Chapter 621: The Palace Intrigue in St. Petersburg
The overseer with the pipe shook his head:
"The Dignity Movement may have undergone military training, but their focus is on ending the transatlantic slave trade. They would never collaborate with black rebels."
Major Aureol responded confidently:
"If they have a higher purpose, they will work with anyone who can help achieve it."
The overseers looked at him, puzzled.
"A higher purpose?"
"Yes," Aureol nodded, "like pushing for Jamaica's independence."
"Impossible!" one white overseer exclaimed. "The British could dispatch an expeditionary force at any moment. Even with the Dignity Movement, we wouldn't stand a chance!"
But Aureol exuded unwavering confidence.
"Jamaica alone wouldn't stand a chance, but with the support of Saint-Domingue and potentially all the islands in the Caribbean, we can defeat anyone."
A white overseer sighed.
"I still think this is too rushed. Those soldiers need at least three more months of training..."
"No, Mr. Bryan, trust me. We will succeed. The uprising must begin on the 15th."
Seeing his certainty, the others stopped objecting.
Currently, Saint-Domingue was the "beacon" of abolition in the Caribbean. As a representative from there, Aureol carried significant authority.
At worst, it would be just another failed black uprising—something the island experienced every few years.
Most present shared the same thought: for the slaves on the island, dying in battle might be better than enduring the daily torment of plantation life.
What only Aureol knew, however, was that on the 4th—just three days away—the French expeditionary force would land in Saint-Domingue and be "defeated" by Auger's army on the 9th.
This anticipated victory would ignite simultaneous black uprisings across Jamaica, the Bahamas, and the Lesser Antilles on the 15th. If needed, Saint-Domingue's black rebels would send reinforcements.
The entire Caribbean would be set ablaze!
St. Petersburg.
In an office at the British Embassy, Lord Whitworth, the British ambassador to Russia, frowned as he listened to a subordinate's report.
"We have to admit it—the Polish king is a huge problem.
"He's not only influencing the tsar but also interfering with Polish war factions."
"This is indeed tricky," his assistant, Jos, replied with a troubled expression. "But the tsar seems utterly infatuated with him. Even Poland's new constitution has been framed as 'streamlining governance for the tsar's benefit,' and the tsar has accepted it."
"Is there a way to send him back to Warsaw?"
"That… would be difficult."
Lord Whitworth reflected on what his assistant had just reported about Stanisław II Augustus—information gleaned from spies planted within the Winter Palace.
A sudden thought struck him, and he turned to Jos.
"What about that pretty boy, Zubov? Why hasn't he reacted to having another man around the tsar?"
"Ah, Your Excellency, he seems to think the Polish king is merely a 'musician' and doesn't perceive him as a threat."
"A musician?"
"Yes, the tsar usually listens to Stanisław sing and chats with him. They don't even share a bed."
Whitworth's eyes lit up.
"Then we must make his status more… formal."
"What do you mean?"
"Reach out to our contacts in the Winter Palace. Have them…" He leaned in and whispered.
Three Days Later.
Catherine the Great reclined on a chaise lounge, her eyes half-closed, savoring the performance of Amours Interdits by her dear Stash—King Stanisław II Augustus of Poland.
When the song concluded, she clapped softly in appreciation, then yawned deeply.
She glanced at the clock. It was already 9 p.m.
She signaled to a maid near the door.
"Bring me my coat."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The maid fetched a fur coat and helped the tsar slip it on.
Catherine then turned to her attendant.
"Zina, is Platon in my chambers?"
As was customary, she planned to spend the night with her youthful favorite, Platon Zubov.
The attendant hesitated briefly, then recalled the 5,000 rubles she'd been paid and bit her lip before lowering her head.
"Your Majesty, General Zubov mentioned he was tired earlier and seemed to have returned to his own quarters."
The attendant had been bribed by Whitworth to say this. She wasn't too worried about being caught; she could always claim Zubov had left the room temporarily. At most, she'd receive a scolding.
Catherine frowned slightly but reclined back onto the chaise lounge, motioning to Stanisław.
"Stash, let's chat a bit longer."
The attendant, Zina, quickly instructed the servants to stoke the fire and lit an aromatic diffuser that had been discreetly placed nearby.
Stanisław seized the opportunity to shower Catherine with sweet words, occasionally slipping in subtle political suggestions.
As the room grew warmer, Catherine began shedding layers of clothing. Her gaze toward Stanisław grew softer and more intrigued.
Sensing her mood, he leaned closer, emboldened by a hint from Zina that the tsar was in high spirits today.
Suddenly, Catherine pulled Stanisław into an embrace.
"Stash, hold me tightly," she murmured.
"Oh, oh… as you wish," Stanisław stammered.
Zina quickly signaled the other servants to leave the room. Once the doors were closed, the chamber filled with intimate sounds, the flickering candlelight casting rhythmic shadows on the walls.
11 p.m.
Platon Zubov paced anxiously in Catherine's chambers, repeatedly glancing at the clock. Finally, he waved impatiently at his servant.
"Go check again!"
"Yes, sir!"
Moments later, the servant returned, his head bowed low.
"Sir… the maids say Her Majesty is in the Polish king's quarters and… the lights are out."
"That damn old man!"
Zubov's face darkened with fury. He slammed his fist into the wall, muttering to himself,
"No… I have to do something. Do something…"
His status, wealth, and influence all stemmed from Catherine's favor. Even Prince Potemkin, her long-time confidant, couldn't challenge Zubov's place in her bed.
But now, this Polish monarch, who had previously been relegated to mere songs and conversation, dared to share the tsar's bed!
Zubov's eyes glinted with resolve. He stormed back to his quarters and began drafting a letter to Potemkin.
A Few Days Later.
In Iași, Prince Potemkin frowned as he read the letter from St. Petersburg.
It declared that the Polish king had, during an intimate moment, pledged 30,000 Polish troops to assist Potemkin in an assault on Silistra.
Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.
Read 40 Chapters In Advance: patreon.com/johanssen10