before my expedition to the East. It has now been completed, refined with several new concepts. This model is still a prototype—but a fully seaworthy one."
The Duke of Wellington, ever the soldier, cut straight to the vital question:
"How fast?"
Arthur answered calmly:
"Cruising speed, twenty knots.
Maximum sprint, twenty-five."
Twenty-five knots.
The room fell into breathless silence.
Such speed bordered on the impossible.
It was not a ship—it was a miracle of industry.
Arthur smiled faintly.
"We shall show the Tsar that true power does not lie only in savage artillery."
"It lies also in this—
the speed and elegance that can connect the entire world."