"Someone asked to see me?"
"My father did," Lord Charles replied. "So we should probably go together now."
"You told the Duke of Wellington about me?"
"Well, I did promise to get you a letter of recommendation," he said with a shrug. "Naturally I had to explain who you were."
Now that he mentioned it, he had said he would take responsibility for securing that letter.
Truthfully, I was confident I could enter Eton College even without the Duke of Wellington's recommendation.
But I was an Irish noble—and an illegitimate one at that. Even if I were technically a nobleman, there was no guarantee that I wouldn't face subtle discrimination at such a prestigious school.
I didn't yet fully understand the social atmosphere of this era, so I couldn't be certain.
In that sense, the Duke's letter was a form of insurance.
No one in their right mind would dare harass a noble student who carried a recommendation signed by the Duke of Wellington.
"So His Grace intends to meet me first and decide whether to write the letter afterward?"
"That seems to be the case," Lord Charles said lightly. "But once he speaks with you, he'll certainly agree. I consider that promise already fulfilled."
"Just to be sure—you didn't exaggerate anything about me, did you?"
"Of course not," he replied indignantly. "I merely said you might not be a once-in-a-century genius… but you're definitely a genius."
What kind of vague compliment was that?
Still, setting aside Lord Wellesley's peculiar description, the opportunity to meet the Duke of Wellington in person was undeniably extraordinary.
My father, upon hearing the news, welcomed it with enthusiasm and practically pushed me out the door.
"If the Duke of Wellington wishes to see you, you must go immediately!" he exclaimed. "He's not a man who meets people casually. If he has asked for you personally, don't question it—just go."
"Yes, Father. I'll return soon."
"If things go well today," he added thoughtfully, "I may pay His Grace a visit myself with a suitable gift. It would make transferring the title to you much easier."
After several repeated warnings about maintaining proper conduct before the Duke, I left the house with Lord Charles.
The carriage carried us into Mayfair, the district where London's wealthiest aristocrats lived.
True to his reputation as the nation's greatest hero, the Duke of Wellington resided in a magnificent mansion known as Apsley House.
After his victory at Waterloo, the nation had presented the house to him as a gift.
The Duke cherished the residence deeply and had filled it with priceless works of art.
Even in my previous life I had visited the place—though by then it had become a museum dedicated to Wellington's legacy.
Of course, the living residence of its original owner possessed a grandeur that no museum could match.
According to Lord Charles, only yesterday the house had been crowded with prominent guests attending a grand event.
Such gatherings were held regularly.
At this point, one could hardly deny that Apsley House stood at the very center of British high society.
I did find one detail slightly amusing.
The famous Waterloo Gallery had been arranged so visitors could admire it.
Between that, Trafalgar Square, and Waterloo Station, it sometimes seemed that no one loved Napoleon more than the British themselves.
Of course, that affection came from the pride of having defeated him.
Thanks to that pride, however, I was able to admire Wellington's art collection as we entered the Duke's study.
"Father," Lord Charles said. "I've brought him. This is Killian."
"Is that so?"
The middle-aged man seated in a chair looked up from the book he had been reading.
He was already entering his sixties, yet his posture remained upright and disciplined. There was still something unmistakably formidable about him.
"Killian," Lord Charles said, "greet him. This is my father, the Duke of Wellington."
"It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace," I said with a respectful bow. "My name is Killian Gore, son of Arthur Gore, the Earl of Arran. It is a privilege to stand before the hero of Waterloo."
"Indeed," the Duke said with a faint smile. "A pleasure to meet you as well. I see Charles wasn't exaggerating—you have striking features. You'll grow into a handsome man. And I hear you're quite intelligent too. The Earl must be very proud."
"Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace."
Perhaps because I had read so much about him in history books, I felt an odd sense of familiarity despite meeting him for the first time.
After studying me quietly, the Duke closed his book and gestured to his son.
"Charles, step outside for a moment. I'd like to speak with the boy alone."
"Father? If it's just a conversation, I could—"
"You praised him so enthusiastically that I wish to judge for myself. Your presence may influence my judgment."
"…Very well. I'll wait outside."
Once Lord Charles left, the Duke's expression softened.
"Don't worry about what I said earlier," he said calmly. "That was merely an excuse to send Charles out of the room."
"I see," I replied. "Then perhaps I should refer to him as Major Wellesley here. That would avoid confusion."
The Duke's surname was Wellesley as well, after all.
Amused by my careful choice of words, he pointed to a document on the desk.
"This is the letter of recommendation. Once I sign it, you will enter Eton College as a boy whose qualifications are personally guaranteed by the Duke of Wellington. Charles insists that denying you such an opportunity would be a failure of our duty as nobles."
"That praise is far too generous."
"Still," the Duke continued, "this is the first time my son has spoken so highly of someone. Naturally I became curious. He claims that merely speaking with you will reveal your intelligence. So tell me—why do you wish to attend Eton?"
"Before answering, may I ask whether Major Wellesley explained my background to you?"
In truth, I didn't need to hear the answer.
A man like the Duke of Wellington would never summon someone without first investigating them.
As expected, the Duke simply nodded with a gentle smile.
During the journey here I had been thinking carefully.
How could I leave a strong impression on the Duke without revealing too much?
The answer lay in my own identity.
I was an Irish noble with Asian blood.
A mixed heritage that could easily be seen as a weakness.
Yet that weakness could also become my advantage.
In British high society, my background was certainly unusual.
But that very rarity made me unique.
Even an ordinary jewel shines if it is the only one of its kind.
"I won't elaborate on my birth, Your Grace," I said calmly. "But I hope to become someone this country cannot afford to lose. I believe attending Eton would greatly help me achieve that goal."
The Duke leaned forward slightly.
"Interesting."
"Eton is one of the finest institutions in the kingdom," I continued. "I wish to follow in the footsteps of distinguished alumni such as yourself. That does not necessarily mean I intend to become a soldier."
"That's true," he said thoughtfully. "In this country, even graduating from Oxford or Cambridge isn't enough to be considered the absolute elite. Schools like Eton, Harrow, and Winchester shape the true ruling class."
"That is precisely why I wish to attend."
"So you want the prestige of such a school," the Duke said, studying me carefully. "Because being Irish might otherwise hold you back."
"That was my initial concern when I first arrived in London," I admitted. "But since I cannot change my birth, I decided to treat it as an advantage instead."
"An advantage?" he asked. "How so?"
"Ireland has been part of the United Kingdom for less than thirty years," I said carefully. "Yet many Irish people still believe they are treated unfairly."
The Duke gave a slightly awkward smile.
"You should be careful saying that in front of other nobles."
"I understand," I replied. "But I felt it necessary to explain my goal."
He sighed softly.
"Ireland… is indeed a sensitive matter."
"I heard that last year's Catholic Emancipation caused significant controversy in England."
The Duke nodded slowly.
Daniel O'Connell had forced the British government to grant Catholic rights, and the decision had sparked fierce opposition across England.
Many of those attacks had been directed at Wellington himself.
"Considering that nearly a third of the kingdom's population lives in Ireland," I continued, "if the Irish unite under leaders like O'Connell, the government will inevitably face pressure."
"That is true," the Duke admitted.
"That is why someone like me is necessary. I have Irish blood, but I identify strongly as British. I have no desire to divide the two."
The Duke's eyes sharpened with interest.
"You wish to become a stabilizing force for Ireland?"
"Yes."
He laughed softly.
"A remarkable idea for a ten-year-old."
"But it's true," I said calmly. "If I rise high in this country, Irish resentment toward Britain may diminish. Or perhaps I could become a counterweight to O'Connell himself."
"And what if the Irish call you a traitor?"
"I will do far more for Ireland than those critics ever will," I replied confidently. "In the end, their words won't matter."
The Duke laughed heartily.
"Such confidence."
But I still had one final card to play.
"I should also mention that I am fluent in Asian languages and culture," I said. "The household where I grew up served in Joseon's diplomatic circles. I understand how people in the Far East think."
"Is that so?" the Duke said thoughtfully.
"Yes. And someday—ten or twenty years from now—Britain will inevitably become entangled with those distant nations. When that time comes, I believe no one will be better suited for that task than I am."
I remained silent after that.
The Duke considered my words for a long moment.
Then he smiled—and signed the letter.
"So that is why Charles was so insistent," he said. "It seems his judgment was correct."
He slid the letter across the table.
"Study well at Eton. And become the leader you claim you wish to be."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
I accepted the letter with a respectful bow.
This paper was more than a ticket into Eton.
It was a guarantee that my birth would never bar me from the highest levels of British politics.
The foundation had been laid.
Now I only needed to accumulate power before the mask was ever lifted.
In the months after receiving the Duke of Wellington's recommendation, several events shook Britain.
Following the death of George IV, a general election was held.
The result was predictable.
The Tory Party, led by the Duke of Wellington, lost to the Whigs under Charles Grey.
The Duke's mishandling of Catholic Emancipation and the Swing Riots had cost the party dearly.
Yet the defeat only made my future role more important.
My father promised to begin the process of transferring the title once I entered Eton.
Meanwhile, I quietly invested every pound I earned into land in Chicago and Illinois, just as I had planned.
Nearly a year later, in 1831, Lord Wellesley burst into my study waving a letter from across the Atlantic.
"Damn it all! I should have listened to you!"
The report summarized my investments.
My capital had already grown more than threefold.
"Killian, next time I ignore your advice, insult me if you must—just make me listen!" he groaned, raking his hair in frustration.
Watching him panic, I finally decided it was time to move forward.
Now that I had secured Lord Wellesley as my shield in public affairs…
…it was time to recruit someone who could act as my agent.
Fortunately, I had already chosen the perfect candidate the very day I first arrived in Britain.