Oskar was not a happy man.
He never was when forced into confined spaces—and a battleship was nothing but steel corridors and low ceilings conspiring against men of ordinary height, let alone him. He ducked beneath bulkheads, turned his shoulders sideways through narrow passageways, and every step sent a dull vibration through the deck, like distant artillery echoing beneath his boots. The Nassau was a triumph of engineering, certainly—but it had been built for sailors, not for a man who stood well over two meters tall and carried his mass like a fortress given flesh.
And worst of all—no hot showers.
Oskar only truly relaxed once the door to his VIP quarters shut behind him.
Steel, bolts, and the steady mechanical hum of engines replaced the curious stares of sailors and guards. The tension that had knotted his shoulders since London finally loosened, and he let out a long breath.
"Finally," he muttered.
Then—without the slightest hint of shame—he began stripping.
Coat after coat. Shirt after shirt. Trousers. Boots. At last, even his underwear followed, discarded with the rest.
Patricia blinked.
Elise froze.
Oskar didn't pause. It wasn't as though either of them hadn't already seen him naked before.
By the time he finished, an alarming pile of clothing lay strewn across the floor like a defeated regiment. He stretched once, rolling his shoulders, abs hard as stone shifting beneath the cabin light, then adjusted himself with the careless confidence of a man who did not acknowledge international scandal as a real concept.
Only then did he wrap a towel around his waist—as if that alone restored civilization.
He dragged a stool to the center of the cabin, sat down with regal ease, and turned his back to them.
"Well?" he said calmly. "You wanted to be my maids. Do your jobs."
The authority in his voice was effortless—practiced, natural, impossible to ignore.
Elise swallowed.
Patricia smiled.
They moved behind him with basins and cloths, attempting professionalism. Cool water touched his shoulders, then his back. Their hands worked carefully at first, then with increasing confidence as the tension bled from his frame.
It felt… good.
Too good.
Unseen by him, Patricia met Elise's eyes and raised a brow.
An idea passed between them.
A catastrophically bad idea.
The basin was quietly set aside.
The cloth forgotten.
And when Oskar leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, letting the weight of the day finally leave his spine, he failed to notice the sudden silence behind him.
Then—movement.
He glanced up.
They stood before him wearing nothing but matching panties decorated with absurdly cheerful teddy bears.
Elise was smaller, delicate—her buns perky and defiant against her narrow frame. Patricia, by contrast, was gloriously excessive—her melons full and proud, daring gravity and common sense alike. Both were flushed. Both far too close.
Oskar stared.
Longer than necessary.
"…What," he asked carefully, "are you two doing?"
"Serving," Patricia said sweetly. "You looked tense."
Elise nodded far too eagerly. "Extremely tense."
Oskar opened his mouth to object.
He failed—again.
Because Patricia's hands slid where the towel no longer fully defended, bold and unrepentant, and in that precise instant whatever remained of discipline quietly packed its bags and left the room.
"Ah—shit," Oskar muttered, rocking back despite himself. "You cannot be serious."
The towel gave up its post with the dignity of a defeated standard. Oskar's pride, his royal lineage, and a future diplomatic incident all made themselves known at once—far too enthusiastically for anyone's comfort.
Patricia lost her balance and went down with a small, surprised squeak. Elise yelped, scrambling back, and for a heartbeat both women froze.
The cabin seemed to shrink.
"Oh," Elise whispered faintly.
Patricia, after a moment, broke into a satisfied smile. "See?" she said lightly. "I told you. He's ours now."
Oskar dragged a hand down his face, equal parts resignation and disbelief. "You're both insane."
"We know," Elise said softly, eyes bright with something between awe and apology. "Please don't declare war."
That—quite unfairly—did it.
Oskar leaned back with a long, defeated groan, staring at the ceiling as his mind scrambled for justification—any justification.
She's exiled in the real timeline anyway, he thought grimly.
Disinherited. Cast out. Ruined.
At least this way, he reasoned, she gets her freedom early.
Technically, he decided, this is charity.
Somewhere far away, in fog-drowned London, King George V was likely congratulating himself on a flawless naval review.
And here Oskar von Hohenzollern sat—on a German dreadnought—watching history derail itself over teddy-bear underwear.
"Unbelievable," he muttered. "Now I understand why sailors say women are bad luck on battleships."
He laughed quietly, shaking his head.
"How," he wondered aloud, "is a man supposed to maintain discipline with such… distractions in such confined spaces?"
The answer, clearly, was that he wasn't.
Above deck, the Nassau cut cleanly through dark waters beneath German flags.
Below deck, the door remained locked.
The lamp flickered.
History politely looked away.
And somewhere between steel walls and catastrophic decisions, Oskar whispered with a crooked smile:
"Suck it, George the Fifth… you've been outplayed."
---
While Oskar—aboard German steel—was busy proving every rumor about him true in the most humiliating way possible, London was trying very hard to pretend it could breathe again.
With Prince Oskar and the last foreign envoys having left. The palace corridors had emptied. The crowds had dispersed. The bunting still clung to lampposts along the Mall like a hangover from spectacle, but the city itself returned to what it always was: smoke, schedules, gossip, and money.
Edward VII lay in his grave now, the mourning period wrapped in black cloth and formal phrases. The funeral had been grand—because Britain did grand better than anyone—and then it had been followed by something even grander: a naval review so immense it felt less like ceremony and more like a warning fired across the world.
Even in this altered age—this era where Germany's new dreadnoughts had arrived earlier than anyone expected—the Royal Navy still knew how to stage dominance.
And the world had watched.
France had watched with wary admiration.
Russia had watched with uneasy gratitude, pleased that it wasn't Britain's enemy anymore.
The Americans watched with that quiet, irritating interest of a nation that had money, time, and factories—enough to build anything if it decided to care.
In cafés from Paris to New York, men argued over tonnage and gun caliber like sports commentators, as if steel alone determined destiny. Newspapers filled columns with comparisons, speculation, and patriotic reassurance.
London, meanwhile, exhaled—but not in comfort.
In Britain there was talk of a new age beginning. A new king. A new century. A fresh page.
But Britain did not truly change with its monarchs anymore.
The age of kings commanding armies from horseback was gone. Under constitutional rule, the Crown still mattered—symbol, continuity, a face for the nation—but power lived elsewhere: in the Cabinet, in Parliament, in the machinery of government that ran on laws and budgets rather than royal temper.
George V was still learning the weight of the crown. He would grow into it—disciplined, dutiful, stubborn in a way that suited Britain's self-image.
But he did not govern.
---
Instead, the men who governed were the ones now gathering behind closed doors, in the thick air of paper and smoke.
Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith convened his ministers.
Asquith had already been Prime Minister for two years—steady, legal-minded, comfortable with the machinery of state. But comfort did not mean ease. He had inherited an empire that still looked invincible on maps… and a strategic situation that felt increasingly less invincible every time German shipbuilding reports landed on his desk.
Germany was no longer merely "the continental power with delusions at sea."
Germany—thanks to money, industry, and a Crown Prince who had undoubtedly increased Germanys standard of living—was building ships fast enough that even British confidence had begun to sweat.
Across the Atlantic, America was rising with its slow, patient certainty.
And despite alliances with France and Russia, Asquith knew a private truth that no Prime Minister enjoyed admitting even to himself:
If war came, it would not be neat.
It would not be short.
And it would not be won by arrogance.
That, precisely, was why the naval review had been staged the way it had.
Not merely to honor a dead king.
To remind the living world that Britain still owned the sea, and that other's should not challenge it.
Asquith sat at the head of the Cabinet table, fingers interlaced, posture calm—yet his eyes still carried the bright afterglow of a spectacle that had gone exactly as planned.
"Gentlemen," he asked, unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice, "how would you judge our naval review?"
Across from him, Reginald McKenna—First Lord of the Admiralty—allowed himself a thin, professional smile. He was a man who understood something that soldiers and politicians sometimes forgot:
confidence was a weapon, and Britain wielded it better than any nation alive, and for good reason.
"Prime Minister," McKenna said, "it was highly effective. The foreign delegations were impressed—some of them visibly shaken. The Royal Navy reminded the world what it is."
He paused, and the faintest note of pleasure crept into his tone.
"And perhaps most importantly… it reminded our own people as well."
A few ministers murmured approval. Heads nodded. Someone chuckled softly, as if the whole matter had been settled by steel hulls and flags alone.
Then Winston Churchill spoke.
"Prime Minister. Gentlemen."
His voice was steady, almost polite—but it carried that dangerous edge of a man who refused to join the comfortable laughter.
"The Royal Navy remains the greatest fleet on Earth," he said. "That much is not in dispute."
He let the sentence settle, then tightened it until it became a knife.
"What is in dispute is whether it will remain so in the years to come."
The room cooled by degrees. A few brows lifted. A few mouths pressed thin.
Churchill slid a thin folder onto the table. No dramatic flourish—just paper. The sort of paper that kept empires awake at night.
"Germany has done its best to hide its intent," he continued. "But our agents—posed as merchants, fishermen, even tourists—are returning with the same message."
He tapped the folder once.
"German shipbuilding has accelerated beyond our comfortable assumptions. The gap is narrowing. Not in a decade. Not in some distant future. Now. Year by year."
He looked around the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn.
"And if we do not push harder… we may wake one morning and find ourselves no longer first."
The Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lloyd George, made a small sound in his throat—half scepticism, half warning.
"Mr. Churchill," he said carefully, "with respect—this borders on theatrics. Germany cannot match our capital-ship numbers without bleeding herself dry. And her shipyards are fewer than ours. She cannot sustain an arms race against British capacity."
He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
"And if you propose accelerating further, you know what that means."
Money.
Taxes.
Parliamentary battles.
Headaches that could topple governments.
Churchill did not flinch.
"It isn't theatrics," he said. "It's arithmetic."
He turned slightly toward McKenna, as if pinning the Admiralty to the table by name.
"We know the Germans built four ships of their first dreadnought class—Nassau," he said. "And by every inference we can make from sightings, trials, and engineering rumor, their performance is comparable to our most modern ships now in service."
A quiet murmur rippled through the room—unease wearing the mask of curiosity.
Churchill pressed on, voice sharpening.
"And there is something else. Several observers noted that the German dreadnought that visited during these ceremonies did not leave the sort of thick coal smoke one expects from a battleship of that displacement."
McKenna's eyes narrowed.
Churchill continued, letting the implication hang for a heartbeat before he delivered it.
"It moved… too cleanly. Too quickly. Its exhaust did not behave like coal. Which suggests either unusually efficient boilers… or something more modern."
He paused.
"Oil."
A few ministers shifted. Grey's gaze turned thoughtful. Lloyd George's mouth tightened.
McKenna's expression hardened.
"Consider what it means," Churchill said quietly. "Their first dreadnoughts. Not their third or fourth iteration—their first. And they arrive already at the level of our best, or possibly even better."
The room changed temperature.
The earlier confidence—warm, habitual—began to cool.
Because every man at the table understood the implication: if Germany's first step was already near Britain's peak, then every ship built before that step suddenly felt less comforting than it had yesterday.
McKenna bristled, as naval men did when challenged by civilians.
"You worry too much," he snapped. "Our ships are heavier, larger in displacement. And besides, we are already moving ahead with the Orion-class."
His finger tapped the table once, as if striking a gavel.
"343mm guns. A true step forward. Once those ships enter service, Germany will be behind again. That is the entire point of our programme."
Churchill inclined his head—polite, almost respectful.
"Indeed," he said, calm as a man lighting a fuse. "The Orion-class will be powerful."
Then he added, gently, almost conversationally:
"But they will not enter service until the year after next."
He let that hang, then dropped the second weight.
"And according to the strongest indications we have… Germany's second class already in service—the Heligoland-class—uses 343mm guns, or possibly even larger ones."
Silence.
For a fraction of a second, no one breathed.
---
Then McKenna's chair scraped as he surged forward, color rising into his face.
"Impossible," he snapped. "Absolutely impossible. The Germans could never develop 343mm guns before us!"
For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.
Because if it was possible—if Germany's ships were already carrying guns the Royal Navy was only now laying down—then the comforting hierarchy Britain had lived inside for a century suddenly looked… less certain.
Asquith's expression tightened. The Prime Minister's satisfaction drained away, replaced by the hard, practiced seriousness of a man who knew that the Empire did not run on ceremony—it ran on margins.
"Mr. Churchill," Asquith said slowly, "are you telling us the gap has truly narrowed that far?"
Churchill didn't soften the blow.
"Prime Minister, I'm telling you that the possibility is high enough that ignoring it would be irresponsible," he said. "Our intelligence has not confirmed it beyond doubt—yet. But the indications point in one direction."
Asquith held Churchill's gaze for a long moment, then nodded once.
Even a rumor, at this level, could be lethal. Britain did not have the luxury of being surprised.
He turned sharply toward McKenna.
"First Lord," Asquith said, "what is the Admiralty's strategy?"
McKenna's anger cooled into action—the way naval men always wanted it to.
"We have to accelerate," he replied immediately. "We push the yards harder. We squeeze schedules until they scream. Orion must be completed at the earliest possible date, and the following classes—King George V and Iron Duke—must begin as soon as their designs are ready. Germany will not surpass us in numbers. Not while Britain still possesses shipyards."
There was a murmur of agreement. This was familiar ground: Britain did shipbuilding like breathing. If the Admiralty demanded more hulls, the island could produce them—painfully, expensively, but reliably.
The trouble, of course, was money.
Lloyd George, Chancellor of the Exchequer, sat back with a look that suggested he could already feel Parliament clawing at his throat.
"And how," he asked, "do you propose to fund this 'squeezing'?"
His voice was mild, but everyone knew what he meant:
More ships meant more spending.
More spending meant more taxes.
More taxes meant political war.
Then, with a frown, he added the question that had been forming behind every man's teeth:
"How could the Germans have so much money to build battleships?" Lloyd George demanded, the Chancellor of the Exchequer's voice carrying the particular irritation of a man who could feel the Treasury bleeding in advance. "With their fiscal revenue, they simply shouldn't be able to afford this pace."
War Minister Richard Haldane nodded grimly, fingers steepled as if he were arguing a case in court.
"That is the central problem," Haldane said. "We can draw on vast colonial networks, shipping revenues, and financial gravity that Germany does not possess. Germany may outproduce us in certain industries—yes—but their state revenue does not magically exceed ours. And they still face enemies on land. France and Russia are not imaginary. Their army budget is rising even as their shipyards expand. Under such conditions… where does this flood of money come from?"
The question hung in the air like smoke that refused to rise.
Every man at the table understood what it implied. If Britain could not explain Germany's growth, it could not predict it. And if it could not predict it, it could not control it.
Churchill leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp.
"I have a guess," he said.
Asquith's gaze lifted. "Then speak."
Churchill placed his fingertips on the folder in front of him, as if pinning the thought to the table.
"Germany is not transparent," he said. "That is part of the problem. Their internal security is tightening. Their industry is shielded. Their shipyards are guarded like fortresses. Their costs, margins, and true profits are hidden behind walls we can barely peer over."
A few ministers nodded. Britain was accustomed to knowing everything about everyone, simply by watching where money moved. Germany was increasingly refusing to be watched.
"But there are two streams of money we can reasonably suspect," Churchill continued. "One is old power."
He looked briefly toward Grey, then back to the table.
"The German royal house," Churchill said, "and its allies—through private channels, credit networks, and industrial cooperation. Back-channel loans, discreet funding, the sort of arrangements aristocracies make when they want steel without parliamentary noise."
Asquith nodded once, unsurprised. Royal houses had always had money tucked away behind the curtains.
"And the second stream," Churchill went on, "is newer. More dangerous."
He tapped the folder once.
"Crown Prince Oskar."
The name tightened the room. Not because the men feared Oskar personally, but because he represented something irritating: a modern prince who behaved like an industrial cartel in human form.
Lloyd George frowned, drumming his fingers once against the table.
"We don't know his true wealth."
"No," Churchill agreed calmly. "And that is precisely the problem."
He leaned back slightly, hands spreading in a gesture that suggested absence rather than excess.
"Oskar does not behave like a man who wants to be measured. He does not flaunt his fortune. He does not announce it in ledgers or speeches. He does not summon journalists to admire columns of figures and declare, 'Behold my gold.'"
A faint edge crept into Churchill's voice.
"He builds. Quietly. Efficiently. And—most inconveniently—he does not rely on banks in any normal sense. A significant portion of his profits never enter institutions we can examine. They are stored privately, through personal vaults and arrangements shared with his closest associate—Karl. Which means," he added, "we are effectively blind."
He let that settle before continuing.
"We can see what Britain buys from Germany. We can count imports. We can estimate volume. We can even make educated guesses about scale."
Churchill's mouth twitched.
"But we cannot see what it costs him to produce those goods inside Germany. We cannot see his margins. We cannot see what remains after wages, reinvestment, and internal transfers. And Germany has grown exceedingly adept at making sure we never do."
Across the table, McKenna shifted impatiently. Finance bored him when it didn't immediately translate into hulls and guns.
"So," he said flatly, "we suspect. We guess. We infer."
He tapped the table once.
"But we have nothing we can seize."
Churchill's eyes flicked to him.
"On the contrary," he said. "There is one stream we can see clearly."
He let the pause hang just long enough to sharpen the next words.
"The People's Welfare Lottery."
The mood shifted immediately.
Because even men who loved free trade and hated interference had very little love for lotteries, even if it was framed as welfare. In this era, a lottery did not feel like commerce. It felt like moral rot with a cash register.
"That company earns fortunes in Britain every year," Churchill said. "Not by producing steel. Not by selling medicine. Not by supplying safety equipment. But by extracting hope from the poor, and calling it 'welfare.'"
Lloyd George's expression tightened.
"And the money goes to Germany," Churchill continued, voice hardening. "We cannot prove the exact profit split inside Oskar's empire—but the lottery is different. The flow is visible. British coins, British hands, British pockets… then the money crosses the water."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And if even a portion of that revenue is being used to support German naval expansion," Churchill said, "then we have a grotesque situation: Britain financing the guns that may one day blockade Britain."
McKenna's eyes gleamed for the first time.
"Then we have to shut it down," he said at once.
Asquith lifted a hand to slow him.
"Not so quickly," the Prime Minister said. "You know the problem. Free trade. Public reaction. Parliament."
Churchill nodded once, as if agreeing with a point nobody wanted to say aloud.
"Which is why we need a cause stronger than suspicion," he said quietly. "Not merely enough to seize the British branch of their so-called Welfare Lottery, but enough to justify hurting Germany without making ourselves look like petty thieves."
He paused—then added, almost as if changing topics.
Though every man at the table could feel he was not changing topics at all.
"There is… another matter," Churchill said. "I received it less than an hour ago."
Chairs shifted. A spoon clinked against porcelain. Someone took a careful sip of tea—because when politics turned uncomfortable, the English drank something hot and pretended they weren't tense.
Churchill unfolded a smaller note. Not an embassy dispatch. Not an Admiralty memorandum.
The sort of intelligence that came through servants, policemen, and frightened mouths that whispered because they were terrified of being overheard by someone important.
He read it once.
Then looked up.
"Princess Patricia has disappeared."
The room went still.
One or two men blinked as if searching their memories for which Princess this was—royalty produced Princesses the way it produced portrait painters. But even those who had forgotten who she was precisely understood the real point:
A princess does not vanish like a misplaced hat.
Even a minor one.
Churchill did not let them linger on that comfort.
"The initial report claims she 'ran away' with her maid—Elise," he said evenly. "Which, on its own, is not unheard of. Princess Patricia has always possessed a gift for inconvenience."
A couple of tight smiles appeared around the table. Patricia's reputation was… colorful.
Churchill continued with dry precision.
"She left a note. Hastily written. The sort of note that screams either panic… or performance."
The smiles thinned.
Then Churchill's tone sharpened—subtly, but unmistakably.
"What makes it interesting is the pattern around it. The last confirmed sighting places the princess heading toward Crown Prince Oskar's quarters in Buckingham Palace."
Several ministers exchanged glances.
Churchill went on, voice now carrying that faint edge of disbelief a man used only when reality was being rude.
"The maid, Elise, was last seen walking through palace corridors—cheerful, of all things—carrying a large sack normally used for potatoes."
A pause.
"And that sack," Churchill added, "was later found discarded in Oskar's room."
The room's expression shifted into something uncertain.
Not outrage.
Not yet.
The look older men wore when trying to decide whether they were listening to an intelligence report… or a farce.
Churchill exhaled, as if he disliked even saying the next part.
"As some of you may know, there have been persistent rumors of… enthusiasm… on Princess Patricia's part toward Crown Prince Oskar."
He chose the word enthusiasm like a man choosing the least explosive ingredient in a bomb.
"In plain terms," Churchill said, "the girl has been infatuated since their first meeting. Her family has, regrettably, collected enough sketches, even quite rediculous paintings and romantic fantasies to confirm it."
A few brows rose. One man coughed.
Churchill pressed on, almost clinical.
"And yes—if you're wondering—my original hope was that this infatuation might embarrass Oskar during these events. Not through violence. Through scandal."
He let the sentence sit long enough for the moral shape of it to become clear.
"A foolish romance. A lapse of judgment. A rumor that the German Crown Prince cannot keep his discipline in the heart of Buckingham Palace."
A pause.
"Possibly even… consequences."
The room stared.
McKenna's mouth opened slightly, incredulous.
Churchill did not flinch.
"We are discussing empires," he said coldly. "Not bedtime virtues."
Then he looked down again at the note, and his voice turned even drier.
"However," Churchill said, "I did not expect the possibility that he might have helped her disappear."
McKenna barked a laugh immediately, unable to stop himself.
"You cannot be serious," he said, amusement sharp with disbelief. "Disappeared? How? Smuggled her out in his travel chest?"
A ripple of laughter spread around the table—relieved, mocking.
Even men who disliked Germany could not resist the image: the enormous German Crown Prince striding out of Buckingham Palace carrying a princess like luggage.
McKenna shook his head, still grinning.
"Ridiculous. A fairy tale. You truly expect us to believe Prince Oskar—however large, however eccentric—is so narrow-minded as to abduct a British princess from Buckingham Palace like a common thief?"
He waved a dismissive hand.
"Patricia is a free woman," McKenna said, waving the idea aside. "If she chose to leave, why would she do so like a thief in the night?"
He snorted softly.
"Unless," he added, voice dry with disbelief, "she was deliberately staging some romantic fantasy—casting herself as the heroine swept away by a foreign prince."
The room fell quiet.
Not because the idea was convincing—
—but because, uncomfortably, everyone present could picture it.
Anyone who had spent more than five minutes around Princess Patricia knew she possessed a talent for melodrama, a fondness for grand gestures, and an imagination better suited to novels than to court protocol.
For a heartbeat, the absurd explanation hovered in the air.
And the troubling part was not that it sounded ridiculous—
but that it sounded plausible.
Churchill did not smile.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It is absurd."
The room waited.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low, controlled, the tone of a man offering a blade wrapped in velvet.
"And that is precisely why it is useful."
The smiles faded.
A few brows knitted.
Churchill held the note up between two fingers.
"I am not saying he did it," he said. "I am saying it is possible. And yes—it is too ridiculous to be believed without evidence."
He paused.
"But it is also just plausible enough to spread."
He let the sentence settle like smoke.
"And once it spreads," Churchill continued, "it becomes a lever. Not against Germany in a courtroom—against Germany in Parliament. In the newspapers. In public opinion."
Asquith tapped the table once.
"You're suggesting we use it," he said—not accusing, measuring.
Churchill met his gaze evenly.
"I am suggesting that if Oskar has interfered with a British princess," he said, "or if even the appearance of such interference can be made credible… then we have a pretext."
A few men exchanged looks.
Pretexts were the true currency of politics.
"Tariffs," Churchill said calmly. "Restrictions. Damages. Retaliation framed as moral outrage rather than economic war."
Grey lifted a hand slightly, cautious as ever.
"Our government favors free trade," he warned. "We cannot simply slap tariffs on German goods because we feel irritated."
"Exactly," Churchill said. "Which is why we need justification. The easiest target is not German products the public values—medicine, safety equipment, fine goods."
McKenna leaned in, suddenly hungry.
"The lottery," he said, almost smiling.
"Precisely," Churchill replied. "The one German 'product' we can kill without anyone mourning it. In fact, many will applaud."
He spread his hands.
"We cannot easily strike Oskar's industrial exports without harming ourselves," Churchill admitted. "Their goods are high quality. Our public likes them. Our industries benefit. Cutting them off would be painful."
His eyes hardened.
"But the lottery?" he said softly. "We can take the lottery."
Lloyd George's eyes sharpened like a man smelling revenue.
"If we could acquire that income," he murmured, already counting, "the Treasury—"
"And the Admiralty," McKenna added at once, with absolutely no shame.
Asquith's expression tightened.
"If we move against it," he warned, "Germany will be furious. And Oskar—"
Haldane's mouth tightened.
"We are already in a confrontation," he said quietly. "Germany is challenging us at sea, in industry, in influence. It is past time we stopped pretending otherwise."
Asquith sat back, looking at the men around him, seeing the next moves forming in the smoke.
Then he nodded once.
"Very well," he said. "Churchill—begin preparations regarding the lottery. Quietly. Legally. Efficiently."
He turned to Grey.
"Foreign Office will sound out Paris and St. Petersburg. And Washington as well—carefully."
The room nodded—not because they truly believed the image of a German prince carrying a princess in a chest.
But because they believed in opportunity.
And in politics, opportunity was always worth chasing.