1860s American Tycoon

Several days later, at the private villa near Central Park where Isabella resided.

The tall wrought-iron gates completely shut out the hustle and bustle of the outside world.

The courtyard was filled with neatly trimmed conifers, retaining their dark green hue despite the chilly winds of early winter.

As a noble descendant of a branch of the House of Bourbon's Orléanists, she had been living here for over half a year. Although she had already gained Felix's consent to come and go from the villa freely, she still rarely showed her face in New York's high society on ordinary days.

At this moment, the fireplace was burning in the second-floor reception room of the villa, the fruitwood logs crackling and emitting a faint, refreshing fragrance in waves.

Isabella was sitting on the sofa, holding a set of bone world tea set in her hands.

She handed the poured black tea to Felix, who was sitting opposite her.

"I saw the newspapers."

Isabella's voice was soft and natural.

"The funeral you held for that old lady in the Lower East Side is being discussed by newspapers all across New York right now. Some say you value relationships and loyalty, while others say you are taking the opportunity to show off your philanthropic skills."

Felix took the teacup, took a sip, and did not mind at all.

"Words on newspapers have always been untrustworthy; I simply went to send an old friend off on her final journey. By the way, I heard there is other news from your father over in Europe?"

Isabella put away the leisure on her face, her gaze turning serious.

She walked over to the mahogany desk to the side, used an exquisite silver knife to slice open a kraft paper envelope sealed with double red wax, and took out several confidential letters from inside, spreading them flat on the coffee table in front of Felix.

"This is a handwritten letter sent by my father."

Isabella sat beside Felix, pointing at the French cursive handwriting on the letter paper as she spoke.

"He entrusted my maternal grandfather, which is The Old Count of Spain's House of Anjou, to prepare to hold a secret meeting in Zurich."

Felix's gaze flickered slightly.

"Zurich? Who all attended?"

"Almost all the core members of the House of Bourbon in Europe have arrived." Isabella lowered her voice considerably.

"Including the exiled former Queen of Spain, Isabella II, the branch representatives of the Two Sicilies Bourbon royal family, the Bourbon heir of the Duchy of Parma, and the sole legitimate heir of the Legitimists, Count of Chambord, Henry V."

Putting down his teacup, Felix lightly tapped his fingers on his knees.

Europe this year was in an unprecedented period of violent upheaval.

The Franco-Prussian War had just ended, Napoleon III's Second Empire had completely collapsed, and although the flames of the Paris Commune had been bloodily suppressed, the newly established French Third Republic was as fragile as a piece of paper.

In the National Assembly, the Royalists occupied an absolute majority of the seats.

"They were actually able to sit at the same table?"

Felix revealed a mocking smile.

"I remember the Orléanists and Legitimists have been arguing in France for half a century, with both sides eager to send the other to the guillotine."

"In the face of huge interests, hatred can always be compromised," Isabella explained.

"Napoleon III has fallen, and France is now a republic without a king. Among the seats in the National Assembly, the majority are Royalists. This is the best opportunity in fifty years for the House of Bourbon to restore the French throne."

Felix picked up the letter paper, carefully browsing the confidential summary on it.

The letter detailed the negotiation conditions that would appear at this meeting.

For example, the Orléanists agreed to give up their direct contention for the throne, turning instead to support the childless Legitimist heir Henry V in ascending the throne.

But as a reward, Henry V must designate the Count of Paris of the Orléanists as the heir to the throne, and after the restoration, retain the constitutional framework and recognize the capital interests formed after the Franco-Prussian War.

"It sounds like it does not differ much from what was discussed previously," Felix raised his head.

"That Henry V is not an easy fellow to compromise with. I heard from my financial agent in Paris that he is an extremely stubborn die-hard of the Ancien Régime."

"You guessed right."

Isabella managed a forced smile.

"Previously, Henry V insisted that after the restoration, they must abandon the Bourbon tricolor representing revolution and the republic, and reuse the white-background fleur-de-lis banner of the Bourbon royal family. But my father believes that if they abandon the tricolor, the French army and Paris citizens will immediately launch a riot."

Shaking his head, Felix showed disdain.

"Still arguing endlessly over what color flag to hang? The brains of you European aristocrats are still stuck in the seventeenth century. What the army wants is military pay, what capitalists want is order and market, who cares whether that rag is red-white-blue or pure white?"

"But this is European politics, Felix."

Isabella looked at Felix with a serious gaze.

"My father specifically mentioned in the letter that my maternal grandfather has already reached a preliminary agreement with various factions. They are preparing to raise a 'Restoration Fund' as high as fifty million francs in Europe and America."

"Fifty million francs?" Felix raised an eyebrow.

"What do they want to do? Buy off members of the French National Assembly? Or bribe officers of the defense government?"

"It was not said, probably both," Isabella said in a low voice.

"More importantly, they need this money to provide a guarantee to the Rothschild Family and several major banks in Europe, to ensure that the new government after the restoration can immediately issue new national bonds and stabilize the exchange rate of the French franc."

Felix stood up and walked slowly around the room.

If it involved Rothschild, then this was not only a restoration farce of the European royal family, but more likely the precursor to a massive financial storm!

If the House of Bourbon truly succeeded in the restoration, France would re-establish a monarchy, and the political landscape of Europe would undergo earth-shattering changes.

The prices of French national bonds, the exchange rate between the franc and gold, and even railway and mining stocks throughout Europe, would all usher in a round of violent shocks.

And if the restoration failed, the fragile Third Republic would fall into civil strife, the franc would depreciate sharply, and countless European capitals would frantically flock to America for risk aversion!

"Your father wants to ask me for help?"

Felix stopped his footsteps and looked at Isabella.

Isabella raised her head and looked straight into Felix's eyes.

"Father hopes to use my connections to apply for a mortgage loan of twenty million in bearer national bonds from Argyle Empire Bank. They are willing to use the stocks of several major railways in Spain and Italy as collateral. The interest rate can be given at twelve percent annualized!"

Twelve percent annualized!

In the international financial market, that was a yield rate at the level of usury.

"It seems they are in a rush."

Felix's mouth revealed a hunter-like smile.

"European bankers dare not gamble because the Rothschild Family is tied too deeply to the Bank of France, and they fear that the failure of the restoration will lead to the confiscation of their assets. Therefore, they cast their gaze toward America, toward me, an external capital unblemished by European politics."

"Will you agree, Felix?"

Isabella asked somewhat nervously.

This concerned not only the destiny of her family, but also her own value in Felix's heart.

Walking back in front of the sofa, Felix looked down condescendingly at Isabella.

"Twenty million dollars is not a small sum to me, but I do not mind placing my bets on either side."

Felix bent down, stretched out a finger, and gently hooked Isabella's chin.

"I only care, if I invest this money, what can the Argyle Family get?"

Isabella lightened her breathing and said softly.

"Father promises that once the restoration succeeds, France's mineral mining rights in North Africa, as well as the underwriting rights for the new issue of national bonds from the Bank of France, will give priority consideration to Argyle Empire Bank."

Felix shook his head; this was a bit petty.

"The current provisional government has already given these to me. So this blank check is meaningless; I want something more practical."

"Something more practical?"

"Tell your father and that Old Count of Anjou."

"The loan can be given. But I want them to use the original shares of the Suez Canal Company secretly held by the House of Bourbon in Europe as collateral! In addition, if the restoration fails, I want to have the right of first refusal for all sugar mills and iron mines owned by the Spanish Bourbon royal family in Cuba!"

Although Felix was not too clear on exactly how many shares the House of Bourbon held, based on the secret searches conducted by the Intelligence Department in Europe, it was at least half.

That was at least one hundred million francs, which was around twenty million dollars.

Isabella looked at Felix in shock.

This man did not seem to care at all who became the king of France.

Instead, like a greedy eagle, he locked his eyes straight onto the core high-quality assets in the hands of the European royal family at a single glance!

"This... this is the family's final trump card, they might not agree," Isabella hesitated and said.

"They will agree," Felix sneered and said.

"When a person is about to drown, they will grab tightly onto even a straw, let alone twenty million dollars? Tell them, I will not wait too long."

Felix considered it very clearly; although historically the Bourbon did not succeed in their restoration, he had already time-traveled, so who knew whether history would change?

The renowned Rockefeller was a minor shareholder in his family's Standard Oil branch company, and the Morgan Family had been wiped out by him even more.

Even if the House of Bourbon's restoration failed, he still would not lose out.

Taking down the Suez Canal for twenty million was definitely not a loss.

Felix did not stay in Isabella's villa for too long.

After throwing the conditions to the House of Bourbon, he directly boarded the carriage back to the Empire Bank Building.

Outside the carriage window was Fifth Avenue, where the snow had just been swept; it was cold and damp, carrying a peculiar mixture of black coal smoke and horse manure.

The royal families of Europe wanted to borrow twenty million dollars in real gold and silver from Argyle Empire Bank based on a few empty promises that had already been fulfilled—there were no such cheap bargains in this world.

Whether it was the Tricolour or the Fleur-de-lis flag, to him they were not as reliable as the stocks of the Suez Canal or the sugarcane of Cuba.

Meanwhile, across the ocean in Zurich.

In a private estate on the shores of Lake Zurich, the heavy flannel curtains were drawn tightly shut, isolating the cold wind outside and the white fog over the lake.

The oak firewood in the fireplace burned vigorously, making the entire meeting room sweltering.

The Old Count of the House of Anjou sat beside the head seat of the long table.

Although he was advanced in years and his hair was completely white, his eyes, sunken in their sockets, were still as sharp as an eagle's.

Sitting beside him was Isabella's father, Antoine, Duke of Orleans.

Around the long table gathered the core backbones of the House of Bourbon who were now scattered across Europe.

The exiled former Queen of Spain, Isabella II, leaned back in her soft chair, waving a lacquered folding fan in her hand, and her complexion did not look particularly good.

Opposite her were the collateral representatives representing the Two Sicilies Bourbon royal family and the heir to the Duchy of Parma.

Sitting at the very top of the long table was the Count of Chambord, Henry V, the only current legitimate heir of the Legitimists.

Henry V wore a rigorously tailored black formal suit, his hands crossed and placed on the tabletop, his face livid and the corners of his mouth tightly pursed.

"Everyone."

The Old Count spoke first, his hoarse voice echoing in the room.

"Inviting everyone to gather in Zurich this time is not to recall the past glory of the House of Bourbon in the Palace of Versailles, but for the future of France."

"Napoleon III has lost all his face in Sedan, and the Second Empire has collapsed."

"The mud-legs of the Paris Commune have also been suppressed by Thiers."

"In the National Assembly, the Royalists account for two-thirds of the seats."

"This is the best opportunity bestowed by heaven upon the House of Bourbon in fifty years!"

The Old Count slammed his palm on the table with a dull thud.

"Previously, the Orléanists have made concessions; the Count of Paris is willing to renounce the right to directly ascend the throne and recognize Lord Henry as the sole King of France!"

"There is only one condition: both sides reach a reconciliation, retain the constitutional framework, and continue to use the Tricolour to jointly form a new government."

The Old Count turned his head and looked at Henry V sitting at the head seat.

"Henry, the representatives of all collateral branches are here today."

"Everyone hopes to see the House of Bourbon sit back on the throne of the Palace of Versailles."

"What on earth are you hesitating for?"

Henry V slowly raised his head, his eyes spewing out long-suppressed anger.

"Heh~ What am I hesitating for?"

Looking at The Old Count of Anjou who was playing dumb, Henry V sneered.

"Lord Count of Anjou, you say it so easily!"

"The House of Orleans has made concessions?"

"Is that what they call a concession?"

"That is stepping on our Legitimist face to climb up!"

Henry V stood up excitedly, pressing on the tabletop and looking down at everyone.

"I remember very clearly."

"In 1830, it was the House of Orleans that betrayed my grandfather; they were traitors who came to power through revolution!"

"Now that they are powerful, they run over to talk cooperation with me, actually wanting me, the legitimate heir, to publicly admit that their rebellion back then was 'revolutionary justice'?"

"And wanting me to admit that the group of rebels in 1789 who sent His Majesty Louis XVI to the guillotine was right?"

Henry V's chest heaved violently.

"Wanting me to accept the red, white, and blue Tricolour?"

"That is a flag stained with the blood of the royal family!"

"It is the flag of regicides!"

"If I put on the royal robe and hang the Tricolour above my head, how can I face my deceased ancestors?"

"This is equivalent to declaring to all of Europe that I, this king, was bought by kneeling to mob and traitors!"

"You sit there and persuade me to compromise."

Henry V glanced around the audience, pointing at Isabella II, Duke Antoine, and others.

"The bad reputation is all for me alone to carry, the infamy is all for the Legitimists to bear!"

"The Orléanists get the real power, get the support of the capitalists, yet I am to become a puppet reviled by history!"

"On what grounds? I ask you, on what grounds!"

The room was dead silent.

Isabella II's hand waving the folding fan stopped, her brows tightly furrowed, seeming annoyed by Henry V's stubborn temper.

The representative of the Two Sicilies royal family muttered in a low voice: "If there is no restoration, we won't even be able to be puppets, and everyone in Europe will become paupers."

The Old Count looked at the furious Henry V, but his expression remained calm.

He had anticipated this situation before coming to Zurich.

This Count of Chambord had received the most orthodox and rigid divine right of kings education since childhood, and could not tolerate any sand in his eyes.

"Henry, look at you getting impatient again."

The Old Count extended his emaciated fingers and tapped on the tabletop.

"I can understand your anger, but it is too emotional."

"Do you really think you are defending the dignity of the Legitimists?"

"No, you are pushing the House of Bourbon into an abyss of eternal damnation."

The Old Count slowly leaned back against the chair back, his voice unhurried, yet every word was like a knife.

"You say the Tricolour is the flag of regicides."

"But now the entire French army, from generals to soldiers, has military flags that are all the Tricolour!"

"The citizens of Paris, the workers of the factories, and even those petty bourgeoisie only recognize the Tricolour!"

"If you intend to forcibly hang the white-ground lily Fleur-de-lis flag over the sky of Paris, do you know what will happen?"

Without waiting for him to reply, The Old Count snorted coldly.

"I will tell you what happens."

"Paris will erupt in riots again!"

"This time there will be no army of Napoleon III to suppress it for you."

"The army will directly turn sides, the National Guard will reoccupy the barricades."

"Even the republicans will instantly drive all the Royalists out of the National Assembly!"

The Old Count leaned forward slightly, his tone becoming cold.

"By then, the Prussian troops remaining in Metz and Strasbourg might take the opportunity of 'maintaining order' to occupy Paris once again."

"The Prussians will tear France to pieces!"

"And we, the House of Bourbon, will completely become sinners of all of France."

"Even the last spark of restoration will be extinguished by the anger of all of Europe!"

Henry V's complexion turned pale, his lips moved as if he wanted to retort, but The Old Count did not give him a chance.

"You say compromise is kneeling?"

The Old Count raised his volume, his eyes burning bright.

"Back then our ancestor, His Majesty Henry IV, in order to unify a divided France and to be able to enter Paris to ascend the throne, resolutely chose to convert to Catholicism despite being a Protestant!"

"At that time, the orthodox Huguenots were also cursing him, calling him a traitor and saying he knelt to the Pope!"

"But what was the result?"

As he spoke, emotions got the better of The Old Count, and he suddenly waved his hand.

"The result was that he firmly secured the throne of France, and even created the glory of the Bourbon Dynasty! Think about it, was that called groveling by His Majesty Henry IV? That was clearly called forbearance, and a strategic compromise made for the supreme interests of the House of Bourbon!"

"If our ancestors could do it, why can't you wrong yourself a bit? Today, imitating our ancestors by temporarily accepting the tricolor flag to preserve constitutionalism is in order to logically take back the royal power. Once you sit on the throne and gradually tighten your grip on the military and finances, five years later, ten years later, would you still be afraid of having no opportunity to slowly replace the tricolor flag? Or is this simply your excuse, deliberately done just to strike at the House of Orleans?"

Duke Antoine also spoke up at this moment to persuade him.

"Yes, Your Excellency Henry, The Old Count is right. You must know that our Orleans has connections with two-thirds of the bankers and industrialists in all of France. Without their financial support, we can't even scrape together the money to form a new government. Getting power first is better than anything else."

Seeing that the situation was favorable, the representatives from Two Sicilies nearby hurriedly chimed in.

"Yes, yes, Your Excellency Henry. Spain and Italy are both watching. As long as the family's restoration in France succeeds, with the great power of France as our backing, the territories and privileges lost by our various branches in our respective countries will have hope of being taken back to strengthen the House of Bourbon together!"

The persuasion of the crowd surged towards Henry V like a wave, leaving him somewhat overwhelmed.

Slowly sitting back down in his chair, Henry V clenched his hands tightly into fists.

His eyes were filled with struggle and pain.

For an old aristocrat with such spiritual cleanliness, this kind of compromise was more painful than killing him.

"You... Are you guys being too naive?"

Henry V said with a hoarse voice, coldly looking at everyone present.

"Do you really think that as long as I sign and acknowledge the tricolor flag, I can smoothly return to Paris?"

Henry V mockingly swept his gaze across everyone's face.

"Is it really useful for you to sit here and discuss dividing the cake? Those bastards of the republicans, Thiers, Gambetta, will they watch helplessly as the House of Bourbon takes away the fruits? Are the majority of the so-called Royalists in the National Assembly really loyal to the House of Bourbon? They are just a bunch of greedy capitalists! Whoever gives them concessions, they support whoever!"

"And those generals holding heavy troops, who can guarantee their attitude?" Henry V heavily slammed the table.

Without even completely sorting out the army and the banks, discussing the distribution of benefits after the restoration right here, isn't this ridiculous?

The Old Count sneered.

"You don't need to worry about the issues of the army and the banks at all; we are already raising funds."

Just at this moment, the heavy wooden door of the conference room was suddenly knocked on.

Duke Antoine's private personal butler walked in hurriedly, holding a newly translated telegram and walking straight towards Duke Antoine.

The butler whispered a few words in Antoine's ear and handed over the telegram paper.

Duke Antoine unfolded the telegram, and his pupils contracted after reading just a few lines.

The telegram was sent by his daughter in New York, Isabella.

It clearly stated Felix's latest attitude.

The twenty million dollar loan can be given.

But it must be pledged with the original shares of the Suez Canal Company held by the House of Bourbon, and if the restoration fails, the right of first refusal for all sugar mills and iron mines in Cuba shall belong to the Argyle Family.

Duke Antoine looked at that piece of paper, and sweat faintly broke out on his palms.

In the conference room of the Zurich Manor, everyone's gazes fell successively on Duke Antoine.

After all, the shock and hesitation on his face simply could not be covered up, which immediately made the old foxes present sense something unusual.

The Old Count turned his head slightly and asked in a low voice.

"Antoine, what happened? Is it the telegram from New York?"

Duke Antoine folded that thin piece of telegram paper, avoiding the probing gazes of the other clan members, and said to The Old Count in a low voice.

"It was sent by Isabella, that Argyle in America... replied."

Hearing the name "Argyle", a sharp glint flashed through The Old Count's turbid eyes.

"What does it say? Is he willing to approve the twenty-million-dollar loan?"

Duke Antoine gave a bitter smile, shoved the telegram paper into The Old Count's hand, and said in an extremely low voice: "He's willing to give it. But... that American upstart is even more greedy than the devil in hell. He doesn't seem to look down upon the railway stocks of Spain and Italy, nor does he believe those empty promises at all."

The Old Count quickly scanned the words and sentences on the telegram.

When he saw the words "Suez Canal original shares" and "Cuba sugar mills and iron mines", his withered fingers trembled involuntarily.

"Damn American mongrel!"

The Old Count cursed in a low voice, his wrinkled face twitching violently.

Suez Canal shares!

That was the trump card that the House of Bourbon had operated in the Ottoman Empire and Egypt for many years.

Although the French officialdom took the lion's share back then, the various branches of the House of Bourbon secretly absorbed an extremely startling number of original shares through covert agents.

This was one of the family's most stable and massive overseas assets.

And the sugarcane and iron mines of Cuba were even more the currently surviving blood bags of the Spanish Bourbon branch!

"This is going to squeeze us dry..."

Duke Antoine sighed.

"The shares of the Suez Canal that we hold in our hands are worth at least twenty million dollars. It seems his intelligence is formidable, to actually know that our shares are worth at least twenty million. And regardless of whether our restoration succeeds or fails, he will not lose!"

The Old Count fell silent.

As a veteran politician who had experienced countless storms, he was all too aware of the viciousness of Felix's move.

If the conditions were not agreed to, the huge sum of twenty million dollars could not possibly arrive in place.

And without this huge sum as a guarantee, European bankers—especially the Rothschild Family—would definitely not underwrite government bonds for the new Bourbon government.

And without money, what would be used to bribe the centrist members of the National Assembly? What would be used to pay military salaries to those generals holding heavy troops? What would be used to appease that restless middle class in Paris?

"What's wrong, Your Excellency the Count?"

Henry V, sitting in the main seat, noticed the changes in the expressions of the two and spoke to inquire.

"Is it that American capital you mentioned before? Did he refuse? Look, I knew it, those bandits crossing the ocean are simply unreliable. They only care about their banknotes!"

Isabella II also closed her folding fan, looking somewhat impatient.

"Antoine, say it out loud. What on earth is the news? Everyone is in the same boat now, there's no need to hide things."

Duke Antoine glanced at The Old Count, and seeing The Old Count nod slightly, he stood up to face the crowd.

"Ahem… Everyone."

Duke Antoine cleared his throat.

"The Argyle Empire Bank of America has agreed to provide us with twenty million dollars in seed capital for the restoration. But… uh, but they have proposed rather harsh collateral conditions."

"Hmm? What conditions?"

The representative of Two Sicilies hurriedly pressed.

"He refuses to accept railway stocks. Furthermore, he demands that all original shares held by the House of Bourbon in the Suez Canal Company be used as loan collateral. And… if the restoration fails, the Argyle Family shall have absolute right of first refusal over all sugar mills and mines belonging to the Spanish royal family in Cuba."

Duke Antoine said, biting the bullet.

As soon as his voice fell, the conference room instantly erupted in uproar.

"What? The Suez Canal? Has that fellow named Argyle gone mad!"

The representative of Two Sicilies jumped up in extreme agitation, pointing at the table and shouting.

"That is the family's last lifeline prepared for the future. According to calculations, the dividends brought by the canal each year can support hundreds of family members. To use it as collateral for the Americans? If something goes wrong, what will the members of the House of Bourbon eat in the future?"

Former Queen of Spain Isabella II's face was even more ashen as she heavily slammed her folding fan onto the table.

"Cuba's sugar mills and iron mines? Cuba is Spanish territory. A merchant of America actually dares to covet Spain's overseas colonial assets? This is robbery!"

"This is robbery!" Henry V laughed aloud, his laughter filled with sarcasm.

"Look for yourselves, is this the American merchant you pinned your hopes on? You think you are looking for allies for the restoration, but in reality, you are handing the House of Bourbon's last remaining properties to the barbarians with both hands."

Then, pointing at Duke Antoine, he said:

"Twenty million dollars! For these twenty million dollars, I have to bend the knee to the Orléanists, abandon clan dignity to hang the tricolor flag, and now I have to mortgage the canal and colonies obtained with painstaking effort to the Americans. Is this your so-called 'Great Restoration'?"

The argument in the room almost blew the roof off.

Representatives of various factions argued until their faces were red for their own interests.

Only The Old Count sat quietly there, his gaze terrifyingly gloomy.

Waiting until the crowd had argued almost enough, he suddenly slammed the table.

"Shut up, all of you!"

The Old Count's angry roar caused the noisy room to gradually quiet down.

"Robbery? That's right, this is robbery!" The Old Count sneered as he looked around at everyone, "But do we have a choice?"

The Old Count looked toward Isabella II.

"My former Queen, if the restoration fails, how many years can Spain's Cuba be preserved? The Americans have had their eyes on Cuba for a long time! Even if we don't sell the properties to Argyle, sooner or later they will be snatched away by that gang of politicians in Washington!"

He looked again at the representative of Two Sicilies.

"And you! If we cannot take France, those Suez Canal shares are nothing more than a string of numbers kept in a bank safe. Do you dare to use them? Do you dare to contend with the current French Republic?"

Finally, The Old Count locked his gaze firmly on Henry V.

"Henry! Do you think this is humiliation? Then let me tell you, history never cares about humiliation, it only cares about winning or losing!"

The Old Count stood up, bracing his hands on the table and leaning forward like a dying old wolf.

"Argyle is a businessman, and businessmen care most about profits! He dares to demand Suez Canal shares as collateral, which indirectly shows he believes we have the possibility of a successful restoration. As long as our restoration succeeds and we seize France's financial power, we can pay off the twenty million dollar loan in a single year. By then, the Suez Canal shares will still belong to the House of Bourbon!"

The Old Count's voice carried a mesmerizing fanaticism.

"If we fail… Hmph, if we fail, even the name of the House of Bourbon will be gone, what use are those stocks and Cuba's mines then? Leave them for the republicans to confiscate?"

The conference room once again fell into a dead silence.

The Old Count's realistic and even cruel analysis ruthlessly ripped open everyone's heart.

Indeed.

If they didn't take this gamble, everyone could only continue to wander in various European countries, living a respectable yet straitened life relying on meager dividends, watching helplessly as the republicans took root in France.

How could this be permitted!

Isabella II took a deep breath, slowly sat back down in her chair, and picked up her folding fan again.

"I agree… taking the priority sale of Cuban properties as a fallback. But Argyle must guarantee that the funds are transferred in place through a bank in London as soon as possible."

In order to later gain the support of French forces for her restoration in Spain, Isabella intended to accept it.

Restoring the throne was the most important thing.

The representatives of Two Sicilies glanced at each other and also gritted their teeth and nodded.

"We also agree… to cede the collateral rights of the Suez Canal. But a portion of the dividend rights must be reserved for us before the loan is paid off."

Only Henry V remained.

Everyone's gaze concentrated once again on this Legitimists heir.

Henry V looked at this group of kindred relatives before him, who were hideous and unscrupulous for the sake of interests, and a deep sense of powerlessness and disgust rose in his heart.

This was his family, these were the so-called top European nobles.

In front of the temptation of capital and power, whatever faith, whatever legitimacy, whatever dignity all became a laughable drama.

"Heh, make your decisions slowly."

Closing his eyes, Henry V's voice did not have a shred of warmth.

"If it is necessary to use this method to make me sit in that position… then I would rather never return to Paris."

Having spoken, Henry V abruptly pushed open his chair and strode out of the conference room without looking back.

The heavy wooden door closed behind him, making a loud clanging sound.

The Old Count watched Henry V's departing figure without stopping him, only letting out a cold snort.

"A child's temper. The day he wears the crown, he will thank today's humiliation."

The Old Count turned to Duke Antoine.

"You send a telegram to Isabella later. Let her tell that stray dog of America… his conditions can be accepted by the House of Bourbon! But specific details still need to be negotiated."

…

New York, Isabella's Central Park private villa.

The sea breeze blew in along the East River, whipping up withered leaves in the courtyard.

Isabella stood beside the telegraph machine on the second floor, watching strings of encrypted codes spit out from the perforated paper tape.

The adjutant quickly decoded beside her, copying the French cursive characters onto white paper.

A moment later, the adjutant handed the decoded telegram to Isabella with both hands.

"Miss, a reply from the Lord Duke."

Isabella took the telegram and quickly glanced through it.

When she saw the four words "can be accepted", the heavy stone hanging in her heart for many days finally landed, but at the same time, an inexplicable desolation arose.

The House of Bourbon, a massive dynasty that once ruled half of Europe, now lowered its head without resistance under the noose of capital.

Isabella folded the telegram.

"Go prepare the carriage."

Half an hour later.

In the private tearoom of the Argyle Family in uptown Manhattan.

The room was filled with the faint scent of cigar tobacco and mahogany furniture.

Felix sat in a high-backed leather chair, holding a freshly delivered copy of The Wall Street Journal.

The newspaper headlines were still discussing the progress of the Argyle's Building at No. 1 Wall Street and the news of the General Electric Company's landslide victory in the municipal power grid bidding in Washington D.C.

The door was pushed open, and Isabelle walked in.

Felix did not stand up; he simply pointed to the chair opposite him.

"Sit down~ Is there a result from Europe?"

Isabelle sat down, placed the heavy telegram on the coffee table, and pushed it in front of Felix.

"My father and grandfather have persuaded those collateral representatives." Isabelle's voice was somewhat low.

"They can accept your terms. The pledge agreement for the original shares of the Suez Canal, and the right-of-first-refusal agreement for Cuban assets, but some issues regarding value and duration still need further negotiation. Afterward, my grandfather will sign with your agent in London as a plenipotentiary."

Felix picked up the telegram, glanced at it, and a predictable smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

"A very wise choice."

He tossed the telegram onto the table and flicked his ash casually.

"If they had refused, I would instead have doubted whether the brains of the European nobility were completely broken."

"Twenty million dollars, when do you plan to disburse it?" Isabelle looked at him.

"At any time," Felix said calmly.

"The Imperial Bank's branches in London and Paris have long prepared the cash flow. Once the terms are settled and The Old Count stamps the agreement with the seal of the Bourbon Royal Family, the first cash gold payment of five million dollars will be transferred into their designated account in Switzerland within twenty-four hours."

Looking at the young and ruthless man before her, Isabelle couldn't help asking,

"Do you think... a restoration can succeed?"

Felix took a puff of his cigar, the bluish-white smoke shrouding his face, making his expression obscure.

"Does success or failure make any difference to me?"

The voice was as calm as discussing tomorrow's weather.

"If Henry V ascends the throne, the restored Bourbon Dynasty will still inherit the debts of the provisional government, and the new French government will become a debtor of the Argyle Empire Bank. I want to take the minerals of North Africa and dominate the treasury bond issuance of the Bank of France. I can use twenty million dollars to leverage the entire future industrial market of France."

Felix leaned forward, his pitch-black eyes staring intently at Isabelle.

"And if they fail..." Felix sneered.

"Fifty percent of the original shares of the Suez Canal will completely belong to the Argyle Family. Cuba's sugar mills and iron mines will also logically fall into my pocket. For twenty million dollars, I will buy the canal equity that controls the lifelines of the British Empire and Europe, plus the wealthiest sugarcane base in the Western Hemisphere."

He stretched out two fingers and tapped on the tabletop.

"Isabelle, no matter how the Europeans play this chess game, the dealer is always me."

Isabelle felt a chill down her spine.

She finally understood Felix's calculations completely. In the eyes of this American giant before her, this restoration drama that shocked the entire political landscape of Europe was nothing more than a sure-win bet agreement!

"You really are a madman, Felix."

Isabelle said softly, her tone indistinguishable between admiration and fear.

"No, no, no, you are wrong. This is not madness; this is the simplest and most direct face of business."

Standing up and walking to the window, Felix looked at the bustling streets of New York outside.

"The old era of Europe is collapsing. The nobles live on past glories, not knowing that the world has already stopped heeding the king's orders. Today's rules are set by gold coins and steel."

Just then, the office door was knocked.

Edward Frost pushed the door open and walked in, holding a newly printed telegram and glancing at Isabelle.

"Boss, am I interrupting you two?"

"No. Speak, what happened?" Felix turned around.

Frost looked at Isabella somewhat awkwardly.

"This..."

Seeing him like this, Felix irritably pointed at him virtually. To think he was playing this game with him.

"Just say it, it's fine."

Secretly relieved, Frost didn't mind; after years of getting along, he knew the boss wasn't really angry.

There was no help for it.

You see, as the boss's assistant, one couldn't just focus on company matters; personal matters also needed attention.

Without the boss speaking up, how could he just talk about it casually?

"It's like this, Boss. You should know that a few days ago, when the Federal Secret Service was reviewing President Grant's Chief of Staff Marshall, they discovered that President Grant had issued an order to him before the assassination. Originally, it was to send a telegram to the Department of the Interior and the Federal Secret Service, asking them to reinstate Deputy Director Flynn and the others to their posts."

Raising his eyebrows, Felix looked thoughtful.

"Of course, I know about this. Could it be that some news came from Flynn's side after he was reinstated?"

"Yes, Boss, and it's rather urgent news."

"After Flynn was reinstated, he arranged for manpower to use every possible method to approach the comatose President Grant. Yesterday, an informant who contacted President Grant reported that President Grant seemed to be showing signs of waking up."

Hearing these words made Isabella beside them feel as though she shouldn't be here.

Good God, the deputy director of a country's intelligence and security department actually sent people to monitor an injured and comatose president.

Isabella knew about the news of President Grant's assassination, which was why she was even more shocked.

Wasn't it said that Morgan, who committed suicide in London, was the mastermind?

Then what on earth was Felix doing?

Could it be...

Thinking back to the intelligence provided by her family earlier, Anna, the only daughter of vice president Thomas Clark, seemed to have a son with Felix.

This made Isabella's gaze toward Felix turn complicated.

At this moment, she was guessing in her heart whether Felix was the true mastermind behind the scenes!

Not only did he eliminate his business rivals, but he also intended to prop up Clark, with whom he had a connection, making the Argyle Family the true royal family of America?

"Ooh~ Sweetheart, your gaze is a bit impolite, making me feel a bit struck."

Felix rubbed the bridge of his nose speechlessly and ruffled Isabella's hair.

"After getting along for a few months, am I really such a dark and ruthless person in your heart?"

To this sentence, Isabella very much wanted to raise her hand and say, isn't that exactly what you are?

But on second thought, it seemed Felix hadn't actually been exposed for doing anything truly evil. Instead, he had established charitable foundations, taken in children to build schools, and opened hospitals.

The key was that he was even willing to lend money to help the Bourbon Family restore their dynasty.

Although collateral was required.

But you tell me whether he lent it or not!

"Tell Flynn to pull the men back. How can anyone contact President Grant at a time like this? Tell him to work peaceably at the Secret Service and not think about other things."

Felix sighed inwardly.

How could he not know Flynn's thoughts?

It was nothing more than worrying that the unstable factor of President Grant waking up would disrupt his deployment, so he wanted to ask whether they should take the opportunity to truly let President Grant die.

There was a moment of silence in the office.

Frost stood in place with the telegram without moving, evidently waiting for Felix's more detailed explanation so that he could accurately convey the bottom line of the order to Flynn.

"Edward."

Felix walked behind the desk and sat down, extinguishing the cigar in his hand in the brass ashtray.

"You've been with me for a long time. The logic of politics and business is actually the same. What does a dead president turn into?"

Frost pushed up his glasses and thought about it carefully.

"He will turn into a martyr. It will arouse the anger of the public and provoke a frantic counterattack from the Radical Republicans."

"That's right." Felix snapped his fingers.

"It's obvious that Grant's condition has stabilized and he might have woken up. If he suddenly dies in his hospital bed at this time, the entire United States will once again fall into endless mourning and a frenzy of hunting down assassins. Although Thomas can logically succeed to the presidency, he will also face immense political pressure. That bunch in Congress will use Grant's death to hijack him and force him to carry out Grant's pre-death will."

Felix leaned back in his chair, his gaze deep.

"But what if Grant is alive? A president who has woken up but whose body is damaged, and who can probably only drool while sitting in a wheelchair. That's just a living totem."

Sitting on the sofa and listening to Felix's utterly calm words, Isabelle felt her heartbeat speed up involuntarily.

"As long as Grant has one breath left lying in his hospital bed in The White House, Thomas is the legitimate acting president. Under the banner of'sharing the president's burdens,' he can arrange our people into core departments. The public will sympathize with this shattered cabinet, and Congress won't find it easy to excessively make trouble while the president is gravely ill. Therefore... Grant cannot die, at least not now."

Looking at Frost, his tone turned stern.

"Go tell Flynn to withdraw all secret agents trying to approach the ward. Don't leave even a trace, and let those doctors in The White House use the best medicine to treat him. If Grant really wakes up, send him the greatest flowers and blessings. Understood?"

"Understood completely, boss. I'll go send an encrypted telegram to Flynn right now." Frost nodded, turned around, and strode out of the tea room.

Watching the door close, Isabelle let out a long breath.

"You calculate human hearts down to the bone, Felix."

Isabelle picked up the black tea that had cooled somewhat and took a sip.

"I'm somewhat glad now that I'm your person, and the House of Bourbon will be your partner rather than an enemy."

"Aligned interests make the best friends." Felix picked up the documents on the table.

...

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic Ocean, London in the British Empire.

December's London was shrouded in thick yellowish-grey fog. The sound of steamship whistles on the River Thames was dull and lingering.

Inside a three-story stone building on Lombard Street in the City of London, the signboard of the London branch of Argyle Empire Bank flickered with a faint yellow light under the gas lamps.

In the office on the top floor of the branch, the coal in the fireplace was burning fiercely.

George Templeton stood in front of the large floor-to-ceiling window holding a glass of authentic Scotland whiskey, watching the carriages shuttling back and forth on the street below and pedestrians holding black umbrellas, wondering what he was thinking about.

Two knocks came from outside the door.

"Come in." George turned around.

His chief assistant Oliver pushed the door open and walked in, holding a heavy black leather briefcase in his hand. The lock clasp still bore the unique lead seal of the Intelligence Department.

"Mr. Templeton. They have already sent what you asked for; I went and fetched it personally just now." Oliver placed the briefcase on the large oak desk.

George's eyes lit up, and he immediately put down his wine glass and walked over.

"Timmy that guy's subordinates have decent speed; I thought I'd have to wait another half a month in this damned foggy capital."

George took a complicated brass key out of his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole, and turned it twice. With a "click," the briefcase was opened.

Inside there were no banknotes, nor bank drafts, only a thick stack of kraft paper file bags. A name was written in red ink on each file bag.

George pulled out the topmost file, untied the wrapped cotton thread, and dumped the documents inside onto the desktop.

"Come on, Oliver. Let's see how many ostensibly respectable rats are hidden in the heart of this British Empire."

Oliver obediently stood aside to help organize the documents.

"Sir, are we really going to look for these declining British nobles? You must know they are notoriously arrogant, and they don't understand business operations at all. Many local bankers in London are unwilling to bother with these fellows who have nothing except titles."

"Oh no~ You only saw their debts, Oliver. The boss taught us that garbage is just resources placed in the wrong position." George picked up a resume stamped with an aristocratic coat of arms and read it carefully.

"We can do whatever we want in America, but as long as our merchant ships sail into Mumbai, Hong Kong, or the Cape of Good Hope, those British customs officials will pounce like hyenas, tearing us apart with various pretexts of tariffs and inspections. We need a layer of armor. A layer of armor that even the British Empire itself wouldn't dare to easily tear apart."

George threw the first file aside.

"Tsk... This one won't do. The Duke of Westminster's nephew, the title is big enough, but he owes too little money. Only twenty thousand pounds; he can easily pay it off by selling two family oil paintings. We can't control him."

Saying this, he picked up the second one.

"A cadet branch of the Cavendish family... Also no. It seems someone from a cadet branch previously followed Old Morgan and went against us. Plus, this old fellow is a die-hard Conservative; he goes to church for worship every weekend, and his moral cleanliness is too severe. If we ask him to lend his name to smuggle arms and resell supplies in the Far East, he'd probably rather die."

George flipped through five or six files in a row, his brow gradually furrowing.

The list given by the Intelligence Department was very long, but it wasn't easy to find someone who had a sufficiently weighty title, fatal dirt on them, and was willing to completely bow down to the US dollar.

Just when George was feeling somewhat irritated, Oliver handed over a file with somewhat worn edges.

"Sir, take a look at this. It might meet your requirements."

George casually took it over.

The name on the file cover was: Richard Sterling, the 6th Earl of Ashbourne.

"The Earl of Ashbourne?"

Muttering this name, he pulled out the investigation report inside.

As his reading deepened, the corners of George's mouth gradually curved into a smile, and then he slapped a hand down on the file.

"Terrific~ This is the perfect idiot I've been looking for."

"Look at this brilliant resume. Richard Sterling, forty-five years old. His ancestors fought alongside the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo. He holds a hereditary seat in the House of Lords. Most importantly, his biological uncle is the Deputy Permanent Under-Secretary of the Colonial Office, and his wife's own brother, after the dissolution of the East India Company, was transferred laterally to the Governor-General's Office in India as the Chief Commissioner of the Customs Directorate!"

George raised his head, his eyes flashing with wise calculation.

"It is a relationship network tailor-made for the family! I think with his business card, the ships of the Metropolitan Trading Company can easily achieve their ideas in the Indian Ocean."

"But sir, look at his debt list."

Oliver pointed to the second half of the report.

"I know." George smiled indifferently.

"This is why he is so perfect. He lost fifty thousand pounds at the Royal Ascot, and eighty thousand pounds invested in South American railways were swindled away by London fraudsters. Now, his Sussex estate has been mortgaged to Barings Bank, and if he cannot come up with twenty thousand pounds in interest next month, this three-hundred-year-old aristocratic family will be driven out onto the streets to beg. Not only that, he also owes ten thousand pounds to an East End moneylender. Those gangsters don't care whether you are an earl or not."

George slammed the file shut, making a crisp sound.

"Oliver, prepare invitations. In the name of the president of the London branch of Imperial Bank." George tidied his suit collar.

"Invite the Earl of Ashburn for a drink tomorrow afternoon at a club on St. James's Street."

"Will he come, sir? These aristocrats usually look down on American bankers."

"Of course... He will come."

George walked over to the window, looking at the thick fog outside.

"When a person is about to drown, let alone an American banker, even if the devil reaches out a hand, he will kiss it without hesitation."

Perhaps George was right; when a person is about to drown, they don't care whether the one saving them is a devil or an angel.

The next afternoon, St. James's Street, West End, London.

This is the gathering place of the top gentleman's clubs in the British Empire. The buildings on both sides of the street exuded an old and majestic aura, as if every brick and stone were recounting the glory of past centuries.

George Templeton rode in an unmarked black carriage and stopped in front of the steps of the Wellington Club.

He pushed open the carriage door and stepped down, the air filled with the scent of soot and damp mist.

The club's pageboy wore a crisp uniform, and seeing George's completely unfamiliar face, a trace of arrogance and scrutiny instinctively flashed in his eyes.

But after George casually handed over a coin and stated the name of the Earl of Ashburn, the pageboy's attitude instantly became extremely respectful.

"Please come in, Mr. Templeton. The Earl is already waiting for you in the private reading room on the second floor."

George walked into the club.

Upon entering, the interior decoration was extremely luxurious yet exuded a dull, old-fashioned feel. Dark oak paneling, heavy Persian carpets, and the air was a mixture of cigars, aged port wine, and old books and newspapers.

It looked very much in an old-money style.

Guided by a waiter, George came to a dimly lit room on the second floor.

Richard Sterling, the sixth Earl of Ashburn, was sitting in a large leather armchair. He was still holding a crystal glass of Scottish whisky, and today's The Times lay on the coffee table beside him.

He looked much more haggard than in his archive photo. His eye bags were puffy, and although he tried hard to maintain his aristocratic demeanor, his slightly trembling fingers betrayed his extreme inner anxiety.

"Lord Ashburn, it is an honor to meet you."

George stepped forward and bowed slightly according to etiquette, but his attitude was neither servile nor overbearing.

Richard put down his glass and instinctively sized George up with that condescending look.

"You are Mr. Templeton, the president of America's Argyle Empire Bank?" There was deliberate laziness and contempt in Richard's words.

"I must say, if it weren't for the exclusive insider information regarding South American railway bonds that you mentioned in your letter, I usually wouldn't receive an... industrialist from New York, America, in my private time."

George didn't mind his arrogance.

He walked directly to the chair opposite Richard and sat down, crossing his legs.

"Lord Earl, since we are all respectable people, let's not beat around the bush. The South American railway bonds I mentioned in my letter do indeed have insider information."

George took out a neatly folded slip of paper from his inner pocket, placed it on the tabletop, and pushed it across.

"The insider information is that those Argentine railway bonds you bought, issued by London speculators, are now not even worth toilet paper to wipe your ass with. That fraudster fled to Brazil last month with the pounds he swindled away."

Richard's expression turned ugly instantly, and he abruptly sat up straight, his breathing even growing rapid.

"That's impossible! The manager of Barings Bank assured me..."

"Wake up~ Barings Bank is merely using your estate as collateral; they don't care what you invest in." George interrupted him mercilessly.

"Lord Earl, your financial situation is no longer a secret. The mortgage on the Sussex estate expires next month. You owe Barings Bank eighty thousand pounds. You owe a total of sixty-five thousand pounds in gambling debts to various private banks and clubs. Oh, right, and there is also a ten-thousand-pound usury note signed in your own hand, held by that gang leader named 'Jack the Ripper' in the East End."

Richard felt as if he had been doused with ice water from head to toe.

He stared fiercely at George before him, his eyes filled with anger and fear.

"You... You investigated me? How dare you secretly investigate a hereditary earl of the British Empire!" Richard jumped up abruptly, pointing at George's nose.

"You rude American upstart, do you believe I can have the police arrest you right now?!"

But it seemed his bluster didn't scare anyone.

George remained steadily seated in his chair, without even changing his posture.

"Oh~ Of course, you can certainly call the police. But after the police arrive, perhaps tomorrow all the newspapers in London will publish the scandal of the Earl of Ashburn's bankruptcy. The day after tomorrow, the court bailiff will go to the Sussex estate to post seal notices. The day after that, you will have to move to the East End slums, or go straight to debtor's prison. Your wife, that arrogant Countess, will probably be made a laughingstock by the entire London high society."

Every word of George's was like a dull knife, fiercely cutting into Richard's nerves.

Richard's arms froze in mid-air, his lips trembling.

He collapsed back into his chair, burying his face in his hands and letting out a painful gasp. The aristocratic dignity that he had worked so hard to maintain was stripped away in front of this ruthless American banker, leaving not even a scrap of residue.

"What on earth do you want by talking to me about all this?"

Richard's voice carried a hoarse tone.

"Surely bankers from across the Atlantic Ocean wouldn't come all this way just to verbally intimidate me for no reason, or are you planning to ask me to do something? You surely wouldn't want to do charity and give me money for free, right?"

"Ha... Of course not. Charity is the church's business, I only talk business."

George leaned forward, crossing his hands over his knees, his gaze turning sharp.

"The Argyle Family is preparing to register a brand-new ocean-going trading company in London. This company needs a noble with pure British descent and deep connections in the Colonial Office and the Admiralty to serve as chairman."