CHAPTER 27: THE WORLD TAKE NOTICES

London, Autumn 1783

The ink had barely dried on the Queen’s decree naming Phillip Wellington Baron of Shropshire when the world came knocking.

It began quietly enough—letters sealed in foreign wax, arriving under the pretext of "commercial inquiry." But soon, the dispatch room of Imperial Dynamics’ London office became a battlefield of languages and crests: Fonseine lilies, the double-headed eagle of Granzreich, the red cross of Orosk, and the golden sun of the Iberian Union.

Within a week, Phillip’s desk was buried in correspondence. Some were polite overtures; others were veiled demands. All wanted the same thing: the secret of the rails.

By early October, London’s fog had grown thick, curling between lamplights like smoke. Inside the polished halls of the Royal Engineering Exchange, Phillip and Henry Carter stood waiting as the first of the envoys were escorted in under the Union Jack.

The Fonseine delegation arrived first. At their head was Marquis Étienne Dufort, a man with silvered hair and the manner of a practiced courtier. His entourage wore deep blue coats trimmed with gold braid—the unmistakable fashion of Montfleur.

Phillip extended his hand. "Marquis Dufort, welcome to London. I trust the crossing from Calais was uneventful?"

Dufort smiled faintly, his accent smooth and deliberate. "The seas were kind, though I cannot say the same for your customs officers. They seem to think every Frenchman carries a spyglass in his pocket."

Henry snorted quietly from behind Phillip. "Given the last time, perhaps they’re not wrong."

Phillip shot him a look but suppressed a grin. "Let us hope today marks better understanding between our nations. Shall we discuss the matter that brought you here?"

They were soon joined by other envoys.

From Granzreich, the iron-fisted Germanic empire, came Count Ulrich von Wernthal, a broad man with a thick beard and voice like rolling thunder.

From Orosk, a land of snow and tsars, arrived Minister Viktor Chernov, his fur-lined cloak trailing behind him, his cold eyes taking in every rivet of the station walls as though already measuring their worth.

And from the Iberian Union, a youthful diplomat named Don Rafael de Villacorta, whose charm was only surpassed by his ambition.

By midmorning, four nations stood assembled beneath one roof—a first in British memory. The newspapers outside were already calling it "The Conference of Iron."

In the conference hall, a large model of the London–Birmingham Line stretched across the table, complete with miniature locomotives and wooden towns. Phillip stood before it, pointer in hand.

"Gentlemen," he began, his voice calm, "what you see before you is not merely a machine—it is a system. Steel rails, steam propulsion, standardized gauges, safety valves, and signal mechanisms. Every element is essential. Remove one, and the whole structure collapses."

Dufort of Fonseine leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Your explanation is most enlightening, Lord Wellington. But I must be candid. My government wishes to purchase five locomotives and two miles of rail for study—along with technical supervision from your engineers."

Von Wernthal grunted. "Only five? Hah! The Empire requires twenty. The Kaiser intends to connect the Rhine to our northern provinces. If you refuse, we shall build our own—though perhaps less refined."

Viktor Chernov gave a low chuckle. "Granzreich always wants more than it can use. Orosk will take ten, and we will pay in gold, coal, and iron. You may keep your patents; we require only the engines."

Rafael of the Iberian Union raised an eyebrow. "Orosk speaks of gold as though they have it. The Union will offer exclusive port rights and trade tariffs on salt and wine. Ten locomotives, three years of rail supply, and full rights to your signaling system."

Henry muttered under his breath, "They’re fighting over him like dogs over a bone."

Phillip kept his composure, though his mind raced. Each offer glittered with promise—and peril.

He spoke slowly, weighing every word. "Gentlemen, Imperial Dynamics is flattered by such enthusiasm. But understand—these machines are not toys to be sold like baubles. They require precision, expertise, and discipline. Without the proper foundation, your investment will turn to wreckage and fire."

Von Wernthal smirked. "Then you will send your men to instruct ours."

Phillip met his gaze evenly. "If Parliament permits."

At that, the room stirred. The envoys exchanged glances, each realizing the obstacle was not merely Phillip’s caution—it was British law.

Two days later, the House of Commons met in emergency session. The foreign offers had leaked to the press, and the London Times ran a front-page headline:

"BRITAIN’S IRON SECRETS WANTED BY ALL EUROPE — WILL THE CROWN SELL?"

The chamber was ablaze with debate.

"Trade the engines? Madness!" cried one MP. "We would be handing our supremacy to the Continent!"

Another countered, "And yet, the profits could fund new lines across Scotland and Wales. Are we to hoard progress like misers?"

Phillip sat in the visitor’s gallery beside Henry, his jaw tight as voices rose.

At last, Prime Minister Whitby took the floor. "Gentlemen, Britain stands at the forefront of history. We owe this to the genius of Lord Wellington and Imperial Dynamics. But let it be known—Britain shall not sell her advantage. Not yet. Instead, we shall license it."

A murmur swept through the hall.

Whitby continued, "Foreign nations may purchase rights to construct under British supervision. All components—steel, engines, and expertise—will flow through Imperial Dynamics. Britain will supply, and the world will pay."

The motion passed by overwhelming majority.

Henry leaned close to Phillip, grinning. "You just became the most important supplier on the planet."

Phillip exhaled slowly, eyes distant. "And the most watched."

Within a month, the treaties were sealed.

Fonseine received rights to import limited quantities of rail and one demonstration locomotive—The Lys Star—under British inspection. Their engineers would observe, but never copy the boiler design.

Granzreich secured a contract for heavy freight engines built by Imperial Dynamics’ Manchester works. Payment was made in industrial steel and sulfur—materials Britain sorely needed.

Orosk obtained a single prototype for northern testing, under a clause forbidding export replication.

The Iberian Union, ever shrewd, negotiated for passenger coaches and training manuals to establish their own line from Seville to Madrid.

Phillip signed each document with deliberate precision.

By December 1783, Imperial Dynamics had become not just a British enterprise—it was the industrial heart of the world. Every nation now looked to London not for kings or philosophers, but for engineers.

And yet, as Phillip reviewed the final paperwork one night in his office, he noticed something curious.

The Fonseine contract bore an extra seal—one not from Parliament, but from the Palais de Lys.

He traced the wax impression with his thumb. It was the mark of Crown Prince Adrien de Montclair himself.

Henry entered just as Phillip folded the document. "Still working at this hour?"

Phillip looked up, thoughtful. "Tell me, Henry... what sort of man personally signs a trade seal for a machine he cannot yet build?"

Henry shrugged. "A determined one."

Phillip’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Or a dangerous one."