The following morning, Phillip was summoned once more to his father's study.
The Duke of Wellington wasted no words. He reached into a drawer, produced a folded document sealed with red wax, and slid it across the desk.
"This," he said, "is a draft drawn on Coutts Bank in London. Present it to their clerk and they will open credit in your name for five thousand pounds. It is not to be squandered. You will account for every penny."
Phillip took the paper with both hands, the heavy texture of parchment strange compared to the smooth sheets of his old world. The wax bore the Wellington crest—two rampant lions flanking a shield—and the signature at the bottom was bold, unmistakably his father's.
He bowed his head. "Thank you, Father. I will not waste this opportunity."
The Duke gave a curt nod. "We shall see. London is not forgiving to fools. If you are careless, you'll return with nothing but debts."
Phillip tucked the document safely into his coat. "Then I'll return with proof."
Outside, Sebas oversaw preparations. A family carriage awaited at the front steps of Stratfield Saye House—the ancestral estate of the Wellingtons, nestled in the rolling countryside of Hampshire. The mansion stood proud with its columned façade, sprawling lawns, and ancient oaks lining the drive.
The carriage itself gleamed with the family's crest on its doors, polished wood and brass fittings catching the morning light. Two sleek black horses stood ready, harnesses jingling as stable hands adjusted the tack.
"Your conveyance to London, Young Master," Sebas said, opening the door with a dignified bow.
Phillip hesitated. He had seen carriages before, in museums or period dramas, but he had never ridden one. The memories of the "old" Phillip Wellington assured him this was familiar, but he—Phillip Harrington—was about to experience his first journey the eighteenth-century way.
He climbed inside. The interior was cushioned with velvet, elegant but stiff compared to the leather seats of a Maserati. When Sebas closed the door, the sudden enclosure smelled faintly of polish and horse.
The driver cracked his whip, and with a jolt, the carriage lurched forward.
Phillip gripped the seat instinctively. The wheels rattled over cobblestones, every bump and rut shaking through the frame. So this is what they dealt with daily? He missed shock absorbers already. The horses clattered ahead, hooves striking in rhythm, the world rolling past through the window at a surprisingly brisk pace.
Hours passed. The Hampshire countryside blurred into farmland and villages. Thatched cottages, church steeples, and market greens dotted the landscape. Farmers tipped their caps as the Wellington crest rolled by; some children even chased the carriage until their mothers scolded them back.
Phillip alternated between awe and discomfort. The scenery was picturesque, like a painting, but every jolt of the wheels made him long for suspension springs. His modern mind noted the wasted energy in wooden wheels and iron-rimmed axles. Someday, he thought, steel springs, pneumatic tires… even railways. I'll build them all.
By afternoon, London's sprawl unfolded before him. Smoke from a thousand chimneys smudged the horizon, mingling with the haze of the Thames. The closer they came, the thicker the traffic grew—carts laden with coal, wagons piled high with hay, sedan chairs carried by sweating men, and horsemen weaving impatiently through the press.
The stench hit him before the sights did.
A foul mixture of horse dung, rotting refuse, and stagnant water clung to the streets. The cobbles were slick with mud churned by endless hooves, streaked with manure that no one bothered to clean quickly enough. It stung his nose, acrid and sour.
Phillip pressed a handkerchief to his face, grimacing. "God… is this what they lived with every day?" he muttered under his breath.
Through the carriage window, he caught glimpses of London life: vendors hawking pies and oysters, chimney sweeps darting through narrow alleys, women in bonnets balancing baskets of bread. Grand townhouses stood shoulder to shoulder with cramped tenements. The contrast was staggering—wealth and poverty sharing the same street, separated only by a carriage's width.
As they rolled past Fleet Street and toward the Strand, he saw beggars in rags holding out hands to passing gentry, while just ahead a nobleman's carriage, gilded and gaudy, splashed them with filth from a rut. No one seemed surprised.
Phillip sat back, hand still shielding his nose. London… the heart of empire. The wealthiest city in the world, and it smells like a sewer.
And yet, beneath the stench and chaos, his engineer's mind whirred with ideas. Sewer systems. Paved roads. Street cleaning. Public sanitation.
If I can bring steel, I can bring pipes. If I can bring pipes, I can bring clean water. If I can bring clean water, I can change everything.
Then the driver slowed the horses and drew the carriage to a stop in front of a stately building at number 59 Strand. Its clean brick exterior, tall windows, and dignified columns gave it a presence that marked it as something more than an ordinary counting house. A brass plaque by the entrance read.
COUTTS & CO.
The door opened, and a footman lowered the carriage step. Phillip descended, careful not to show the unease he felt. His boots landed on the cobblestones, which were thankfully cleaner here than in the alleys he had passed earlier.
Sebas, who had accompanied him in the front, stepped down and inclined his head. "This is Coutts, Young Master. Established 1692, patronized by nobility and the Crown itself. You will be safe here."
Phillip adjusted his frock coat, squared his shoulders, and approached the door.
Inside, Coutts was a world apart from the chaos of London. The main hall was paneled in rich wood, polished to a deep shine. Chandeliers hung overhead. Clerks sat at high desks, quills scratching across ledgers, while assistants hurried to and fro with bundles of paper.
"Good morning, sir. May I be of assistance?"
Phillip drew the folded parchment from his coat. "Yes. I come bearing a draft issued by the Duke of Wellington."
The moment the Duke's name left his lips, the clerk straightened, his deference sharpening into something close to awe.
"Ah. Of course, sir. If you would follow me to the manager's office."
Phillip was led past rows of desks into a quieter chamber, where a gentleman in his fifties sat behind a mahogany desk, spectacles perched on his nose. The clerk handed him the document, and he carefully broke the seal, scanning the contents.
When he looked up, his expression was polite but warm. "So you are Lord Phillip. I see your father has arranged credit in your name. Five thousand pounds sterling." He spoke the words with calm weight, as though announcing the arrival of a new regiment.
Phillip gave a respectful nod. "That is correct."
The banker reached for a ledger, dipped his quill in ink, and began writing. "Your account will be established today. With it, you may draw drafts which you can use to conduct your businesses. Do you wish these funds available in coin or by account?"
Phillip's modern instincts almost betrayed him—his first thought was wire transfer. But he caught himself.
"By account," he said firmly. "I have no wish to ride through London with carts of gold."
The banker gave a small approving smile. "Wise. You may withdraw cash for daily needs, but I will have our clerks prepare smaller drafts for you to present to merchants. As for larger contracts, you may deal directly with us."
When the banker finally handed him a leather folder containing his account papers and first drafts, Phillip tucked them carefully inside his coat.
"Thank you," Phillip said. "You'll be hearing from me again very soon."
After that, he went outside.
Sebas, standing patiently by the carriage, bowed. "Your business concluded, Young Master?"
Phillip gave a small nod. "Yes. I have the funds." He paused, then leaned slightly closer. "Sebas, tell me where is the finest hotel in London? I intend to remain here for the time being."
The old butler's brows lifted a fraction, but he quickly composed himself. "Very well, my lord. There are several establishments worthy of a gentleman of your standing. For nobility, the Clarendon Hotel in Bond Street is well regarded. Discreet, secure, and frequented by members of Parliament and visiting foreign dignitaries. Another is Brown's Hotel in Mayfair, a respectable place, though somewhat newer. If it is grandeur you seek, the Albion near Covent Garden is larger, though rather bustling."
Phillip considered this. He didn't want bustling, and he certainly didn't want to stand out in a place full of nobles who might remember the scandals of the old Phillip Wellington. Discretion was key—for now.
"Clarendon, then," Phillip decided. "Take me there."
Sebas inclined his head. "As you wish, Young Master."