The air in the private box seemed to retain the lingering echoes of the woman's aria.
Frost stood slightly behind and to the side of Felix, his head bowed slightly.
He heard his boss's extremely rare sigh of admiration.
Frost's pace of speech was steady, his tone entirely businesslike.
"That theater troupe is from Paris. They have no roots in America. No matter how much her contract penalty is, an Imperial Bank checkbook could have her in your carriage tonight. If you find it troublesome, you could simply buy the entire troupe."
Felix leaned back against the velvet backrest, his fingers lightly tapping the brass armrest.
He watched the red curtains that had completely closed; the brief appreciation in his eyes was rapidly fading, replaced by his habitual rationality.
"Frost. You've been with me for so long, yet you still have the mindset of Wall Street?"
Felix didn't turn around, his voice carrying a hint of a lecture.
Frost was momentarily stunned.
"Going backstage with a check to throw money around is the kind of stupid thing only mining parvenus and Texas ranchers do."
Felix stood up and adjusted the cuffs of his suit.
"Taking an artwork of unknown origin directly into my living room without even knowing her background... that's not being romantic; it's being foolish."
Felix turned around and walked toward the door of the box.
"Let's return to the manor."
Frost immediately followed, pulling open the door for Felix. Two security team members quickly flanked them as escorts.
When they reached the staircase, Felix stopped to watch the crowded masses dispersing below.
"By the way, notify Timmy first thing tomorrow morning."
"Have the Intelligence Department look into the background of this Parisian troupe and this woman's origins. I want to know where she boarded her ship, who she's been in contact with, and if she has any account records in European banks."
"Understood, boss." Frost noted down the instructions.
"Before all her secrets are uncovered, do not disturb her." Felix stepped down the stairs.
At the theater entrance.
A black four-wheeled carriage waited in the shadows.
Felix boarded the carriage, and under the escort of the security team, it rolled over the puddles and left Broadway.
Meanwhile, backstage at the Starlight Theater.
The dressing room was filled with the pungent scent of powder and rosin.
Isabella sat before the vanity in a private room.
She didn't laugh and talk loudly like the other actresses outside, nor was she in a hurry to remove the greasepaint from her face.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
On that face and figure that seemed kissed by God, there was now a depth and anxiety unbefitting her age.
The dressing room door was pushed open.
A man with graying hair and a straight back walked in. He wore a well-tailored black coat that, while somewhat old-fashioned, had buttons polished to a shine.
Moreover, his gait carried a sense of trained court etiquette.
Gaston.
Nominally the business manager of the troupe, he was in reality Isabella's most loyal servant and protector.
"Gaston."
Isabella looked at him through the mirror and lowered her voice.
"The man in the central box on the second floor—has he made a move?"
Gaston walked to the vanity and shook his head slightly, his expression somewhat grim.
"He has left, Your Highness."
The title Gaston used would have caused a massive uproar if overheard outside.
"Left?"
Isabella turned around, her brow furrowed tightly.
"He didn't send anyone backstage with a business card? He didn't ask for my name? He didn't even send a single bouquet of flowers?"
"Nothing at all." Gaston sighed.
"I've been watching the backstage exit; his secretary and bodyguards escorted him directly into his carriage. No one approached our troupe."
Isabella bit her lip; this was completely outside her expectations.
"That's impossible."
Isabella stood up and paced twice in the narrow dressing room.
"During the curtain call, I clearly felt his gaze. How could a man like that, if he took an interest in a woman at the theater, leave directly without any gesture? Could our intelligence be wrong? Is he not interested in women?"
"The intelligence cannot be wrong. Our informant in Washington confirmed that Anna of the Clark Family has an illegitimate child with him," Gaston analyzed.
"This indicates he is a normal man, but also a cold-blooded capitalist."
Gaston looked at Isabella's stunningly beautiful face.
"Your Highness, we are not dealing with those noble young masters in Paris whose heads are filled only with romance and duels. Felix Argyle is a man-eating monster in America. He may be interested in you, but it seems his wariness far outweighs his desire."
Isabella slumped back into her chair, covering her face with her hands.
"If he doesn't take the bait, our voyage across the Atlantic Ocean will have been meaningless, Gaston."
Isabella's voice was tinged with deep exhaustion.
She had come to America, to this New York filled with coal smoke and the stench of money, not at all to actually sing on a stage.
She was a descendant of the French House of Bourbon.
In her veins flowed the noble blood of the Orléans and Spanish Anjou branches.
If Napoleon III had not established the Second Empire, if France were still the domain of the royal family, she would now be living in the Louvre or the Palace of Versailles.
But now, everything was ruined.
The Franco-Prussian War had crushed Napoleon III.
The French Third Republic was established.
The Thiers government had implemented harsh suppression and surveillance of royal descendants.
The Bourbon restorationists were in exile across Europe.
"We need money, Gaston. Vast amounts of money."
Isabella lowered her hands, her gaze becoming resolute.
"The Count of Chambord is lobbying everywhere in Vienna, but those old-school European nobles have been scared witless by Bismarck. Most would rather hide their gold coins in wine cellars than fund our restoration cause. Without money, we can't buy weapons or bribe those generals in Paris. The throne of France will never be reclaimed."
"I understand, Your Highness." Gaston bowed his head.
"But the threshold of the Argyle Family is too high."
"Precisely because it is high, I must cross it." Isabella gritted her teeth.
"He holds tens of millions of dollars in cash, and I heard he's preparing to buy concessions for railways and power grids in southern France. He will certainly need a political agent in France. And we need his gold."
"My lineage is a burden in the eyes of the major European royal houses. They dare not marry me for fear of causing diplomatic disputes. But in America, these parvenus don't care about diplomatic disputes at all. They only care about profit."
Isabella looked at herself in the mirror.
This physical shell was the only chip she had left in her hand.
"Since he didn't come backstage today, I must take the initiative to create an opportunity." Isabella began to think of a strategy.
"Since he can come to see the opera, it means he still participates in New York's social activities."
"Go and investigate, Gaston." Isabella issued her order.
"Find out Felix Argyle's itinerary for the next half-month. As long as he appears at any cocktail party, auction, or charity gala, I must obtain an invitation."
"No matter how much it costs, go and bribe those socialites and City Hall clerks who issue the invitations."
Gaston straightened his back.
"As you command, Your Highness. We still have some jewelry brought from Paris. I believe it's enough to exchange for two tickets into New York's high society."
Isabella picked up the makeup remover on the table and began to wipe away the greasepaint on her face bit by bit.
"The crown of France now hangs upon this American businessman's checkbook. I must not let him escape my sight."
A few days later, in the early morning, Felix arrived at the top floor of the Empire State Building.
Sunlight streamed through the massive glass windows, making the bronze inkwell on the desk gleam.
Sitting in his leather chair, he began reviewing the land acquisition budget for the Argyle Building submitted by the Federal Real Estate Company.
A knock sounded at the office door.
Timmy, the head of the Intelligence Department, pushed open the door and walked in, holding a kraft paper folder. Frost followed behind him and closed the door.
"Boss. We have the results on the person you asked us to investigate."
Timmy walked to the desk and placed the folder by Felix's hand.
"Oh?"
Felix's tone was flat, making it impossible to read his thoughts.
"Sit down and tell me. Is she just an ordinary lead singer for a troupe, or someone planted by Old Morgan?"
Timmy obediently pulled out a chair and sat down.
His expression was grave, even tinged with disbelief.
"She isn't Old Morgan's spy, Boss." Timmy took a deep breath.
"And she's not a lead singer at all. If our intelligence network hadn't planted high-level informants in several major European ports, we might have actually been fooled this time."
Felix finally stopped his pen. He looked up at Timmy.
"Get straight to the point."
Timmy flipped to the first page of the folder.
"The name she uses publicly is Isabella Martin, from Lyon, France. But this identity is fake."
Timmy pointed to a copy of a manifest retrieved from the Metropolitan Trading Company's shipping clearing center.
"Our informant at the Port of Le Havre checked the passenger list when this troupe boarded. Although they used fake passports, when paying for their tickets, they used a bearer draft issued by the Rothschild Bank in Vienna."
"Our people followed the trail of that draft. The intelligence station in Europe activated peripheral personnel overnight to retrieve Vienna's fund transfer records. They eventually traced the money to a secret account called the 'French Legitimist Restoration Fund'."
Felix's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Legitimists?"
"Yes, Boss," Timmy continued his report.
"Then we cross-referenced the list of exiles from the new French government and confirmed her true identity."
Timmy swallowed hard.
"Her name is Isabella de Bourbon. Her father is a core member of the House of Orléans, and her mother has the bloodline of the Spanish House of Anjou. She is a pure direct descendant of the French Bourbon Dynasty. According to pre-war aristocratic rankings, the woman you saw in the theater last night is a true Princess."
Beside him, Frost sucked in a breath of cold air, making a distinguished contribution to global warming.
A distressed European royal actually coming to a Broadway stage in New York to sing? Can you believe it?
Even a third-rate street novelist wouldn't dare write a script like this.
Felix leaned back in his chair.
No surprise showed on his face; instead, a mocking smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
"The House of Bourbon, the Restorationists." Felix's fingers tapped lightly on the desk.
"Napoleon III has fallen, and the Republic established by Thiers is currently being suffocated by the Prussians. This bunch of old aristocrats hiding in Vienna and London think the chance for restoration has arrived. Is that it?"
"Most likely, Boss." Timmy nodded.
"According to the analysis from the European intelligence station, the Count of Chambord is the leader of the Restorationists. They are currently active everywhere, attempting to bribe military generals in mainland France to launch a coup and overthrow the Republic to restore the monarchy."
"But that requires an astronomical amount of funding."
Felix pointed out the core issue with piercing accuracy.
"War is about money, and buying generals requires even more. The old French aristocrats are penniless now. Any capitalist with even a bit of strength is watching Bismarck's expression; no one dares to use their money to support a French restoration at a time like this."
Felix looked at the land budget on the desk.
"So... they turned their gaze across the Atlantic. Toward those American oligarchs who have gold in their hands and don't care about European political rules."
"Her coming to New York and performing in a theater I occasionally visit doesn't seem like a coincidental performance. It's a carefully planned fishing game. I am the ATM they've chosen."
Frost broke into a cold sweat as he listened from the side.
"Boss, this is too dangerous. If she had approached you backstage last night... once we're associated with such European exiled political forces, the railway and power grid concessions we worked so hard to secure in southern France would face enormous political risk. If the Thiers government finds out we're funding the Restorationists, they'll tear up the contracts immediately!"
"Tear up the contracts?" Felix glanced at Frost.
"Thiers can't even hand out bread right now; how is he going to tear up my contracts? If he dares, the mercenaries from the Metropolitan Trading Company will dare to level his Palace of Versailles."
Felix stood up and walked to the window.
The stunning figure on the stage last night appeared in his mind once again.
That aggressively striking beauty, combined with the political filter of a royal in distress...
It was indeed an extremely sweet, yet lethal poison.
"Boss. Do you need me to send someone to take care of them?" Timmy's voice turned cold.
"We can stage a carriage accident or have the theater catch fire to wipe out this trouble cleanly. No traces left."
In the eyes of this intelligence chief...
Any hidden danger attempting to scheme against the boss must be physically eliminated in its bud.
"Take care of them?"
Felix turned around and looked at Timmy as if he were an idiot.
"Timmy, do you think I have too much money?"
Walking back to the desk, Felix leaned his hands on the surface.
"They want my money for their restoration; that is indeed a hassle. But it's also a lever."
Felix's mind had already begun rapidly calculating the commercial return on investment behind this.
"Although the Thiers government signed the contracts, domestic French capital will surely push back. If we have a royal agent with legitimate political appeal within mainland France, those local old aristocrats and the military won't dare touch our railways so easily."
Felix looked at the file. Although he wasn't sure if the Bourbon dynasty ever restored its rule, based on France's track record and the fact that it remained a republic through WWI and WWII without a monarch...
But...
That didn't stop Felix from meddling behind the scenes.
"Since she's come to my door voluntarily, wanting to use her beauty to cash out my dollars, I'll play this hand with her. I'd like to see if the Bourbon crown is worth the zeros on my checkbook."
"Spread the word," Felix issued the order.
"Withdraw all covert surveillance on that troupe. Don't let them notice. Let them believe their disguise is perfect."
"Since she wants to contact me, she will surely find a chance to appear on my path. I'll give her that chance."
Felix looked at Frost.
"Edward, what public social engagements do I have this week?"
Frost immediately opened the itinerary.
"Tomorrow night, on Fifth Avenue. Hamilton is hosting a charity gala in the name of the Federal Real Estate Company to celebrate the Argyle Building project. Ostensibly, it's to raise funds for Civil War widows. You previously agreed to make an appearance for fifteen minutes."
"Very well." Felix sat back in his leather chair.
"Inform Arthur to raise the standards of this gala. Open the doors and send out invitations. Let anyone qualified in."
A look of playful mischief and bad taste, like a hunter waiting for his prey to fall into a trap, flashed in Felix's eyes.
"I want to see at tomorrow night's gala how this so-called Princess intends to strike up a conversation with an American capitalist like me."