August 1868, London, Downing Street.
Outside the window, the Thames River emitted the characteristic fishy smell of summer, mixed with coal smoke, forming the scent of this imperial heart.
Lord Stanley, the Foreign Secretary, stood before the fireplace, holding an encrypted report from the Minister in Washington.
There were two other people in the room.
One was Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli, and the other was Thomas Baring, a partner at Barings Bank.
"The Americans are about to elect a new president."
Lord Stanley tossed the report onto the table with a dull thud.
"Grant or Seymour—it's not just a matter of a name."
The Lord turned around and looked at the banker.
"Thomas, what does the City of London think?"
Thomas Baring set down his teacup; his fingers were long—the hands of someone who counted money.
"The market dislikes uncertainty, My Lord. That Seymour... a Democrat. Their platform states they want to use 'greenbacks' (paper money without gold backing) to repay the national debt. That is practically robbery. If the tens of millions of pounds in bonds we hold in America are repaid with that scrap paper, London will go bankrupt."
"But Grant..." Baring frowned.
"He is a Republican, and the Republicans advocate for high tariffs. This will hurt our textile exports; the factory owners in Manchester are already complaining."
"That's not even the most troublesome part."
Prime Minister Disraeli spoke. He sat in the shadows, fiddling with his jewel-encrusted cane.
"The most troublesome part is the 'Alabama' claims. The Americans have been relentless, saying we helped the South build warships during the Civil War and demanding hundreds of millions of dollars in compensation. If Seymour takes office, perhaps we can negotiate. After all, there are many Southern sympathizers in the Democratic Party who don't want to fall out with us over this."
"But if it's Grant..." Disraeli sighed.
"That's a soldier. Soldiers understand honor, and they understand revenge. Moreover, standing behind him is that man named Felix Argyle."
At the mention of the surname Argyle, the atmosphere in the room froze for a few seconds.
"That New York bandit."
Lord Stanley gave a cold snort.
"His fleet is seizing Atlantic shipping shares, and his tickers are turning the London Exchange into his colony."
"We cannot let him control the White House."
Lord Stanley walked to the map and pointed his finger at New York.
"We must do something. Thomas, does your bank have agents in New York? Or perhaps through the Rothschild family's channels?"
"Yes," Baring nodded. "August Belmont. He is the Rothschild agent in New York and the chairman of the Democratic National Committee."
"Good."
Disraeli stood up and straightened his collar.
"Telegraph Belmont. Tell him London wishes to see a 'moderate,' 'open,' and 'pound-friendly' American government. If the Democratic Party is short on funds, the City of London can provide some commercial loans."
"But Prime Minister," Baring reminded him, "what if Grant wins? Doing this will provoke Argyle."
"Then bet on both sides."
Disraeli flashed the smile of a seasoned politician.
"Send some gifts to the Republican side as well. However, focus on someone who can balance Grant. For instance, Senator Sumner, who wants to be Secretary of State."
"America is too large; we cannot allow them to have only one voice. Especially not just Argyle's voice."
__________
At the same time, France, Paris, Tuileries Palace.
Emperor Napoleon III was sitting on a bench in the imperial garden. His face was pale, and the torment of kidney stones made him look much older than his actual age.
Beside him was his Foreign Minister, the Marquis de Moustier.
"The Prussians are sharpening their knives across the Rhine," the Emperor said softly, his voice tinged with exhaustion.
"Our failure in Mexico has caused France to lose all face. Emperor Maximilian was executed, and the Americans didn't even say they were sorry."
"Your Majesty, the Americans have always viewed the Americas as their backyard," Moustier replied cautiously. "The Monroe Doctrine is their bottom line."
"Now they are about to elect a new president." The Emperor watched the spray of the distant fountain.
"Whether it's Grant or Seymour doesn't matter to France. What matters is, who can ensure America doesn't lean toward Prussia?"
"I have heard that the Argyle Family is very close to the Prussians."
Moustier took an intelligence report out of his briefcase.
"Argyle's munitions factories are producing breech-loading cannons for Bismarck. Furthermore, their newspapers are praising the Prussian military system."
"This is dangerous." The Emperor coughed twice.
"If America and Prussia form an alliance, France will be surrounded."
"We need to support the Democratic Party," Moustier suggested.
"The Democratic Party opposes abolition; their base is in the South and agricultural regions. They hate war and dislike industrial capitalists like Argyle. If Seymour takes office, America will return to isolationism, and they won't interfere in European affairs."
"Then see to it," the Emperor waved his hand.
"Contact our consul in New York and have him find that Democrat Seymour. Tell him that if he is elected, France is willing to support America against Britain in the 'Alabama' claims case, and can even provide some trade privileges in the Gulf of Mexico."
"Oh right, one more thing," the Emperor added, "send a letter to that Argyle. Invite him to attend next year's World Expo. Give him a decoration. If we cannot defeat him, buy him off. Every merchant has a price."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Rain began to fall in Paris. The Emperor walked into the palace, supported by his attendants.
What he didn't know was that the election across the Atlantic was no longer something a few diplomats and several crates of gold could influence.
__________
New York, Fifth Avenue.
In the mansion of August Belmont, chairman of the Democratic National Committee, a secret fundraising dinner was being held.
Horatio Seymour, the reluctant Democratic candidate, sat at the head of the table, his face solemn.
His running mate, General Francis Blair from Missouri, was shouting loudly.
"We must drive those negroes out of the legislatures!" Blair yelled, his face flushed from drinking.
"This is a white man's country! Grant is just a shield for the negroes; we need to launch a new revolution."
Belmont frowned, looking at this loose-lipped madman.
"General Blair, please watch your language." Belmont tapped the table.
"There are guests here from London."
A British gentleman in a black suit sat in the corner. He was the representative of Barings Bank.
"Gentlemen."
The Englishman spoke, but his tone was somewhat cold.
"London does not care whether you are white or black; what it cares about are dollars and tariffs. Mr. Seymour, if you are elected, will you insist on using greenbacks to repay the national debt?"
Seymour was a bit embarrassed.
This was precisely one of his campaign platforms, intended to please the indebted farmers of the West.
"This... we can discuss," Seymour tried to smooth things over. "Economic policies can be adjusted."
"Very well." The Englishman nodded.
"As long as you promise to maintain the gold standard and lower textile tariffs, friends in London are willing to purchase two million dollars in Democratic campaign bonds."
"Two million?" Boss Tweed's eyes lit up.
"With that money, I can buy most of the votes in New York!"
Just then, the butler walked in and whispered a few words in Belmont's ear.
Belmont's expression changed.
"What is it?" Seymour asked.
"Argyle's people," Belmont said in a low voice.
"He's put the word out on Wall Street. Any bank that purchases Democratic campaign bonds will be excluded from the underwriting syndicate for the Western railroads."
The room fell into a dead silence.
The Englishman was stunned for a moment, then immediately stood up and grabbed his hat.
"Apologies, Gentlemen. I suddenly remembered I have another appointment."
The Englishman left, and the two million dollars vanished like smoke.
Boss Tweed slammed his glass onto the floor and roared.
"Damn it, that cursed Irish traitor Argyle again! Does he want to buy the whole country?"
Don't think Tweed's relationship was actually good; although the two had collaborated several times, they were both very displeased with each other.
Felix was very unhappy with Tweed's greed, and Tweed hated that Felix had organized the Irish, causing the Democratic Party's influence in New York to diminish greatly.
Because the vast majority of the Irish now listened to the Argyle Family.
"No."
Seymour looked at the night outside the window, feeling a deep sense of powerlessness.
"Perhaps he has already bought it."
In September, Berlin, the capital of the Kingdom of Prussia, was experiencing an autumn rain.
Fallen leaves on Unter den Linden were soaked by the rain, sticking to the black slate road.
76 Wilhelmstrasse, the Prussian Chancellery.
Otto von Bismarck sat behind his massive desk, enjoying his breakfast.
His Great Dane, named "Sultan," lay at his feet, occasionally looking up at Minister of War Roon, who was reporting on his work.
"The Americans' election is quite lively."
Bismarck wiped the corners of his mouth, his voice booming.
"The French are placing bets, and the British are placing bets. What about us?"
"Your Excellency, our position is clear."
Roon took a list out of a folder.
"This is the latest invoice from Vanguard Military Industry. Five thousand Breech-loading rifles, plus samples of that new Smokeless Powder. Although the price is outrageously high, the quality is indeed beyond reproach. That Argyle is our important arms supplier."
"Argyle is a smart businessman," Bismarck remarked.
"He knows we're going to war, and he knows the French are out of money. Didn't someone from that Militech go to France to sell weapons last time? They didn't sell a single thing..."
"Our military attaché in Washington reports that Grant has a great chance of winning," Roon continued.
"The Argyle Family is supporting him with all their might. It's not just a matter of money; more importantly... Argyle seems to have integrated the Irish forces over there."
"The Irish?" Bismarck raised an eyebrow.
"I thought they were all die-hard supporters of the Democratic Party."
"They used to be. But now, Argyle has given them jobs, housing, and dignity," Roon said.
"And in America, bread is more important than political parties."
"Isn't that great?"
Bismarck stood up and walked to the map.
His gaze did not linger on Europe but crossed the Atlantic Ocean to land on North America.
"A unified and powerful industrialized United States is in the interests of Prussia."
Bismarck turned around, his eyes as sharp as a hawk's.
"The key is that the British fear America challenging their maritime hegemony. The French fear America interfering with their ambitions in Latin America. Only we, Prussia, have no geopolitical conflict with America."
"So we need America to restrain Britain, and we also need their grain and machinery. Most importantly, we need a White House that is not friendly to France."
"Send a telegram to our consul in New York," Bismarck ordered.
"Have him meet that Argyle. Not secretly, but openly. Tell him the Prussian government is interested in purchasing a patent license from the Laughlin-DuPont Chemical Company regarding that Dynamite—even if we can't buy it, we should try to get them to build a factory here."
"Additionally..."
Bismarck took a medal from the drawer; it was the Order of the Red Eagle.
"Take this to General Grant and say it is a tribute from the King of Prussia to his military talent. Deliver it before the election, and make sure the newspapers know."
"Is this an open endorsement?" Roon asked with a smile.
"This is called investing in the future," Bismarck followed with a laugh.
"That Argyle will understand; he and I are of the same kind. We both believe in iron and blood, rather than speeches and majority votes."
__________
America, New York.
With two months left until Election Day, the campaign had entered its most frenetic stage.
Broadway at night turned into a sea of torches.
This was the Republican "Torchlight Parade." Thousands of young men in black capes and special glazed caps marched in neat phalanxes down the street, holding burning torches.
They were called the "Wide Awakes," a paramilitary campaign organization of the Republican Party.
At the very front of the procession was a massive float. On it stood a giant portrait of Grant on horseback, with slogans on either side: "With This Man, Defeat Rebellion," and "Let This Man Bring Peace."
Felix stood on the balcony of the Metropolitan Hotel, watching the flowing dragon of fire below.
"Quite impressive, isn't it?"
Felix said to Frost beside him.
"Yes, Boss. This is more spectacular than any time before," Frost said, looking at the crowd below. "And, look over there."
Frost pointed to a phalanx in the procession.
Several hundred workers there were not wearing "Wide Awake" uniforms but were in work clothes, holding signs: "Irish for Grant," and "Argyle Gave Us Jobs, the Democrats Only Gave Us Lies."
This was Felix's proudest masterpiece.
He had successfully torn a massive chunk away from Tweed's Tammany Hall.
"Tweed must be smashing glasses right now," Felix sneered.
Just then, a commotion broke out at the other end of the street.
A group of men armed with clubs and stones rushed out from the dark alleys. Most were thugs, gamblers, and some incited Southern sympathizers.
A large man leading them roared, "Traitors! You Irish traitors, get back to your factories!"
"Smash their heads! Long live Tammany Hall!"
Stones flew toward the parade like raindrops.
"Boss, it looks like Tweed's men," Frost frowned.
"They probably want to create chaos to scare off our voters."
"The same old tricks."
Felix took a sip of wine, his eyes showing no trace of panic.
"But he forgot that the Irish are no longer his thugs. They are my employees."
On the street below, facing the attack, the Irish phalanx did not scatter.
Leading them was a foreman named Big Mike (who used to work at the docks). He threw down his placard and pulled out a short club wrapped in iron plating from his coat.
"Brothers!"
Big Mike roared in a thick Irish accent.
"That fat man Tweed said we would starve, but the Boss gave us bread. Now someone wants to smash our livelihood; what do we do?"
"Let's get 'em!"
Hundreds of strong Irish workers roared in unison.
They were all heavy laborers from the railroads and docks, far physically superior to those thugs who only knew how to sneak around.
The situation reversed instantly.
Tweed's thugs, who had come to cause trouble, were shocked to find they were not facing sheep, but a herd of angry bulls.
"For the Argyle Family! For Grant!"
Big Mike led the charge.
There were no gunshots, only the dull thuds of fists hitting flesh and the sound of breaking bones.
A few minutes later, the thugs were beaten into a scurrying retreat, leaving behind a ground littered with clubs and a few shoes.
On both sides of the street, the citizens who were originally somewhat afraid burst into warm applause upon seeing this.
"Look," Felix pointed below.
"That is order. Not through the police, but through interests. When people know who is feeding them, they will fight for them."
"How should we have Fowler's newspaper write about it tomorrow?" Frost asked.
"Just write it as it happened."
Felix turned and walked back into the room.
"The headline will be: 'The Awakened Irish—They Rejected the Corrupt Tammany Hall, Choosing Honest Labor and Grant'."
"Tweed lost this battle."
It is well known that in the United States, October is a decisive month.
Although the presidential election is in November, in the America of that time, several key states—such as Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana—would hold early elections for governors and congressmen in October.
These were known as the "October Elections."
Historical patterns showed that whichever party won these states basically locked in the White House.
Thus, the maneuvering between the Republican Party and the Democratic Party to secure votes in these states reached a fever pitch.
Scranton, Pennsylvania.
This was a coal mining region and the heartland of Argyle' industries. The new explosives from the Laughlin-DuPont Chemical Company had doubled mining efficiency, and the workers' bonuses had increased accordingly.
As it happened, the Democratic campaign team met their Waterloo here.
The reason was that Seymour's running mate, General Blair, had come here to give a speech, actually attempting to win over the working class.
"Fellow workers!"
Blair stood on the wooden platform, shouting himself hoarse.
"The Republican Party's high tariffs are protecting the big bosses, not you! Look at your wages, then look at Mr. Argyle' massive estate and castle! That was built with your blood and sweat; the world shouldn't be this way!"
However, the applause from below was sparse.
The workers listened to these remarks with expressionless faces; some were even eating lunch.
Suddenly, a man raised his hand.
"General Blair! If the Democratic Party comes to power, will you cancel the railroad subsidies here?"
"This..."
Blair hesitated, trying to deflect with official jargon.
"We will re-evaluate all subsidy policies to ensure fairness and prevent monopolies by large corporations..."
"That means they will be canceled!" the man shouted.
"Without the subsidies, the railroad won't be built! We'll have no way to transport coal, and everyone will be out of work, just like before!"
"Right, we can't lose our jobs!"
"At least Mr. Argyle is quick with the pay!"
"Get out! Democratic bitch!"
The crowd began to jeer, and some even threw lumps of coal.
Blair fled the scene in a sorry state, escorted by bodyguards.
In the shadows, Bill stuffed a handful of dollars to the man who had asked the question.
"Good job."
__________
New York, Empire Bank Building.
Although the election situation on the front lines was looking good, Felix's brow remained furrowed.
"Boss."
Flynn walked in, his expression somewhat grim.
While he usually didn't show his face often, at such a critical moment, the head of intelligence had to be present.
"Tweed's side has made a move; it seems they've been driven to desperation."
"Speak."
"They found someone. An accountant who used to work for the Union Pacific Railroad Company named Martin. This fellow has a ledger in his hands."
"Is it Credit Mobilier?" Felix's eyes instantly turned cold.
"Yes," Flynn nodded.
"Although you removed Lex Steel Company before the partnership, this ledger contains evidence of Colfax—the current Speaker and a Republican—and several other congressional bigwigs receiving stock options."
"If this thing breaks before the October elections..."
"It would turn into a disaster," Felix finished the sentence.
"Most voters can't tell who is who; they'll just think the Republicans are all corrupt. Even Grant will be implicated because he's the Republican candidate."
"Where is that accountant?"
"In Brooklyn. Tweed has him hidden in an abandoned cotton warehouse with thirty thugs around him. They plan to hand the materials to The New York World tomorrow—the day before the Pennsylvania vote."
Felix looked at his watch; it was four in the afternoon.
"That means there are sixteen hours left."
Felix stood up and looked toward Brooklyn. Across the East River, it looked gray and hazy.
"He cannot be allowed to see tomorrow's sun," Felix's voice was flat, without emotion. "Or rather, the things in his hands cannot be allowed to see the sun."
"The action team is ready," Flynn said, "but Tweed has quite a few men. If a gunfight breaks out, the commotion would be too loud and might have the opposite effect."
"Then don't have a gunfight."
Felix turned around, his finger lightly tapping the desk.
"How is the weather right now?"
"Very dry; it hasn't rained in two weeks."
"A cotton warehouse..." Felix murmured to himself.
"It's piled high with flammable materials. If a fire broke out, it would be a tragedy."
"Boss, you mean..."
"An accident," Felix said coldly.
"A massive fire caused by 'faulty wiring' or 'vagrants keeping warm.' The fire must be large—large enough that the fire department can't even get in. Large enough to burn every scrap of paper, every ledger, and even the people into ash."
"Understood." A ruthless glint flashed in Flynn's eyes.
"I'll arrange for professional 'cleaners' to handle it. I guarantee no traces will be left behind."
"Go then."
__________
That night, late.
A towering inferno suddenly erupted in the Brooklyn dock area.
The fire spread extremely fast, the result of dry cotton meeting accelerants. The red firelight dyed half the night sky, visible even from Manhattan.
Sirens wailed throughout the city.
In the chaos, several dark figures silently withdrew from the scene.
The next morning, the editor-in-chief of The New York World waited until noon, but the informant who had promised to deliver the "earth-shattering dirt" never arrived.
Instead, he saw another piece of news in the paper:
"Brooklyn Fire Consumes Warehouse! Several Dead; Police Preliminarily Rule It an Accidental Fire."
Boss Tweed sat in Tammany Hall looking at the newspaper, his hands and feet cold.
He knew it was no accident.
That accountant, and that ledger that could have turned the tables, had all turned to ash.
"A devil..." Tweed said, trembling. "We are dealing with a devil."
October 13th.
The results of the "October Elections" were revealed.
With no scandals to interfere and with strong funding and organizational mobilization, the Republican Party won landslide victories in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana.
This result was like a bucket of cold water, dousing the Democratic Party's last hopes.
Although the general election in November had not yet begun, everyone knew the overall situation was essentially decided.
Felix sat in his office, watching the data spitting out of the telegraph machine.
"Pennsylvania, leading by 15%."
"This isn't just about votes," Felix said to Frost beside him.
"This is us telling everyone who controls the rules in this country."
He picked up a glass of wine and toasted the empty air.
"To that unlucky accountant. He made a contribution to the stability of America."
Outside the window, the lights of New York remained brilliant.
In this Gilded Age, there are always deep shadows hidden beneath the light.
Felix was the man who controlled the shadows.
November 2, 1868, Washington D.C.
The cold rain of late autumn washed over this unfinished city.
The mud on Pennsylvania Avenue was deeper than usual, with carriage wheels sinking halfway into the hubs. But this did not deter the people's enthusiasm; the entire District was in a state of feverish anticipation.
Tomorrow was Election Day.
Inside a Georgian-style red brick villa at Lafayette Square, the oak logs in the fireplace burned brightly. This was the private residence of the Minister of the Interior, Thomas Clark.
Tonight, there was no boisterous public reception held here, only a very small, private dinner party.
Felix handed his rain-soaked black wool coat to the waiter in the foyer.
"Father is waiting for you in the study."
A woman's voice came from the stairs.
Anna Clark stood by the railing on the second floor. She wore a deep purple velvet gown with a neckline that was perfectly balanced—neither conservative nor frivolous. Her hair was styled in an intricate bun, held in place only by a single pearl hairpin.
Those eyes, as sharp as her father's, scrutinized Felix as he entered.
"Good evening, Miss Anna."
"Call me Anna."
She walked down the stairs, her skirt rustling against the wooden steps.
"In this house, there is only my father and me. Perhaps after tomorrow, we'll have to add that 'Vice President' gentleman."
Felix smiled and didn't respond, instead following her toward the study.
The study door was slightly ajar, and the strong scent of Cuban cigars drifted out.
Thomas Clark stood behind a massive mahogany desk, holding a list with a furrowed brow.
"Felix, you're here."
Clark saw Felix and tossed the list onto the desk.
"Take a look at this. The'spoils list' just sent over by the Republican National Committee."
Felix walked over and glanced at it.
It was a dense string of names, with their desired positions marked behind them: Postmaster, Customs Collector, foreign consuls, Land Office commissioners... "This is the rule, Thomas." Felix found a chair and sat down.
"Those people put in the effort and the money during the October elections. Now that Grant is about to win, they naturally want to cash their checks."
"I know it's the rule."
Clark poured himself a glass of whiskey, looking somewhat irritable.
"But this is too much. That Senator from Ohio actually wants to shove his brother-in-law, who runs a grocery store back home, into the Treasury Department as an auditor. If people like that enter the government, how are we supposed to build anything?"
"Then cross them off."
Anna walked in, carrying a silver tray with a coffee pot on it.
"Cross off those useless fools who only know how to hold out their hands."
Anna placed the coffee in front of Felix, her movements practiced and elegant.
"Keep those who are obedient or the big shots who have votes behind them."
She walked to her father's side, picked up a red pen, and without hesitation, drew a line through the name of that "Ohio grocery store owner."
"Father, you will soon be the President of the Senate. You have the power to decide who passes the nominations."
Anna's voice was as calm as if she were discussing what to have for dinner.
"General Grant hates dealing with personnel matters; he will dump all these messes on you. This is power, not a burden."
Clark looked at his daughter, smiled helplessly, and then said to Felix, "You see, sometimes I think she's more of a politician than I am."
"Anna is right." Felix picked up his coffee.
"Grant needs an efficient team of stewards. We didn't support him just to let a bunch of good-for-nothings fill the offices in Washington."
"I've already spoken with Stanton." Felix continued, "The personnel in the War Department won't be touched; the army must remain in the hands of professionals. As for the Treasury Department..."
Felix paused.
"I've recommended George Boutwell. He's a Congressman from Massachusetts who supports high tariffs and the gold standard. This is beneficial for our business."
"Boutwell?" Clark thought for a moment.
"That old fogey? He's a die-hard Radical."
"We need the Radicals," Anna interjected.
"Only the Radicals will maintain high pressure on the South and continue to keep troops stationed there. As long as the army is there, Felix's cotton business and railroads will be protected."
Felix gave Anna an appreciative look.
"Exactly."
"Then, what about the State Department?" Clark asked. "Who gets Secretary of State? That position is the face of the administration."
"Elihu Washburne."
Felix gave a name. "He's Grant's fellow townsman and was his earliest supporter in the House of Representatives. Give him a ceremonial role, or let him go to Europe as an ambassador. In reality, we need an obedient Assistant Secretary of State to handle the specific affairs."
In the study, the three of them carved up the key positions of the future Federal Government like a cake.
Outside, the rain grew heavier, drumming against the glass windows.
"One more thing."
Felix set down his coffee cup, his tone becoming serious.
"Regarding Tweed, he hasn't given up in New York yet. I've received intelligence that Tammany Hall is planning something for tomorrow. They want to cause chaos at several key polling stations or snatch the ballot boxes."
"Does the Federal Army need to intervene?" Clark asked immediately.
"No. Army intervention would give people an excuse to attack us." Felix shook his head.
"Don't worry, I've already made arrangements. Vanguard Security will be in plain clothes, guarding those polling stations. If Tweed's men dare to reach out, their hands will be broken."
"I just need you to prepare a memorandum from the Department of Justice." Felix looked at Clark.
"If a conflict occurs, it should be characterized as 'an act of citizen self-defense to protect the integrity of the election'."
"That's simple."
Clark took a sheet of letterhead from the Department of Justice out of his drawer.
"I'll write it now."
Anna, who had been standing by, suddenly spoke up: "Felix, your layout in New York is perfect. But what about Washington?"
"What about Washington?"
"Tomorrow night, after the election results are out, General Grant will hold a victory banquet at the Willard Hotel."
Anna walked to the window, looking out at the dark street.
"All the foreign ministers, members of Congress, and bankers will be there. That is the moment the new core of power takes shape."
"I've checked the guest list."
Anna turned around, her eyes fixed intently on Felix.
"It seems Catherine won't be able to attend?"
"Yes." Felix nodded. "Umbrella has come up with something new, and the estate on Long Island is almost ready, so I don't want her to deal with the fatigue of traveling."
"Then you need a companion."
Anna took a step forward, her high heels clicking sharply on the floor.
"You need a companion who understands the rules of Washington, knows the wife of every congressman, and can help you fend off those boring attempts at conversation."
Minister Clark coughed and looked down, pretending to search for documents.
Felix looked at Anna.
At this moment, she was like a black rose blooming in the center of power—thorny, yet enticing enough.
"That's an excellent suggestion." Felix stood up.
"Then, I shall trouble Miss Clark tomorrow night."
"It would be my honor, Mr. Argyle."
Anna curtsied slightly in a standard courtly manner, but there was no hint of submissiveness in her eyes—only the look of a hunter seeing its prey.
"It's getting late." Felix checked his pocket watch.
"I should head back to the hotel; I still have telegrams from several states to process."
"I'll see you out."
Anna picked up the handbell on the table but didn't ring it; instead, she walked toward the door herself.
The two of them left the study and walked through the long corridor.
Portraits of past presidents hung on the walls on both sides of the corridor. Washington, Jefferson, Jackson... those eyes in the oil paintings watched them.
"Felix."
At the foyer, Anna stopped.
"Yes?"
"Everything will change after tomorrow, won't it?"
"Yes." Felix helped her adjust her shawl.
"After tomorrow, this country will turn a new page."
Anna looked at him, a flicker of complex emotion passing through her eyes.
"Not just the country," she whispered. "Us, too."
Felix didn't answer; he only gave her a deep look, then put on his hat, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the stormy night.
November 4, 1868, 2:00 AM.
In the ballroom of the Willard Hotel, champagne bubbles and cigar smoke intertwined.
The band had already played "Hail to the Chief" for the fifth time, but the crowd's revelry showed no signs of fading.
Ulysses S. Grant had been elected.
214 electoral votes to 80, an overwhelming victory.
President-elect Grant had retired to his room early; he detested such social occasions.
But his supporters—the bankers, industrialists, and politicians who had bet on him—refused to leave.
They needed to celebrate with one another and confirm their future shares of the spoils.
Felix had just seen off a talkative French Minister. Feeling a bit weary, he loosened his tie and walked toward the large terrace outside the ballroom.
The air on the terrace was crisp and cold, enough to clear one's head.
In a corner, a red point of light was flickering.
Anna Clark was leaning against the stone railing, a slender lady's cigarette between her fingers. In this era, it was taboo for high-society women to smoke in public, but there was no one here now, and she didn't seem to care.
She wore a white mink stole over her shoulders, covering her deep purple evening gown. Under the moonlight, she looked like a solitary statue.
"So this is where you've hidden yourself?"
Felix walked to her side and pulled a cigarette case from his pocket.
"I thought you would enjoy a moment like this. After all, you are the brightest star tonight."
Anna was indeed the focus of the evening.
As the daughter of the future Vice President and Felix's companion, she had spent the entire night navigating the various dignitaries with ease. She knew the names of even the most insignificant congressmen's wives and remembered which banker preferred which drink.
"A star?"
Anna exhaled a cloud of smoke and gave a cold laugh.
"That's for others to see. In the eyes of those men, I am nothing more than a medal on the chests of you and my father. Or a vase used to liven up the atmosphere."
Felix lit a cigar and leaned against the railing, looking down at the empty Pennsylvania Avenue.
"You did very well, Anna. Tonight, at least three Senators from swing states decided to support our Railroad Bill because of a few words from you."
"That's because they fear you, and they fear my father." Anna turned her head to look at Felix's profile. "It's not because of me."
"Is there a difference?"
"Of course there is."
Anna threw the cigarette butt on the ground and ground it out forcefully with her high heel.
"Felix, I am not satisfied with this."
"Oh?" Felix raised an eyebrow. "What do you want to be? First Lady? You'd have to wait for Mrs. Grant to retire."
"Don't make such tedious jokes." Anna's voice became sharp.
"You know what I'm talking about. I watch those men, those fat-headed fools, talking about national affairs and deciding the fates of millions. Yet their brains can't even remember a simple tariff list."
"And I..." Anna pointed to her temple.
"I understand the logic behind every single bill. I know how to control the wives of congressmen through charitable foundations, and thereby control the congressmen themselves. I know how to use the media to ruin a person's reputation. I even helped you revise that land Grant draft for the Department of the Interior to make it look more legal."
"But what is the result?"
Anna's voice dropped, carrying a hint of a tremble.
"When the banquet ends, I have to exit. I go back to that big house, waiting to marry some fool my father picked out of social standing, then have children, host tea parties, and live out my life like that."
Felix looked at Anna in silence, truly examining this woman for the first time.
Before, he had only seen her as Minister Clark's daughter—a clever tool, a link to political resources. But now, he saw the fire burning beneath that exquisite skin.
It was ambition—the same ambition he had.
"Then what do you want, Anna?" Felix's voice became low. "You want to enter the government? The law doesn't allow women to hold office."
"Rules are made by people."
Anna took a step closer, the scent of her perfume mixing with the tobacco smoke as it reached Felix's nose.
"I don't want to be an official. I want to be the'shadow'."
"The shadow?"
"Yes." Anna stared into Felix's eyes.
"Just as you are Grant's shadow, I want to be yours."
"I know you're building a commercial empire, Felix. You have Miller to help you crush opponents, Hayes to help you manage the money, and Flynn to handle intelligence. But you're missing one thing."
"What?"
"You lack someone who can handle'soft' affairs for you." Anna reached out a finger and lightly traced Felix's collar. "The things that can't be solved directly with guns and money. The things that require infiltration through social circles, marriage alliances, charity, and religion."
"I know Catherine is a good woman; she is kind and dignified. But she is too clean; she can't do the dirty work. She doesn't even understand how deep the black waters of Washington run."
"But I do." Anna's gaze became burning.
"I grew up in these waters, so I know how to wrap poison in candy before sending it out."
"I want total charge of the 'Argyle Charitable Foundation'. I'll turn it into a web that covers the entire Washington social scene. Every congressman's secret will be in our pockets."
"In exchange..." Anna paused.
"I want you to give me power. Not just money, but real decision-making power. I want to participate in the operations of your commercial empire."
Felix looked at her and frowned.
This proposal was dangerous, but also very tempting.
Because Anna was right.
Catherine was the perfect wife, the moral facade of the family. But in this Gilded Age, some things indeed required a woman who was more ruthless and understood political maneuvering.
"Do you know you're playing with fire, Anna?" Felix discarded his cigar.
"Once you cross this line, there's no going back. You will no longer be a simple socialite; you will become an accomplice."
"But I never wanted to be a socialite."
Anna gave a poignant smile, her eyes shimmering with tears.
"That's a cage for canaries. I am a hawk."
She reached out and grabbed Felix's tie, forcing him to lower his head.
"Now tell me, Boss. Do you dare to use me?"
The distance between them was only a few centimeters. Felix could feel her breath, hurried and hot.
This wasn't just a business negotiation; it was more like a gamble.
Felix couldn't help but smile—the kind of smile a hunter gives when seeing the most spirited prey.
"Prove it to me," Felix said softly.
"What?"
"Prove you're not just all talk." Felix pointed toward the ballroom.
"That New York Senator, Conkling, who opposes our Railroad Bill—he's had too much to drink tonight. He has a draft investigation regarding Credit Mobilier in his possession."
"Before dawn, I want that draft to disappear. Or, make Conkling disappear."
Anna was stunned for a moment, but then, a flash of ruthlessness crossed her eyes.
"Does this count as a second interview?"
"It does."
"Good."
Anna let go and helped Felix straighten his tie.
"Wait for me in your office room; you'll get what you want."
She turned and walked back into the ballroom like a queen heading to the battlefield.
Felix watched her retreating figure and stroked his chin.
It seemed that after tonight, a dangerous but sharp new piece would be added to the map of the Argyle empire.