After that ceremony-laden meeting ended, Nicholas I waited until everyone had left, then could not help bursting into laughter.
Nicholas I's fingers lightly brushed over the unfolded map, his palm settling on the spot where Constantinople lay. It was as though he could already feel the city's pulse.
The centuries-old dream of House of Romanov, the glory of the Third Rome, the sacred mission of the Patriarch, an ice-free outlet to the sea, dominion over the Black Sea.
All those things that had once seemed beyond reach were now within arm's length. He had prepared for this day for a long time; all of Russia had waited far too long for it.
Nicholas I flung himself onto the conference table, waving his limbs freely as an unprecedented sense of satisfaction welled up within him.
Then his body suddenly stiffened. Nicholas I abruptly remembered something—Nesselrode was dead.
Whatever Nesselrode's abilities, the fact that he had served as Russia's foreign minister for over thirty years alone showed how deeply Nicholas I had trusted him.
An indescribable emotion instantly shrouded Nicholas I's heart, mingled with grief, fury, and a trace of astonishment.
It was not that Nicholas I actually believed the Ottomans would dare assassinate one of his ministers. That was precisely why he was so enraged.
"No, this must have been the British."
Nicholas I muttered to himself. The main reason he thought so was Franz's doing; after all, Franz had never ceased exposing the "truth" about Britain.
Unlike in history, the British Government had an extremely poor image in Nicholas I's eyes at this time. Though the British also wanted to change his perception, the mere act of reducing the monarch to a figurehead was already an unforgivable crime in the Tsar's eyes.
No matter how much effort the British made,