The Duchess froze, seemingly wanting to retort.

But Arthur already stepped forward quietly and said, "I understand there might be some rift between you and Her Highness... Yet you are her mother and she is your daughter; nothing in this world can make you regret for life like losing her."

The light of the candle flickered on the eagle head of his silver cane, casting a cold gleam, yet Arthur’s gaze was warm: "Your Highness, the crowd outside, reporters, rumors, these can be left for me to handle. But the one upstairs is the one you cannot leave to others to guard. Go and see her, she was just in a feverish delirium, I heard she seemed to say she missed her mother greatly."

The Duchess of Kent’s breath visibly halted, her eyelids trembled slightly, her lips moved, but she couldn’t make a sound.

"Did she... did she really say that?" The Duchess’s voice was very light, almost imperceptibly choked.

Arthur merely nodded, without saying another word.

The Duchess’s hand slowly reached towards the ivory fan on the tea table but stopped halfway, instead gripping the lace cuff on her wrist. The movement of her fingertips was subtle, as if she were suppressing some impulse with great effort.

Conroy furrowed his brow, about to speak to dissuade: "Your Highness, you don’t need to..."

"Enough, John." The Duchess suddenly raised her head, interrupting him: "Delina is my daughter. Though there is only a slight risk, we cannot afford even that slight risk. Call the doctor for her immediately, only the most respected Dr. Pulendris in all Ramsgate will do."

After saying this, as if afraid of hesitating any further, she supported herself by the chair back and stood up slowly, stepping towards the spiral staircase.

Arthur slightly turned his body, giving way to the path upstairs.

He watched as the Duchess’s skirt disappeared around the spiral staircase’s corner, then slowly turned around, the cane heavily touching the floor, emitting a low and crisp sound.

Tap!

The matter of Albion Villa was already settled.

"Sir John." Arthur’s voice was not loud but enough to send chills: "Tonight, whether it be the Duchess or Her Highness, they have made their decision. I think it’s best if we don’t attempt to change it."

Finishing, he raised his hand, fingertips pressing the edge of his hat, slightly bending forward toward Conroy.

This was an extremely restrained and formal farewell, neither more respectful nor less courteous.

Conroy merely kept his face calm, silent, but his Adam’s apple moved, as if forcibly swallowing something unpalatable.

The silver eagle-headed cane lightly tapped the ground, Arthur turned to the attendants: "Please open the door for me."

The attendants exchanged glances, then quickly walked toward the door, pulled out the latch, and opened the heavy oak door.

The night wind immediately rushed in, bringing the shadows of the gas lamps outside and the clamor of the crowd.

Arthur tightened the collar of his coat, his gaze crossed the threshold, looking at the swaying figures beyond the iron fence.

Under the gas lamps, the bystanders outside the iron fence saw the door open and immediately stirred like a startled school of fish.

The first to see him was Great Dumas, whose face normally carried a bold smile, but at this moment was first taken aback, then couldn’t suppress a grin.

"I told you so! You bunch of doom-mongers, how could anything happen to Arthur? His life is tough!"

He stepped forward boldly, but was separated by the crowd on the other side of the fence, and could only wave at Arthur through the iron bars.

Disraeli’s furrowed brow gradually relaxed, but his expression remained solemn as he muttered under his breath: "That gambler..."

Dickens took a deep breath, smiling as he spoke to Eld: "It’s great, he doesn’t look hurt."

However, as soon as he turned his head, he found Eld was gone.

Dickens hurriedly searched around, only to find Eld had somehow gotten caught among the flock of journalists, struggling to move in Arthur’s direction while loudly cursing: "Damn it! You lot of journalists, are you more familiar with him than I am? Just interview him?"

The journalists, like the tide, surged from all corners of the crowd.

Some held out sketchbooks, others raised quill pens high, their shouts rang out one after another.

"Sir Arthur, Sir Arthur, why did you appear at Albion Villa tonight? Your relationship with Her Highness has always been close, was it at her invitation this time?"

"Sir, visiting at midnight is not a good custom in London unless the matter is urgent or the tea is really good."

"There are rumors that Her Highness has been bedridden for three days, are you here to visit or to investigate?"

"We hear it’s a facade for a secret political meeting, have you come on behalf of the Conservative Party or the Whig Party?"

Arthur paused slightly on the steps, allowing the wave of questioning to crash over him.

"Gentlemen."

He raised a hand, his cane gently tapping the stone steps, the crisp sound was particularly abrupt in the cold night, momentarily causing the clamour to pause.

"I did indeed come by invitation tonight, but it was neither a secret political meeting nor a refined midnight tea experience. As for whether your publication will use ’Midnight Meeting’, ’Albion Fright’, or other more sensational headlines tomorrow... I have no authority to interfere."

Before the words left his mouth, the journalists erupted, someone shouted:

"Then what about Her Highness’s illness? Is it as serious as rumored?"

"At least confirm she’s alright?"

"Sir Arthur, whom did you see inside? Were the Duchess of Kent and Sir John Conroy also present?"

Arthur slowly withdrew his smile, solemnly said: "Her Highness’s health is a private matter of the Royal Family, not for me to announce to the public. But I can tell you, she needs peace, needs a doctor, needs her mother’s companionship, not rumors."

He paused slightly, his gaze sweeping over those holding sketchbooks and quills among the journalists: "As for whom I saw tonight, if you are interested, you can move over to the nearby Albion Hotel, I assure you, I will speak nothing but the truth there. It’s late now, and if we continue to linger here, disturbing a patient who needs quiet rest, a seventeen-year-old girl, then it’s truly unkind."