The news of the attack on the Panama works—and the brutal deaths of more than a dozen British citizens—reached London the following morning through The Times.
The leak was, of course, entirely unintentional.
Within hours, the British Empire erupted.
"Outrage! This is an open provocation against the Empire upon which the sun never sets!"
"The Americans— it must be those cursed Americans! Jealous of our greatness!"
"We never settled accounts after our sailors were killed last time!"
"They must pay in blood! No empire tolerates the murder of its citizens!"
Public fury ignited like dry powder. Patriotic crowds gathered before Parliament and Buckingham Palace alike, fists raised, Union Jacks waving, cries of vengeance echoing through the streets.
10 Downing Street – Cabinet Chamber
The air inside the Prime Minister's residence was dense with anger.
"This is unforgivable!" thundered Lord Palmerston, pounding the table, face flushed. "Absolutely unforgivable! Washington provokes us again and again! We must issue the harshest ultimatum and send the fleet to blockade their coasts! Let them learn the cost of British blood!"
"War is inevitable!"
"We cannot retreat now!"
One voice after another rose, intoxicated by public outrage and wounded prestige.
Only one man remained calm.
Prince Arthur Lionheart, the nominal victim and true axis of the crisis, sat beside the head of the table, tea untouched, expression serenely unreadable.
Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, felt a familiar chill. He knew that stillness. The quieter Lionheart became, the more dangerous his conclusions.
"Your Highness," Melbourne said carefully, "what… are your thoughts?"
All eyes turned.
They expected thunder.
Instead, Arthur gently set his teacup aside.
"Gentlemen," he said evenly, his voice soft yet commanding the room, "I share your grief. And I share your anger."
A pause.
"However," he continued calmly, "this is not the moment for a full-scale war with the United States of America."
Silence fell like a blade.
"What?!" Palmerston leapt to his feet. "You would have us endure this humiliation?! The world will laugh at Britain!"
"I did not say we should endure it," Arthurt replied, a faint smile touching his lips.
He rose and approached the great world map.
"Let us think as an empire, not as a mob."
He pointed to North America.
"Our Royal Navy can cross the Atlantic, blockade their ports, and reduce Washington to rubble if necessary. Victory is not in question."
He turned.
"But what comes after victory?"
"Reparations?" He shook his head. "Their annual revenue would scarcely offset the coal burned by our fleet."
"Territory?" Another shake. "We already possess Canada. We have no desire for their frozen north, nor their volatile southern slave states."
He let the logic settle.
"A war with vast expense and negligible return—against a suspected adversary—is bad business. And Britain is, above all, a commercial empire."
The Chancellor of the Exchequer nodded instinctively.
Palmerston clenched his jaw. "Then what do you propose?! Do nothing?"
Arthur's smile sharpened.
"On the contrary."
He traced his finger southward—to the Caribbean.
"Who attacked our workers?" he asked. "Not a nation—but armed marauders in Panama."
"Yes…"
"And where did these men flee?"
"Cuba. Puerto Rico. Pirate ports," an intelligence minister answered.
"Precisely."
Arthur clasped his hands.
"Gentlemen, our enemy is not the United States."
"Our enemy is piracy. Terrorism. Lawlessness in the Caribbean."
His voice grew righteous, almost noble.
"I propose Parliament authorize a joint naval operation—Royal Navy forces in North America, including our Texan allies—to conduct a comprehensive anti-piracy campaign across the Caribbean."
"Our target is not sovereign states."
"Our target is criminals."
"For the protection of trade routes, for the safety of civilians—who could possibly object?"
The room went silent again.
They saw it now.
A war without declaring war.
Expansion without conquest.
Legitimacy forged from moral language.
Cuba. Sugar. Ports. Influence.
Lord Melbourne exhaled slowly.
"Brilliant," he murmured. "Utterly brilliant."
The proposal passed unanimously.
Buckingham Palace – Private Chambers
That night, the empire slept.
Inside the Queen's private rooms, firelight flickered softly. Politics gave way to warmth.
Arthur Lionheart carefully lifted Princess Alice, milk-drunk and drowsy, from Victoria's arms. She smelled faintly of cream and linen.
"Sleep, little angel," he murmured, humming an imperfect lullaby as he laid her into a velvet-lined cradle.
He turned—
—and immediately felt small arms wrap around his leg.
"Papa! That's unfair!" protested Princess Vicky, in a pink nightgown, cheeks puffed in outrage. "You held Alice forever! You haven't told my bedtime story!"
Arthur laughed and swept her up.
"Very well, my fierce little queen. What story tonight?"
"I want the one about Saint George!" she declared, punching the air. "How he slew the dragon!"
Victoria, reclining nearby, watched them with affectionate amusement.
"Arthur," she said gently, "leave the dragon-slayer for tomorrow. Come here."
He settled beside her.
She handed him a violet-scented letter.
"A cry for help," she smiled. "From your admirer in Saint Petersburg."
Arthur opened it.
Princess Olga's handwriting spilled youthful desperation—complaints of suitors, archdukes, soldiers obsessed with war and land.
Victoria laughed softly.
"Poor girl," she said. "She wants poetry. Music. A soul."
Arthur folded the letter, thoughtful.
"Then," he said lightly, brushing Victoria's hand, "we shall give her advice worthy of an empire."
Victoria smiled.
And outside, beyond the palace walls, the Royal Navy quietly prepared to hunt pirates.