There was a pause outside, then the butler's voice again.
"As you wish, Young Master. I shall wait here until you are ready."
Phillip exhaled slowly, tension draining from his shoulders. At least this Sebas fellow doesn't sound impatient.
He turned his attention to the wardrobe standing tall against the far wall. Carved from dark mahogany and gilded with ornate trim, it was almost as imposing as a vault door. When he pulled it open, the scent of cedar greeted him, along with rows of neatly arranged clothing. Breeches, waistcoats, frock coats, and cravats—everything straight out of the late eighteenth century.
Phillip ran his hand across the fabrics. No suits, no ties, no tailored Armani… yet the craftsmanship spoke volumes. Heavy, durable cloth, trimmed with gold thread and buttons polished to a shine. Even in a world without electricity, wealth made sure you looked like power incarnate.
"Well, if I'm to meet this Duke," Phillip muttered, "I might as well look the part."
He carefully selected a deep crimson waistcoat embroidered with gold patterns, pairing it with a dark blue frock coat edged with the same regal trim. A crisp white cravat sat ready on the rack, which he fumbled with for a moment before memories from this body clicked into place—his fingers tied it perfectly. Breeches, polished leather boots, and a black belt completed the ensemble.
When he caught his reflection in the mirror again, he almost didn't recognize himself.
"I must say, this body does look like a nobility."
He adjusted the cuffs, straightened his posture, and gave himself a faint smile. "Alright, the first encounter."
He pulled the door open.
Sebas, a tall man with silver hair neatly combed back, stood waiting with the patience only a lifetime of service could teach. His uniform was immaculate, black tailcoat with white gloves, and his sharp gaze briefly scanned Phillip from head to toe.
A small nod of approval followed. "You are prepared, Young Master. His Grace will be pleased."
"Lead the way," Phillip said.
Sebas gave a short bow before turning on his heel.
The hallway stretched out before them like something out of a palace exhibit. Gilded moldings ran along the walls, framing tall oil paintings of stern men in powdered wigs and elegant women in elaborate gowns. On Phillip's right, enormous windows flooded the corridor with daylight, casting long golden patterns across the polished floor. Outside, he could glimpse perfectly trimmed hedges and fountains sparkling in the morning sun.
On the left, the paintings seemed to follow him with their eyes. Some depicted family members of the Wellington line—past dukes, countesses, and generals who had shaped the country's history. He didn't recognize them, but thanks to the memories in his head, he somehow knew their names.
As they walked, maids in crisp Victorian-style uniforms lined the corridor. Their black dresses and white aprons were spotless, their caps neatly tied. Each of them dipped into a graceful bow the moment Phillip passed.
"Young Master," they said in unison.
Phillip nodded automatically, though inside he felt awkward. In his old life, the closest thing he had to this was interns greeting him in the office—but even then, he never expected such formal reverence. He caught one maid sneaking a glance at him as he passed, her cheeks faintly pink, but the moment his eyes met hers she quickly lowered her gaze.
They turned a corner, and Phillip knew instinctively that beyond those tall double doors at the end of the hallway was the office of the Duke of Wellington.
They stopped.
Sebas turned toward him, his posture straight as a sword. "Young Master Phillip, His Grace wishes a private conversation with you so I'm not allowed inside."
Phillip nodded.
Sebas grabbed for the door handle and then pushed, the tall doors opening inward with a deep creak that echoed through the gilded corridor.
The office of the Duke of Wellington spread before Phillip like something out of a painting. The ceiling was high, with ornate carvings that framed a chandelier of cut crystal. Heavy curtains were half-drawn, letting shafts of golden morning light illuminate shelves packed with leather-bound books, globes, and rolled maps.
At the center sat a large mahogany desk. Behind it, the Duke of Wellington himself, His Grace, Albert Hershey.
The man was every bit as commanding as Phillip's new memories suggested. His hair was iron-gray, combed back neatly, and his sharp blue eyes glinted under heavy brows. His shoulders were broad, his posture rigid, and his dark frock coat bore the faint embroidery of his rank. He looked like someone who had carried authority for so long it had seeped into his very bones.
Not only that, according to his memories, he is the Secretary at War or the War Minister of the United Kingdom. So he was really a man of high status.
"Phillip," the Duke said, his deep voice cutting through the silence.
Phillip stepped forward, resisting the urge to falter under that gaze. He bowed slightly—just enough to show respect, according to what his instincts and the body's memories told him.
"Father."
The Duke's eyes narrowed. For a moment, Phillip feared he had made some misstep in formality. But the man said nothing of it, simply gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
"Sit."
Phillip moved carefully, lowering himself into the chair. The Duke folded his hands atop the desk, studying him with a silence that weighed more than words.
"You have been listless these past months," the Duke said at last. His tone was not angry, but it carried the weight of disappointment. "Your elder brothers have chosen their paths. Alexander prepares to inherit. Edward serves in uniform. And you… I am told you spend your hours chasing women and wasting coin."
Phillip blinked, his throat tightening.
The Duke's voice sharpened, like a sword sliding from its sheath. "Is it false, then? That you smuggle opera singers and tavern wenches into this palace? That you toy with the daughters of barons and merchants, leaving whispers and smirks in every drawing room from here to Westminster? Do you deny that the name Wellington is sullied by your indulgence?"
Phillip's memories surged again—memories that weren't his but belonged to the other Phillip. Nights of wine and laughter. A girl with fiery hair pressed against the walls of the gallery. A noble's daughter sneaking out of his chamber at dawn. Scandals that never reached the newspapers, but festered in the hushed gossip of salons and balls. Enough to brand him a playboy, reckless, but not quite a disgrace.
He clenched his jaw. So this is the life I've inherited. An empty-headed rake…
The Duke leaned back in his chair, his cold eyes narrowing. "You are fortunate that your brothers carry the dignity you do not. Were you the heir, this house would have long been dragged into the gutter. Mark me well, Phillip—I will not tolerate another whisper, another rumor tied to your name. The next one I hear, you will find yourself disowned and penniless."
Phillip lowered his gaze, bowing his head just enough to appease. "I understand, Father."
But inside, his thoughts churned. Perfect. Just perfect. I woke up in a world without electricity or engines, and I'm stuck in the body of a spoiled noble playboy who spends more time in bedchambers than in books. No wonder no one takes me seriously.
He lifted his head, violet eyes steady. "That will not happen again."
For the first time, a flicker of surprise crossed the Duke's face.
"You are not exactly the man who would speak those words."
"Perhaps I'm a changed man, father."
"People never change," the Duke said.
Phillip chuckled. "So, father, the reason why you asked me here is to find out what I'm going to do in my life right?"
"That's correct."
"I have given it a thought…"
Phillip thought momentarily. He didn't actually give it a thought on what he was going to do because it was certain. He was a mechanical engineer from the 21st century, and in a world where technology hasn't progressed much, it was a great opportunity for him to change the world gradually for the better. After all, what was he going to do? Be sent abroad as a military officer expected from a Duke's son.
That's dangerous and perhaps this is the easier way to find Clara. If he were to invent mechanical contraptions so advanced, then that should give her a clue of who his true identity is.
"I want to become a businessman father," Phillip said.
The Duke's brow arched slightly. "A businessman?" He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the desk. "And what business does a son of mine intend to run? Gambling houses? Brothels? You've already had a taste for that sort of trade."
Phillip felt the sting of the words but forced himself to remain calm. "No, Father. Not that. I wish to create enterprises—ones that deal in craftsmanship, in machines, in industry. Something that will last."
The Duke's cold blue eyes narrowed, studying him. "Industry? You speak as though you are some guild master. Do you think you can compete with merchants who have given their entire lives to trade? Do you imagine nobles will take you seriously, after the scandals you've invited into these halls?"
Phillip's lips curled into a faint, confident smile. "That is why it must be me, Father. I have already been mocked, already dismissed as a rake and a fool. If I succeed, it will silence every whisper. And if I fail…" He spread his hands. "Then you lose nothing, for in their eyes I was already worthless."
The Duke did not answer at once. His gaze lingered on Phillip, measuring the weight of his words. The silence stretched, broken only by the ticking of a gilded clock on the mantel. Finally, the older man spoke.
"Okay, what do you need? I'll support you."
"Really father?" Phillip was surprised.
"Of course, it would be unfair to you and the resolve you have is something I can't dismiss," he replied.
Phillip's eyes lit up for a moment, this is a good opportunity for him, his father willing to fund his project.
"In that case father, I would need money, a lot of it."