London No. 1, residence of the Duke of Wellington.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting its steady warm glow on the heavy oak furniture in the study.
Outside the window, the city fog along the Thames River lingered, the early spring morning chill seeping through the window cracks.
The Duke of Wellington, his sideburns wholly white, stood by the fireplace, holding a crystal glass filled with brandy, his gaze sharply fixed on the military map on the wall.
Sitting on the sofa on the other side was none other than Arthur's old superior, Sir Robert Peel.
He sat steadily on the chair, a document between his fingers, contemplating for a moment before raising his head and saying, "Is His Majesty's patience running out?"
