Oskar was not a happy man.
He never was when forced into confined spaces, and a battleship was little more than a maze of steel corridors and low ceilings designed to torment anyone above ordinary height. He ducked beneath bulkheads, turned his shoulders sideways through narrow passageways, and sent a dull vibration through the deck with every heavy step.
Nassau was a triumph of German engineering, certainly, but she had been built for sailors—not for a man standing well over two metres tall and carrying his mass like a fortress given flesh.
Worst of all, there were no proper hot showers.
Oskar did not truly relax until the door to his private quarters closed behind them.
Steel walls, heavy bolts and the constant mechanical hum of the engines replaced the curious eyes of sailors and guards. The tension that had remained knotted across his shoulders since London finally began to loosen.
"Finally," he muttered.
Then, without the slightest trace of modesty, he began stripping.
The greatcoat came first, followed by the absurd number of coats, shirts and trousers he had layered beneath it. Boots, stockings and undergarments joined the growing heap until half his wardrobe lay across the cabin floor like a defeated regiment.
Patricia blinked.
Elise froze.
Oskar paid neither reaction any attention. Both women had already seen him naked under considerably less dignified circumstances.
When the last garment came away, he stretched and rolled his shoulders, the heavy muscles of his abdomen and chest shifting beneath the cabin light. He adjusted himself with the unthinking confidence of a man who had long ago stopped treating his own body as something requiring apology.
Only afterward did he wrap a towel around his waist, as though that single concession restored civilization.
He dragged a stool into the middle of the cabin, sat with regal ease and turned his back toward the women.
"Well?" he asked. "You wished to become my maids. Do your work."
The authority in his voice was effortless—natural, practised and almost impossible to resist.
Elise swallowed.
Patricia smiled.
They collected a basin and several cloths, then moved behind him and attempted something resembling professionalism. Cool water passed over his shoulders and down the immense breadth of his back. Their hands were cautious at first, but gradually grew more confident as the tension drained from his body.
It felt good.
Far too good.
Unseen by Oskar, Patricia looked toward Elise and raised one eyebrow.
A silent understanding passed between them.
It was an exceptionally bad idea.
The basin was lowered quietly to the floor.
The cloth was forgotten.
Oskar leaned forward with his forearms braced upon his thighs, allowing the weight of the previous days to leave his spine. He failed to notice that the two women behind him had stopped working.
Then he sensed movement.
He looked up.
Patricia and Elise now stood before him wearing nothing but their matching white panties, each decorated with the same absurdly cheerful teddy bear.
Both women possessed the unmistakable health of bodies shaped through exercise, though they were built very differently. Elise was petite and narrow-waisted, her round breasts appearing almost defiantly generous upon so slight a frame. Patricia was fuller and more voluptuous, her heavier breasts and broad, trained hips giving her a presence that seemed excessive beside the smaller maid.
Both were flushed.
Both stood far too close.
Oskar stared longer than dignity allowed.
"What," Oskar asked carefully, "are the two of you doing?"
"Serving you," Patricia replied sweetly. "You looked tense."
Elise nodded with far too much enthusiasm.
"Extremely tense."
Oskar opened his mouth to object, but the protest died before it could escape.
Patricia's hand slipped beneath the weakened defence of his towel, bold and entirely unrepentant. Whatever remained of his discipline abandoned him in that instant.
"Ah—shit," he muttered, rocking backward upon the stool. "You cannot be serious."
The towel surrendered with the dignity of a fallen standard, sliding into his lap as his body responded with humiliating enthusiasm. His cock rose from beneath the fabric, hard, flushed and heavy, the heat of his skin still carrying the faint warmth of the water.
Patricia lost her balance and dropped to her knees with a startled squeak. Elise stumbled back beside her, eyes widening as both women froze.
The cabin suddenly felt much smaller.
"Oh," Elise whispered faintly.
Patricia recovered first. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face as she glanced toward the maid.
"See?" she murmured. "I told you. He is ours now."
Oskar dragged one hand down his face, caught somewhere between resignation and complete disbelief.
"You are both insane."
Patricia looked up at him, openly delighted.
"Oh, I know."
She settled more comfortably upon her knees and reached for him before caution could intervene. Her small, soft hand closed around his cock, though her fingers could not fully encompass its thickness.
A rough groan tore from Oskar's chest. His body shifted forward instinctively, and his eyes widened despite himself.
"Ah—shit."
Patricia's smile sharpened with hunger.
"Do you like that?"
Oskar answered with a deep grunt.
One enormous hand settled upon the back of her head, his fingers spreading through her hair as he guided her closer. His cock twitched against her cheek, striking her lightly and drawing another surprised squeak from her.
Patricia stared at it from only inches away, breathing hard, her lips parted in open astonishment.
Elise gasped beside her.
Oskar's manhood rose between them upon the same excessive scale as the rest of his body—immensely thick, heavily veined and darkened with heat. Each pulse of his heartbeat moved visibly beneath the taut skin, while the broad head seemed almost too large for Patricia's hands, let alone her mouth.
It looked impossible.
Unreal.
Less like part of an ordinary man than a weapon fashioned from living flesh.
"Oh my God," Elise whispered.
Patricia gave a breathless, almost dazed laugh. Holding him possessively between both hands, she drew her tongue slowly along the heated length of him before glancing toward Elise.
"I told you," she murmured. "There could be no better man to give our first time to—or to have put his children inside us."
Her fingers slipped lower, carefully cupping the heavy weight beneath him. Then she looked up at Oskar, her expression stripped of mischief and filled with naked longing.
"You are so powerful," she whispered. "Will you give me your seed, Oskar? Will you give me one of your perfect children?"
A deep groan rolled from his chest.
"You have already dragged me beyond every boundary of reason," he said roughly. "So take what you came for, you shameless little whores."
The words sent a visible shudder through both women. Patricia's cheeks burned, while Elise lowered her eyes, caught between embarrassment and unmistakable excitement.
Oskar noticed their reaction and tightened his fingers within Patricia's hair.
"Do not misunderstand me," he growled. "You are my whores. My troublesome little bitches. If you give yourselves to me, then you belong to me and no one else."
His gaze moved between them, hard and possessive.
"And you will learn that belonging to me is not a punishment."
Both women flushed even more deeply.
Elise slowly lowered herself beside Patricia. Together they leaned toward him, their tentative fingers joining around his cock. Their small hands moved uncertainly at first, stroking and tending to him like delicate porcelain laid against something forged from heat, flesh and iron.
Patricia quickly lost herself in the task, following the thick veins with her tongue while Oskar's hands settled upon both their heads, his fingers winding firmly into their hair.
Elise looked up at him, her breath trembling.
"This is our first time doing anything like this," she whispered. "So… please be gentle with us."
Oskar let his head fall back as a low growl escaped him.
He knew this was wrong.
Dangerous.
Reckless beyond reason.
But whatever resistance he had possessed had abandoned him the moment they knelt before him.
Patricia rose along the length of him, pressing a tender kiss to the swollen tip before slowly licking away the gathering precum. One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, though her fingers could scarcely meet around its thickness, and she began stroking him in an awkward attempt to coax out more.
Her full breasts brushed warmly against him with every movement. Lowering her head, she dragged her tongue across the sensitive flesh above the base and gave a soft, pleased hum when his body reacted beneath her touch.
Elise remained more hesitant.
Nestled between Oskar's thighs, she bent to kiss the heavy weight of his balls with something approaching reverence. Her lips trembled as she suckled one gently, while her fingers stroked the hard muscle of his thighs as though touching him there might steady her nerves.
Together, they explored him with small kisses and tentative movements, gradually learning what drew the deepest reactions from him. Their differences only sharpened the sensation: Patricia bold and hungry, breathing in soft moans against his skin, while Elise worked with delicate care, glancing upward with wide, worshipful eyes.
Patricia finally gathered enough courage to take the head of his cock into her mouth.
Even that stretched her lips with visible effort.
She tried to descend farther, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked, only to gag and pull away again. Patricia surfaced coughing and breathless, tears gathering in her eyes—yet she was smiling, stubbornly undeterred.
Oskar exhaled through clenched teeth and threaded one hand through her hair.
"You truly have no idea what you are doing, do you?"
Patricia glared up at him without releasing her grip.
Beside her, Elise kissed along the base before drawing one of his balls into her mouth again, tending to him with the solemn concentration of someone performing a sacred duty.
Oskar's head fell back.
A deep groan rolled from his chest.
His grip tightened in Patricia's hair, and with her still looking up at him in open challenge, he guided her down again. This time he pushed farther, slowly but relentlessly, forcing her mouth to stretch around him.
Patricia gagged. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as her throat worked around his thickness, yet she did not pull away. Her hands gripped his thighs, and her tongue continued moving beneath him even as the strain made her body tremble.
The sight shattered what remained of Oskar's restraint.
His balls tightened.
With a rough growl, he released into her mouth.
Patricia's eyes widened as the first heavy pulse struck her tongue. She swallowed desperately, but more followed than she could contain. Warm seed filled her mouth and spilled from the corners of her lips as Oskar continued holding her in place.
When at last he released her, she pulled away with a wet pop and collapsed against his leg, coughing and dragging air into her lungs.
Elise immediately took her place.
She leaned forward and caught what remained, licking him clean with surprising eagerness while Patricia recovered beside her. Soon both women were tending to him again, sharing the taste and cleaning the evidence from his cock with their tongues.
The heat of the cabin, their scent and the sight of them kneeling together overwhelmed him.
Oskar justified what followed in broken fragments.
Patricia would be exiled if she returned.
Both women were adults.
They had chosen to leave.
No law had been broken—not yet.
And perhaps, in some twisted way, he truly was rescuing them from the lives waiting behind them.
It was a weak excuse.
It was also enough.
Oskar reached down and seized Elise around the waist.
She gave a startled yelp as he lifted her effortlessly from the floor and settled her against him. One enormous hand travelled over her flat stomach, feeling the smooth warmth of her skin while she arched into his touch with a breathless moan.
He lowered his mouth to one of her breasts.
Elise gasped when his lips closed around the nipple, her fingers tangling in his pale hair.
"Master…"
The word escaped her before she could restrain it.
Oskar kissed upward along her chest and throat before claiming her mouth. The sudden kiss stunned her into stillness, but only for a moment. Then she softened against him, answering with clumsy, desperate enthusiasm.
He lifted her higher and positioned her above his cock.
Elise felt what waited beneath her and stiffened.
Oskar looked toward Patricia.
"Watch carefully, Princess," he said, his voice low and rough. "You wished to learn."
His hands tightened around Elise's waist.
"Now watch me make your little friend a woman."
He lowered Elise slowly.
Her wet folds parted around the head of his cock with startling eagerness, gripping him as though her body had been waiting for precisely this. Elise's breath caught, her eyes widening as more of him entered.
Then the pain reached her.
She cried out and wrapped both arms around his shoulders, clinging desperately while Oskar held her steady and allowed her body time to yield.
Patricia watched in stunned silence.
Far away, beyond the steel hull and darkening sea, King George V was likely still congratulating himself upon a flawless naval display.
Meanwhile, aboard a German dreadnought, Oskar von Hohenzollern watched history derail itself over two reckless women and a pair of ridiculous teddy-bear panties that had long since vanished into some forgotten corner of the cabin.
"Unbelievable," he muttered as Elise began moving uncertainly upon him. "Now I understand why sailors consider women aboard battleships bad luck."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"How is a man expected to maintain discipline with such distractions in such confined quarters?"
The answer was becoming increasingly obvious.
He was not.
Above them, Nassau cut steadily through the darkening water beneath German colours.
Below deck, the cabin door remained locked.
The lamp flickered against the steel walls.
History politely turned its face away.
And somewhere between roaring engines and catastrophic decisions, Oskar smiled crookedly and whispered:
"Suck it, George the Fifth. You have been outplayed."
Elise cried out and clung more tightly to him as his body tensed beneath her. Oskar drove himself deep and released inside her, filling her with the seed she had so recklessly asked to receive.
For several moments, she remained pressed against him, trembling and breathless.
Then Oskar lifted his eyes toward Patricia.
The princess sat watching with flushed cheeks, parted lips and unmistakable anticipation.
Oskar's smile deepened.
"Your turn."
But while Oskar, aboard German steel, was busily proving every scandalous rumour about him true by filling two eager British women with German seed, London was trying very hard to pretend it could breathe again.
Prince Oskar and the last of the foreign envoys had departed. Buckingham Palace's corridors were emptying, the immense crowds had dispersed, and the bunting still clung to lampposts along the Mall like the lingering remains of a glorious hangover. Beneath it all, the city returned to what it had always been: smoke, schedules, gossip and money.
Edward VII now lay in his grave, his death wrapped in black cloth, formal condolences and carefully measured grief. The funeral had been magnificent, because Britain understood magnificence better than almost any nation alive.
Then it had been followed by something even greater.
The naval review had been so immense that it felt less like ceremony than a warning fired across the world. Even in this altered age—an age in which Germany's new dreadnoughts had appeared earlier and more advanced than anyone expected—the Royal Navy still knew how to transform ships, smoke and thunder into an overwhelming display of dominance.
And the world had watched.
France observed with wary admiration. Russia watched with uneasy gratitude, relieved that Britain now stood beside it rather than against it. Across the Atlantic, the Americans regarded the spectacle with the quiet, irritating interest of a nation possessing enough money, factories and time to build almost anything once it decided the matter was important.
In cafés from Paris to New York, men argued over tonnage, armour and gun calibre with the enthusiasm of sports spectators, as though the fate of empires could be settled by comparing columns of figures. Newspapers filled page after page with speculation, technical comparisons and the usual patriotic assurances that their own nation remained entirely safe.
London, meanwhile, exhaled—but not with relief.
Throughout Britain, people spoke of a new beginning. A new king. A new reign. A fresh page opening upon the century.
Yet Britain no longer truly changed merely because the man wearing the Crown had changed.
The age of kings personally directing armies and governments had passed. Under Britain's constitutional order, the Crown remained the symbol and living face of the nation, but practical power now rested in Parliament, the Cabinet and the vast machinery of ministries, budgets and law.
George V wore the Crown.
The men gathered behind closed doors decided what Britain would do with it.
Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith sat at the head of the Cabinet table beneath a haze of tobacco smoke. Fifty-seven, broad-faced and composed, he possessed the patient manner of a barrister accustomed to letting other men argue until only the useful facts remained.
The previous day's naval display had succeeded precisely as intended. Britain had honoured Edward VII, reassured its people and warned every foreign delegation that the Royal Navy still commanded the sea.
Yet Asquith understood that spectacle could not alter arithmetic.
Germany's factories were expanding, its people were growing healthier and more productive, and its shipyards were launching vessels whose true capabilities remained hidden behind secrecy and the impenetrable structure surrounding Crown Prince Oskar. Across the Atlantic, the United States continued its patient industrial rise.
If war came, Britain would not win merely because it had grown accustomed to victory.
Asquith interlaced his fingers upon the table.
"Gentlemen, how effective was yesterday's display?"
Reginald McKenna, the forty-six-year-old First Lord of the Admiralty, allowed himself a narrow smile. Immaculately dressed and precise in every movement, he trusted tonnage tables, construction schedules and dockyard capacity more readily than speeches.
"Extremely effective," he answered. "The foreign delegations were impressed. Some were visibly shaken. The Royal Navy reminded the world what it is—and reminded our own people as well."
Approving murmurs moved around the table.
Then Winston Churchill spoke.
At thirty-five, the Home Secretary was the youngest of the principal men present, though nothing in his manner suggested deference. Stocky, round-faced and already thinning through the reddish hair above his forehead, he possessed restless blue eyes that seemed personally offended by complacency.
"The Royal Navy remains the greatest fleet on Earth," he said. "The question is how long that will remain true."
The room quieted.
Churchill pushed a folder toward the centre of the table.
"Germany is building faster than our estimates predicted. Our information is incomplete, but every report points in the same direction. The gap is narrowing now—not in ten years."
Sir Edward Grey, the Foreign Secretary, opened one of the papers. Tall, reserved and severe, Grey looked more like a country gentleman than an imperial strategist, but his subdued manner concealed one of Britain's sharpest diplomatic minds.
"Our information is incomplete because Germany has made conventional espionage exceptionally difficult," he said. "There are German citizens, and there are temporary guests. Very little exists between them."
Foreign labour was not freely admitted into German industry. British workers could not enter a shipyard, establish themselves quietly and report what they saw. Tourists were registered, directed toward approved cities and watched from arrival until departure. Military districts, naval facilities and the industrial interior remained closed.
"A foreigner remains visible simply by being foreign," Grey concluded. "Inside Germany, our people see only what the Germans permit them to see."
"Which makes the little we have learned more troubling," Churchill replied.
He opened the folder.
"Four ships of the first Nassau class are complete. Their armament was concealed during the visit, but several experienced observers believe the turrets may hold three guns rather than two."
McKenna's smile disappeared.
"Triple mountings on their first dreadnought?"
"We cannot confirm it."
"What can you confirm?"
"That Nassau moved too cleanly and accelerated too quickly for a coal-fired ship of her displacement. Her exhaust was narrow and controlled."
"Improved boilers," McKenna said. "Better draught. Filtration."
"Possibly."
Churchill paused.
"Or she burns oil."
The room became still.
"If these reports are even partly correct," Churchill continued, "Germany's first dreadnought class may already possess oil-fired machinery, unusually heavy protection and triple-mounted guns. Their first step may stand level with our newest ships."
McKenna leaned forward.
"You are treating rumour as engineering fact."
"I am treating repeated indications as a strategic danger."
"Britain does not depend upon one miraculous vessel," McKenna replied. "We build fleets. Germany has fewer shipyards, fewer bases and nothing comparable to the system supporting the Royal Navy."
That was the foundation of British naval strategy.
Britain intended to maintain a decisive superiority in hulls, guns and trained crews. Its battle line would find the range quickly, fire faster and place more heavy shells upon the enemy than any armour could survive. The battlecruisers carried that principle to its most extreme form, sacrificing protection for speed and firepower.
See the enemy first.
Fire first.
Fire faster.
Bring more guns than he could answer.
"Our response is not to imitate every rumoured German invention," McKenna said. "It is to overwhelm them with numbers and firepower. A German ship may carry thicker armour, but it cannot ignore ten British shells for every one it returns."
"Provided our shells penetrate," Churchill said.
"They will."
"And provided their guns are not already larger than ours."
McKenna turned toward Asquith.
"The Orion class will carry ten 343-millimetre guns. Once those ships enter service, the margin will be restored."
"The Orions will be formidable," Churchill agreed.
Then he added calmly:
"They will not enter service until the year after next."
McKenna's eyes hardened.
"Our strongest reports indicate that Germany's second class—the Heligolands—may already be entering service with guns of approximately 343 millimetres."
Churchill glanced down at the report.
"Possibly larger."
McKenna's chair scraped sharply across the floor.
"Impossible. Krupp could not have placed such weapons into service before us."
"Then the reports are wrong," Churchill said. "But if they are not, Germany is already deploying the advantage we expect to recover two years from now."
Asquith's earlier satisfaction had vanished.
"Can any of this be confirmed?"
"Not from inside Germany," Churchill answered. "Their Guest Laws prevent us from placing men inside the yards. Even our attachés receive carefully prepared tours of approved facilities and machinery selected for display."
Asquith turned to McKenna.
"What is the Admiralty's answer?"
"We accelerate."
McKenna spoke without hesitation.
"We press the yards, shorten every timetable that can be shortened and complete Orion as quickly as possible. The King George V and Iron Duke classes follow without delay. Heavier broadsides, improved ranging and a greater sustained rate of fire."
He placed one hand flat upon the table.
"Germany may build exceptional individual ships. It cannot yet reproduce the Royal Navy's network of trained sailors, dockyards, overseas stations and merchant support. We will retain the advantage in numbers and bury their armour beneath shellfire."
That answer satisfied the naval men.
It did not satisfy David Lloyd George.
The forty-seven-year-old Chancellor of the Exchequer leaned back with a humourless expression. Slight, restless and sharp-eyed beneath thick dark hair and a sweeping moustache, he measured every battleship against pensions, housing, roads and social reform.
"And how," he asked, "does the Admiralty propose to pay for this acceleration?"
"The same way Britain pays for survival," McKenna replied.
"That is not an accounting method."
"It is a priority."
"Priorities require pounds."
More ships meant more steel, wages, yards, crews, fuel and ammunition. It meant taxes, debt and another parliamentary battle while the government was already straining beneath reform and the lingering conflict over its budget.
Lloyd George opened a Treasury memorandum.
"There is also the opposite question. How is Germany paying for its own programme?"
The room quieted.
"Germany should not be capable of expanding its navy at this pace while maintaining the largest army on the Continent, modernising its railways and developing its colonies. The Oskar Industrial Group clearly produces enormous profits, but we do not know its true size, how its companies are connected or what remains after wages and reinvestment."
He tapped the paper.
"We see the products. We do not see the machine behind them."
Richard Haldane nodded.
The fifty-three-year-old War Secretary was heavy-set and thoughtful, with the careful speech of a lawyer and the distant expression of a philosopher forced to concern himself with mobilisation tables. He admired German education and military organisation enough to understand how dangerous its transformation might become.
"Britain possesses colonial trade, international finance, overseas investment and the credit of London," Haldane said. "Germany does not possess those advantages on our scale. Yet its army, navy, railways and industries expand together while its reported debt declines."
He steepled his fingers.
"Where does the money originate?"
Churchill leaned forward.
"I believe there are two principal sources. The first is old power—the Imperial family, the German Crown, allied aristocratic houses and private industrial lenders financing construction through arrangements that never appear in an ordinary naval budget."
No one found that surprising.
"The second source is newer," Churchill continued. "And considerably more dangerous."
He tapped the folder.
"Crown Prince Oskar."
The name tightened the room.
Oskar was not merely a royal heir. He was an industrialist, financier, military reformer and religious founder compressed into one enormous and increasingly secretive young man.
"We do not know his true wealth," Lloyd George said.
"That is the problem," Churchill replied. "The public sees AngelWorks, Muscle Motors, Pump World, German Energy, the Welfare Lottery and dozens of visible products. We cannot determine how many laboratories, workshops, mines, farms, banks and concealed companies exist beneath those names."
British officials could count German motorcars, medicines and tools entering their ports.
They could not see the roots beneath the visible branches.
"We do not know his production costs, margins or internal transfers," Churchill continued. "We cannot tell whether ten companies we regard as separate are actually parts of one organisation, or whether profitable consumer businesses are quietly financing weapons laboratories and naval construction."
"And Germany ensures that no foreign worker or auditor reaches deeply enough to discover it," Haldane observed.
"Exactly."
McKenna shifted impatiently.
"So we guess. We estimate. We infer. But nothing is certain, and nothing is within our reach."
Churchill looked toward him.
"One stream is."
His voice became quieter.
"The People's Welfare Lottery."
The atmosphere changed immediately.
Even committed free traders had little affection for lotteries. Whatever charitable language surrounded the company, it still appeared to many respectable men as moral decay with a cash register.
"That enterprise earns a fortune in Britain," Churchill said. "Not by producing medicine or machinery, but by selling hope to the poor and keeping the difference."
His eyes hardened.
"The money then crosses the Channel. We cannot prove where every pound goes once it enters Oskar's organisation, but if even part of it finances German warships, British workers may be purchasing the guns that will one day blockade British ports."
Satisfaction entered McKenna's eyes.
"Then we close it."
Asquith raised a hand.
"Not without cause. It operates legally. We cannot confiscate a foreign enterprise simply because the Admiralty dislikes its destination."
"Which is why suspicion is not enough," Churchill said. "We require a justification strong enough to harm German interests without appearing to be common thieves."
He glanced toward a smaller note beside the naval folder.
"There is another matter."
No one believed the change of subject was accidental.
"This arrived less than an hour ago."
Churchill unfolded the paper.
"Princess Patricia has disappeared."
The room became still.
"The initial account claims she fled with a palace maid named Elise. Patricia left a hurried note, though it is unclear whether it reflects genuine panic or deliberate performance."
Churchill looked around the table.
"Her last confirmed sighting placed her approaching Crown Prince Oskar's rooms. Elise was later seen carrying an enormous potato sack through the palace. That sack was subsequently found abandoned inside Oskar's suite."
The ministers stared at him.
They appeared uncertain whether they were receiving intelligence or listening to a farce.
Churchill continued.
"Patricia has been infatuated with Oskar since their first meeting. Her family has discovered sketches, letters, romantic fantasies and several extraordinarily ridiculous paintings proving the depth of that attachment."
Someone coughed into his hand.
"I knew of it before Oskar arrived," Churchill admitted. "I believed she might embarrass him. A compromising conversation, an embrace, perhaps a lapse demonstrating that the Iron Prince's discipline was not absolute."
Asquith's gaze sharpened.
"I saw no reason to prevent circumstances from testing that possibility," Churchill said.
The moral implications settled uncomfortably across the table.
"I anticipated scandal," he continued. "I did not anticipate disappearance."
McKenna laughed.
"You cannot seriously believe Oskar abducted her. How would he accomplish it? Smuggle her from Buckingham Palace inside his travelling chest?"
Several ministers joined the laughter.
The image of the gigantic German prince carrying a British princess among his shirts was too absurd to resist.
McKenna shook his head.
"Patricia is an adult. If she left, the melodrama was probably her idea. I can easily imagine her casting herself as a captive princess carried away by a foreign giant."
The laughter faded.
Every man present could imagine Patricia doing precisely that.
Churchill did not smile.
"Yes. It is absurd."
He placed the note beside the naval reports.
"That is what makes it useful."
The room quieted.
"I am not claiming Oskar abducted her. I am saying the circumstances are strange enough to sustain suspicion. The accusation may not survive a court of law."
His gaze passed around the table.
"It need only survive in Parliament, in the newspapers and in the public imagination."
Asquith tapped one finger against the table.
"You intend to use it."
"I intend to use whatever Germany has given us," Churchill replied. "If Oskar interfered with a British princess—or if the appearance of interference can be made credible—we possess a pretext for restrictions and financial action presented as defence of British honour rather than economic warfare."
Grey remained cautious.
"We cannot impose tariffs upon useful German goods because Patricia has disappeared."
"Then we do not target useful goods," Churchill answered. "German medicines, safety equipment, automobiles and machinery are popular and often superior to their British alternatives. Striking them would harm our own consumers."
McKenna leaned forward.
"The lottery."
"Precisely."
Churchill rested both hands upon the table.
"It is the one major German enterprise we can destroy while expecting the public to applaud. Clergymen will call it immoral. Reformers will call it predatory. Newspapers will publish stories of poor families losing money they could not afford to spend."
His expression hardened.
"The lottery extracts British money. Its profits leave Britain. Some of that money may support German naval construction. And now the man controlling it may be connected to the disappearance of a British princess."
Grey frowned.
"None of those claims proves the others."
"They do not need to," Churchill replied. "Together they form a narrative."
McKenna's eyes gleamed.
"Then we take the British operation."
"We close it legally," Churchill corrected. "With enough moral outrage that confiscation appears to be protection."
Lloyd George's attention sharpened.
"If the operation passed into British hands, its income need not disappear."
"The Admiralty would have an obvious use for it," McKenna said.
"The Treasury will decide where British revenue goes."
"The Navy intends to keep Britain alive long enough to collect it."
Asquith studied the men around the table.
None of them knew whether Oskar had taken Patricia.
Most probably doubted it.
That was rapidly becoming irrelevant.
"If we proceed," Asquith warned, "Berlin will be furious."
"Germany is already challenging us at sea, in industry and in influence," Haldane said. "The confrontation has begun. We have merely avoided naming it."
Smoke drifted beneath the ceiling while Asquith considered legal reviews, moral campaigns, newspaper allies and coordinated action abroad.
At last, he nodded.
"Very well. Mr Churchill, prepare the legal and administrative case against the People's Welfare Lottery. Quietly. I want every statute and every public justification ready before any visible action is taken."
Churchill inclined his head.
"Yes, Prime Minister."
Asquith turned toward Grey.
"Approach Paris and St Petersburg discreetly. Determine whether they will act against the lottery in their own territories. Sound out Washington as well—but carefully."
Grey nodded.
"No public accusation concerning Patricia," Asquith added. "Not until we have evidence. Preserve every report, every witness and every irregularity."
"Of course."
The ministers agreed—not because they truly believed Oskar had carried a British princess out of Buckingham Palace inside a travel chest.
The story did not need to be entirely true.
It merely needed to be useful.
And politics rarely discarded an opportunity simply because it had arrived dressed as absurdity.