The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 127 Welcome to the Zoo, Lieutenant

A tacit understanding was achieved in that instant.

Jeanne understood everything from Arthur's eyes—he was giving himself a legitimate identity that would allow him to stay by his side and rightfully enter the inner circle of the banquet hall.

An identity that required no explanation of his French military rank and no exposure to MI5 political vetting—Arthur Sterling's personal possessions, his spoils of war, his lover.

In this hypocritical arena of fame and fortune, this is the best passport.

The resentment and murderous intent in her eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a superb acting skill.

She adopted a submissive expression, even one tinged with shyness and adoration.

"Yes, young master." She lowered her head obediently, her voice soft, completely unrecognizable as the Valkyrie who had just tried to kill.

She reached out and took Arthur's arm, leaning slightly towards him, perfectly playing the role of a docile, beautiful, and even somewhat afraid "maid".

"Oh—I see! I see!" Harold's arrogance vanished instantly, replaced by a knowing smile that every man understands.

He looked at Jeanne's beautiful face and the curves under her tight uniform, his eyes filled with a lewd understanding and a sense of "that's more like it."

In his view, this was how a young noble officer should be—returning with impressive spoils of war to show off.

"Of course, of course. A hero with a beauty, perfectly reasonable. Young people, under pressure on the battlefield, it's normal to have some unusual hobbies. Take her with you, Lord Halifax is very open-minded, he'll even toast to your taste."

Harold opened the car door enthusiastically, making an exaggerated "please" gesture, as if the arrogant jerk from just moments ago wasn't him at all.

Before being ushered into the Bentley by Harold, Arthur stopped.

He turned around, his gaze piercing through the thick fog, and glanced at another person standing in the shadow of steam.

Major Ryder.

The Norfolk Regiment commander wore his helmet pulled low, half his face hidden in shadow.

Arthur didn't speak. He simply gave an extremely subtle look, a micro-expression that only those who had shared life and death in the trenches could understand.

That was the signal they agreed upon during their breakout from Berg—"PIanB (Ready to fight/Ready to enter the fray)."

Major Ryder expressionlessly fastened the chin strap of his helmet, winked at the young master, and gently patted the Webley revolver at his waist.

He nodded slightly in the thick fog.

The Bentley's doors slammed shut, shutting out the damp, cold air and the deathly silence of London's streets.

Engines roared, and the convoy started moving.

They slid into the unseen darkness of the Mayfair district, heading towards the treacherous banquet called "Peace."

23:55, The Dorchester Hotel, Grand Ballroom.

If London outside is the edge of hell, then this place is an illusion of heaven.

Despite the strict blackout regulations outside, once the heavy velvet curtains were drawn, this place remained a brightly lit island. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, its thousands of crystal mirrors refracting dazzling light, bathing the entire hall in a golden glow. The air was filled with the scents of expensive perfumes, the rich aroma of cigars, and the sweetness of champagne.

The live band played upbeat and flamboyant jazz, the saxophone sounding languid and captivating.

The men wore crisply starched tailcoats, their chests adorned with various medals, most of which they had earned in the office.

The women wore the latest Parisian fashions, adorned with sparkling jewelry, their bare shoulders and arms gleaming like ivory under the lights.

They held their wine glasses, weaving through the crowd, discussing the results of horse races, stock market fluctuations, the upcoming summer social season, and which young master had gotten which actress pregnant.

If you didn't read the newspapers, no one would know that tens of thousands of people had just died on the other side of the strait, nor would anyone know that German tanks had already reached the coast and were eyeing the narrow strait menacingly.

This is a carnival of forgetting. A feast interwoven with ultimate luxury and nauseating hypocrisy.

In the heart of the banquet hall, near the champagne tower, stood several important figures who held the reins of the empire.

A woman dressed in a deep purple velvet evening gown and wearing a pearl necklace sat in the center of the sofa.

Anne Chamberlain, wife of former Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain.

Although her husband had moved out of 10 Downing Street, within the Conservative Party, in the eyes of the old-fashioned aristocracy who firmly believed in "peace above all else," she remained a kind of spiritual totem, a symbol of "decency and peace."

Beside her, Sir Reginald Parker, who had just returned from the station ahead of time, was beaming as he reported the "good news" to his wife.

As a banker who wields considerable influence in the financial district and a major investor in the appeasement faction, he appeared exceptionally excited at this moment.

He held a glass of brandy to ward off the cold, a Cuban cigar thicker than his finger dangling from his lips, and launched into a long, rambling speech as if the soot he'd picked up at the station was a badge of honor: "Believe me, ladies, and members of parliament. I saw everything clearly at the station." Sir Parker exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his tone confident and arrogant: "That young man may seem menacing, but he's essentially one of us. Give him enough honor and enough benefits, and he'll understand who the true leader of the empire is."

He waved his glass, as if surveying the world: "As for the one in Berlin—believe me, the mustache is a rational man. All he wants is the European continent, just like Napoleon back then. As long as we acknowledge his status, he will never touch the overseas interests of the British Empire. War? War will only benefit the Bolsheviks in the east and the Americans across the ocean."

The surrounding nobles nodded and murmured in agreement.

But standing next to Parker was a man who seemed completely out of place in this optimistic atmosphere.

Sir Horace Wilson.

This close aide to Prime Minister Chamberlain, the famous "mastermind," was also the most loyal executor of the appeasement policy.

He wasn't as blindly optimistic as Parker.

He held a glass of whiskey without ice, his eyes fixed on the tightly closed carved wooden door in the hall.

"The problem isn't Berlin, Reginald," Wilson's voice was shrill and sarcastic. "The problem is that madman Churchill."

He turned and gave a slight bow to Mrs. Chamberlain, his tone chilling: "He is dragging the Empire into an abyss. We need an opportunity, an opportunity to awaken the people, to prove that resistance is futile, to prove that the so-called victory is nothing but a lie built on corpses."

Wilson's gaze returned to the door: "And tonight, Arthur Sterling is that opportunity. If this hero himself acknowledges the dire situation in Calais, and admits our military incompetence—then Winston's war cabinet won't last until tomorrow morning."

Just as these conspirators reached a consensus.

boom-!

The previously closed banquet hall doors were suddenly pushed open, and a rush of cold and damp air instantly flooded into the warm hall.

Immediately afterwards, Harold Sterling's signature booming voice, brimming with feigned enthusiasm, rang out at the door: "Ladies and gentlemen!"

"Look who's here! The pride of the British Empire! Our hero—Arthur Sterling!"

The previously melodious and lively jazz music in the banquet hall suddenly stopped.

The nobles who were talking, the socialites who were flirting, the waiters who were carrying trays—everyone's movements froze in this moment.

Hundreds of gazes swept past Harold's obese body and landed on the shadow behind him.

Arthur Sterling walked in.

At this moment, he resembled a young war god stepping out of a classical oil painting. His impeccably tailored brigadier general's uniform, a top-tier design from Savile Row, accentuated his tall and upright figure. The lights cascading down from above reflected a cold and noble radiance onto the gold star symbolizing power on his shoulder; the intricate and exquisite gold woven patterns on his cuffs shimmered like liquid gold with the slight movement of his arms.

A handsome young man, returned from the ashes.

RTS's physical enhancements, coupled with the tempering of half a month of battle, completely washed away his former frivolousness and naivety.

His face became more angular, and his eyes were as deep as the sea.

Standing there, he was like a dark prince who had stepped out of mythology.

Noble, dangerous, and deadly alluring.

When Arthur appeared, the air in the banquet hall seemed to freeze for a second, followed by an uncontrollable commotion and whispers.

The ladies and young women who had long harbored feelings for the "handsome second son of the Sterling family" were now even more captivated.

In this age of war filled with uncertainty and the aura of death, a noble, wealthy, handsome "war hero" who has just saved the army is practically the perfect prince charming, the ultimate stimulant in their boring lives.

Countless fervent gazes were fixed on Arthur.

Sir Reginald Parker finally saw an opportunity.

He squeezed through the crowd with a broad smile, accompanied by his beloved daughter, Charlotte Parker, who was dressed like a peacock.

She was clearly dressed up carefully tonight.

She wore a low-cut, pure white silk evening gown designed by a renowned Parisian designer. The expensive fabric clung to her graceful curves like a second skin, shimmering like pearls under the crystal chandelier. A dazzling diamond necklace, enough to buy the gear of an entire infantry company, adorned her long, snow-white neck, reflecting a dazzling brilliance with each breath.

She didn't pounce on him like those third-rate socialites who lacked any sense of propriety.

She was a well-educated lady who knew how to present herself with proper etiquette.

When Arthur approached her, Charlotte gently lifted the hem of her silk skirt, gracefully curtsied, and bowed her head, performing a flawless courtly curtsy.

But when she looked up, her eyes, which should have been reserved, were overflowing with stars.

It was a look that mixed girlish infatuation with a certain hunting instinct as she looked at Arthur, as if she were looking at the most expensive and most alluring "collection" in all of London.

Lord Sterling —

She deliberately puffed out her proud breasts, letting the diamond necklace sway in front of Arthur. Her voice was sickeningly sweet, with a unique, almost meltingly coquettish quality: "Those newspaper photos really made you look ugly—you are a million times more handsome than I imagined."

She slowly straightened up, but did not back down, maintaining a highly aggressive social distance that allowed Arthur to almost smell her expensive fragrance: "I turned down all other invitations to reserve the first dance of the night just for you."

However, before she could finish flirting, her woman's intuition led her to notice the person linking arms with Arthur.

Jeanne.

She stood quietly beside Arthur, head bowed, playing the role of her "maid".

Although she wore a plain, even somewhat rough, British military uniform, without jewelry or makeup, the fierce, almost beast-like aura honed on the battlefield, along with her cold, enviable face, instilled in Charlotte a primal, immense sense of threat.

Charlotte glanced at Jeanne defiantly, her eyes filled with the arrogance of a noblewoman, the meaning clear: "Where did this country bumpkin come from, daring to stand beside him?"

As the first to be targeted, Jeanne naturally felt Charlotte's overwhelming hostility.

In this suffocatingly sweet atmosphere, Jeanne slightly raised her head.

Her grey-blue eyes looked past Charlotte's dizzying cleavage and landed on Arthur beside her.

A hint of mockery flickered in his eyes, as if he were sending a telegram through an encrypted channel only the two of them could understand: "This is your 'Battle of London'? Looks like you're more popular among these peacocks than in Calais, sir."

Arthur did not speak.

He merely raised an eyebrow slightly and made an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible shrug.

The meaning is simple: "Welcome to the zoo, Lieutenant."

However, this brief exchange of glances, lasting only a fraction of a second, was not missed by Miss Charlotte.

Her gaze unconsciously drifted to Arthur's left arm. There, the hand in the rough uniform sleeve belonged to that lowly "maid" and was tightly gripping Arthur's arm, her fingers even digging into the fabric of the officer's coat with force.

Provocation. This is absolutely provocation.

Charlotte's innate jealousy, typical of upper-class socialites, was ignited in an instant.

Why? Why does some wild girl picked up from who-knows-where, a servant who doesn't even have a proper evening dress, dare to monopolize the most dazzling man in all of London?

Since you dare to hold his arm, then I dare to too.

Moreover, I will hold on even tighter than you do.

And so, under the watchful eyes of everyone, this usually reserved banker's daughter lost her temper.

She was no longer content with maintaining that elegant social distance. She stepped forward and, with remarkable ease, extended her long-gloved silk hand, taking Arthur's right arm in hers.

It wasn't just about holding him. She even deliberately pressed her body against him, pressing against the stiff cuffs of Arthur's military uniform.

On the left is a lioness who wants to kill, and on the right is a peacock spreading its tail feathers.

This satisfied Charlotte.

Then, she turned her head slightly, looking over Arthur's chest, and stared directly at Jeanne with the look of a victor, condescending, provocative, and contemptuous gaze.

A sweet yet malicious smile curled at the corners of her lips.

At this moment, Arthur Sterling was caught between two millstones that were about to collide.

On one side was Jeanne's hand, tightening like an iron clamp in anger; on the other side was Charlotte's hand, clinging to her like an octopus in her possessiveness.

The atmosphere in the air instantly became strange.

Jeanne was currently wearing the ATS uniform she had changed into to avoid being recognized, playing the role of a humble "maid." But at this moment, her right hand instinctively tightened.

Through the expensive officer's wool fabric, her fingers gripped Arthur's forearm muscles tightly, with such force that her nails seemed to dig into them, while giving Arthur a warning look—a look that asserted dominance and warned the intruder.

Jeanne did not back down in the face of Miss Parker's aggressive offensive with diamonds and perfume.

She did not bow her head like a real maid.

Instead, she slightly raised her chin, revealing her long neck, and with an extremely cold and emotionless gaze, glanced at Charlotte over Arthur's shoulder.

That wasn't a woman's jealousy.

That was the look in the eyes of a German Panzer III tank attempting a flanking maneuver, seen through the observation slit of a B1 heavy tank. It was the look of calculating lead, loading armor-piercing rounds, and preparing to pull the trigger and blow it to scrap metal—calm, precise, and deadly.

The two women's gazes collided violently for the first time in an atmosphere filled with the scent of expensive perfume and jazz music.

At this moment, Arthur Sterling, caught between the two, is like a steel plate forcibly sandwiched between a rough whetstone and an expensive silk cushion.

The air was filled with the sound of flowing jazz music, and the sweet aroma of Chanel No. 5, Cuban cigars, and martinis filled the air.

Arthur, caught between the two, was in a dilemma.

There were no piercing air raid sirens here, nor the ear-ripping screams of Stuka dive bombers.

But the smell of gunpowder in the air was no less than that on the beach in Calais, which was littered with corpses.

Even more deadly.

After all, in Calais, you know the enemy is wearing gray uniforms and you know which direction the bullets will come from.

Damn it. Even facing Rommel's 7th Panzer Division would be much easier than facing these two crazy women.

>