Alan didn't feel particularly triumphant or aggrieved.In truth, he simply saw the era for what it was — a moment of collapse pregnant with opportunity.
Britain's imperial machinery was rusting, the great cogs slowing under the weight of debt and exhaustion. But decay, Alan knew, was just another kind of opening. In chaotic transitions, men of foresight could make fortunes, reputations, even legacies — so long as they understood the game.
He could have gone into business, perhaps even prospered obscenely. But that was too… small. Political power, however dressed in civility, was still the ultimate commodity.
And as every industrial titan eventually discovered, no fortune was truly built without political patronage.
Pamela Mountbatten was walking beside him through the sun-baked gardens of New Delhi's northern outskirts. The air shimmered faintly in the dry heat.
"You once told me you'd studied at the School of Oriental Studies before the war interrupted. How old were you then?" she asked suddenly, as though filing away details for later.
Alan allowed himself a thin smile. "Old enough to know the difference between raw talent and cultivated advantage… and young enough to still believe I could bend the world to my liking."
Pamela made a face. "You sound like my father — incapable of speaking like an ordinary person."
"Perhaps," Alan conceded, "but then I've never had the luxury of being born to a prince and the wealthiest woman in Britain." His tone was deliberately light, but the observation landed. "I've had to earn my place at every table I sit at."
Back in the city, he pressed a small velvet box into her hand.
She blinked at the sapphire ring inside. "Another gemstone? People will start to talk."
"They already talk," Alan replied, his voice low and unreadable. "Consider it a keepsake. And… a small request in return."
Pamela's brows lifted.
"My father has a private collection — rare manuscripts, some in delicate condition. Twenty tons, give or take. War makes the sea lanes unreliable, but if they were shipped under your father's name…" He let the sentence trail off, trusting her to follow.
Pamela studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Leave it to me."
Alan's expression barely changed, but inwardly he noted again the quiet usefulness of the Mountbatten household. Influence came in many forms; sometimes it wore a sapphire on its finger.
At Government House that evening, Mountbatten eyed his daughter with the weariness of a man accustomed to command, but not to being circumvented.
"I understand you and the Hyderabad man are friends. But you're too young to be visiting him alone," he said pointedly.
"Alan is a civil servant, not a fortune-hunter. And I'd like to see him off in Bombay," she replied, her chin lifting with familiar aristocratic stubbornness.
Mountbatten hesitated, then relented. "I'll have someone escort you."
"And his father's collection?" Pamela pressed. "Under your seal, it would travel without question."
He sighed. "Very well."
A few days later, they stood together at the edge of the north Delhi fields, watching barefoot children chase each other in the dust.
Alan's gaze lingered. "We can help them because we have the means," he murmured. "It's the privilege of power. But privilege without purpose is just vanity."
Pamela turned toward him, startled by the rare seriousness in his tone. "I've told Father — I'll be in Bombay when you depart. And if your Hyderabad staff need anything, they can reach me."
Alan gave a half-smile, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the perspiration from her palm. "And I'll telegraph when I reach London. That much I can promise."
She handed him a sealed letter. "For my sister. And… say hello to my mother, if you see her."
The morning of departure, Alan oversaw the loading of the heavy iron crates. Pamela watched the sweating soldiers with a puzzled frown.
"What on earth is in those? They're struggling."
"Paper," Alan said smoothly. "Stack enough of it together, and it can cut deeper than steel."
By the time they reached Bombay, the sun was sliding into the Arabian Sea. The port was alive with shouts, cranes groaning under cargo, gulls circling overhead. Pamela took it all in with bright-eyed curiosity.
Alan seized the moment. "The coast at Junagadh," he remarked, his voice almost conspiratorial. "Far more beautiful than this. One day, I'll take you there."