The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1731 - 72: Offended Sir and Still Want to Leave?

Austin did not respond immediately, instead, he gently flicked the whip, urging the old bay horse to step over a puddle at the corner of the street.

Blackwell looked at the familiar flower shop on the corner and the cobbler’s shop at the bend, his brows furrowing tighter: "Austin, are you sure you didn’t take the wrong turn?"

Only then did Austin leisurely turn back, still with a perfunctory smile on his lips: "Rest assured, Sir John Bickhouse indeed wants to meet you, but the location was changed last minute."

"Changed?" Blackwell clearly sounded skeptical: "When was it changed?"

"Yesterday morning." Austin took out a pre-prepared excuse: "He received an invitation at the last minute to attend a small tea party at Kensington Palace, so he asked me to tell you to wait near Kensington Palace directly."

Blackwell stared at Austin for a while, trying to find any unnatural expression on his face, but that face remained as calm as ever.

"So we’re going to Kensington?"

"There’s a newly opened café opposite Kensington Palace. The shop owner is a second-generation Russian immigrant, and the tea and pastries they sell are authentic Russian flavors. Sir John Bickhouse knows you lived in Russia for eight years and worries that you might not be used to other foods just after returning to London, so he specifically chose this place for the meeting."

Upon hearing this, Blackwell couldn’t help but curl his lips slightly upward.

"I say, George..." He lowered his voice: "Are you really not deceiving me? The meeting place personally arranged by the Sir? He even considered my taste?"

"Of course it was arranged by the Sir, it’s absolutely true." Austin turned his head and smiled at him: "He said, after all these years, you’ve been in St. Petersburg braving the wind and snow, you deserve a dignified return."

"Ha!" Blackwell let out a hearty laugh, his whole posture straightening significantly: "I always said, Viscount Palmeston’s letter of thanks wasn’t given for nothing. The Foreign Office does know value when they see it!"

Austin replied with a couple of perfunctory words, then shook the reins, and the old bay horse pulled the shabbier-than-a-coffin old wooden carriage slowly through a quiet alley.

Just as they exited the alley, they saw several newly built terraced red-brick buildings, with intricately woven hanging baskets on the window sills, filled with early winter pansies. Though they lacked floral fragrance, they looked delicate and charming.

"It’s this one."

Austin didn’t say much, he just slightly pulled the reins, stopping the carriage at the door.

This café’s façade was not large, with a black lacquered wooden door fitted with curved copper rings. The windows on either side displayed some exquisite Russian-style tea sets and jars of jam, and the curtains were of an old-fashioned white muslin. Above the doorframe of the shop hung a black and gold sign reading "Les Douces Datchas."

Just from this sign, Blackwell could see the unique character of this café.

"Les Douces Datchas" is a French phrase, yet the word ’Datchas’ is borrowed from the Russian ’дача,’ referring to the summer countryside villas or rural cottages of Russians.

Translated, it means "Sweet Country Cottage." This not only suits the café’s signage but also significantly highlights the shop’s specialty and the owner’s heritage and educational background.

Blackwell squinted at the sign, smiling and shaking his head: "It really has a Russian style, there’s even a bear painted on the sign. Sir John Bickhouse has really taken pains."

Just as he was about to lift his leg to enter, he couldn’t help but turn back to tease Austin: "Thanks, George, not many people in London City have this privilege."

Austin did not reply, just faintly tugged his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and nodded.

Blinded by joy, Blackwell didn’t notice Austin’s small gestures. He stepped off the carriage with his suitcase, straightened his collar, and set the demeanor of an old diplomat returning to court perfectly in place, then raised his hand and pushed open the door of the café.

A scent of baked milk and nuts hit him, Blackwell took a deep breath, also tasting hints of cinnamon and currant.

The interior decor of the shop was quite atmospheric too, with white wooden tables and pale blue wallpaper. A painting of the Winter Palace hung on the wall, and soft light spilled from the chandelier, making it feel as though it was indeed a place meticulously prepared for a guest from Russia.

He had just taken his third step, planning to head to the counter when suddenly a chill ran down his spine, as if something was pricking him from behind.

He abruptly turned his head, seeing only a few customers sitting by the windows sunbathing.

Just as Blackwell thought he was being overly sensitive, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted several police uniforms on the café’s coat rack, along with neatly arranged tall helmets bearing the Scotland Yard badge.

"Ha?"

Blackwell instinctively touched his chin. He didn’t recognize these uniforms and badges because Scotland Yard was a new department established only five years ago, and Blackwell had left London eight years earlier. But even so, he could guess that these people were definitely government employees.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, inwardly cursing himself for overthinking: "Really, since when did White Hall develop a taste for Russian cuisine?"