Chapter 558: Breach of Contract
"Oh, the British also promised to persuade Sweden to respect our interests in the Baltic," said the Tsarina's secretary. "At the very least, they'll ensure Sweden won't launch another attack on our Finnish territories."
Britain had been supplying Sweden with a vast amount of war materials. Without British support, the severely weakened Swedes would be unable to sustain military action. Thus, British influence was crucial in controlling Sweden's aggression.
"Haha! Now I see it!"
Potemkin burst into laughter, slapping the small wooden table inside the carriage like a hunter who had just uncovered his prey.
"These cunning British—they're aiming at France!"
"France?" Khrapovitsky, the secretary, looked puzzled. "The British envoy hasn't mentioned France at all."
Potemkin grinned knowingly. "Why would they put so much effort into mediating the Austro-Prussian War?"
"Well… I can't say I understand."
"It's to diminish France's military influence on Austria and eventually dismantle their alliance. Britain lacks sufficient sway in the German states, so they need us to pressure Austria.
"As for Prussia, Britain, being their ally, can surely find ways to convince Wilhelm II to accept a truce.
"And regarding increased trade volumes—that's because Russo-French trade has surged over the past two years, triggering alarm in London. If we boost trade with Britain, it will naturally crowd out French interests.
"They're also ensuring Sweden doesn't interfere with our Baltic trade routes."
Most Russian-British trade was conducted via the Baltic, through the Gulf of Riga, across the Skagerrak Strait, and on to Britain.
Potemkin continued, "The British are worried that French investments in the Donbass might cause us to waver, so they're counterbalancing that with their own investments in Crimea.
"Ultimately, every move they make is about weakening France.
"And that's just fine. Let them fight amongst themselves—we can reap the benefits during their struggle!"
He looked directly at Khrapovitsky. "So, let me guess—Her Majesty is inclined to accept the British proposal, isn't she?"
"It seems so. Of course, your approval will be crucial."
The Imperial Hunting Grounds Outside St. Petersburg
Empress Catherine II sat upright on her horse, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the nobles and courtiers driving game toward her. She imagined herself riding alongside them, joining in the hunt with wild abandon.
Beside her stood a dashing young man in his twenties, exuding an air of French sophistication. "Those British are certainly generous," he remarked casually. "France has only invested 300,000 rubles in the Donbass this past year, but the British are proposing millions—an initial investment of 1 million rubles, with another 5 million to follow."
As the nobles herded two wild boars into view, the young man handed Catherine a hunting rifle and steadied the barrel for her.
At 63, the Empress no longer had the strength to aim unaided. She took a deep breath, sighted on the larger boar, and pulled the trigger.
The rifle roared, smoke and powder scent filling the air. But the boar remained unscathed, darting into the underbrush, startled by the noise.
"They fled like Ottoman deserters!" quipped the young man, offering a joke to distract her from the missed shot. He resumed his pitch, "With British investment, I'm sure Crimea's ports will soon flourish…"
The man, Platon Zubov, was Catherine's latest and most favored lover. For his handsome face and charming manner, he had become her frequent companion. But the Empress's sharp wit remained undulled by his flattery.
Catherine smiled at him. "My dear, you've spoken so much about the British. Do you know what they're truly here for?"
Zubov hesitated, unsure. "Perhaps… to strengthen Russo-British relations?"
The Empress shook her head, her gaze distant. "The rift between Russia and Britain is far greater than any shared interests we have. Trade may tie us together, but little else."
Zubov responded with his signature dazzling smile, playing the fool. "Then why are they here?"
Catherine merely pointed at a shadowy figure in the distance. "The game is approaching."
The young man quickly handed her another rifle.
As Catherine aimed at the next boar, her thoughts turned to Potemkin. Had he been here, he would have seen through the British envoy's motives immediately.
Her heart lingered on Potemkin, the man she still considered her most indispensable confidant. Despite his failing health, his intellect and courage remained unmatched in managing the affairs of her empire.
When he returned, they would carefully weigh how to extract the most advantage from this Anglo-French rivalry.
With that thought, she fired. This time, the bullet struck true, hitting the boar through the eye. The animal collapsed instantly.
Austria
A few streets from Schönbrunn Palace, in a red-brick villa, Norbert Kleistiel, the vice president of the Vienna Chamber of Commerce, stared in shock at the British envoy, the Duke of Leeds.
"You're proposing we place an order for 3 million florins' worth of goods from France?"
Three million florins, equivalent to 7.5 million francs, was an astronomical sum.
"No, not an order," corrected the Duke with a smile. "It's merely a deposit."
Kleistiel's eyes widened further. "A deposit? Then the total transaction must exceed 10 million florins?!"
"My baseline is 13 million. The more, the better," the Duke said nonchalantly, as if discussing a pile of stones rather than a fortune.
"But… why would you help the French make money?" Kleistiel asked, baffled. "French goods are already dominating our markets. No one here would willingly do this.
"Besides, even if we combined the wealth of every merchant in the chamber, we couldn't gather such a sum."
"You misunderstand me, my friend," the Duke replied, still smiling. "First, the total remains 300,000 pounds—or 3 million florins. That won't change.
"Second, I will provide the funds. You and your associates need only place the orders with French factories. You'll even receive a handsome commission for your efforts."
"Now I'm even more confused," Kleistiel admitted. "What happens after we place the orders? Who pays the balance?"
"There won't be any balance," the Duke said, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "When the goods are ready, they'll rot in French warehouses."
Kleistiel gasped. "You mean… you want us to default on the contracts?!"
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