Wearing British clothes as a second-generation aristocrat

1. Dressed as a dissolute

In 1800, London was at the tail end of the Georgian era. The seeds of the Industrial Revolution were quietly sprouting in the city's fabric, yet the lingering grime and chaos of the Middle Ages had not yet been eradicated. This largest city in Europe, with over a million inhabitants, housed nearly one-tenth of Britain's population. Its streets resembled a haphazardly stretched net, interwoven with wealth and poverty, order and chaos.

The diverse crowd on the street, dressed in various styles, painted a vivid picture of London's society at the time. Nobles and gentlemen, dressed in impeccably tailcoats and top hats, carrying walking sticks, strolled leisurely, mostly heading towards the mansions in the West End or the shops in the city center, their faces bearing arrogant expressions, showing disdain for the beggars and vagrants on the roadside; while noblewomen wore wide hoop skirts decorated with lace and ribbons, and exquisite bonnets on their heads, supported by servants or riding in sedan chairs, carefully avoiding the mud and debris on the street, for fear of soiling their clothes.

The street infrastructure was rudimentary and crude. Although the Paving Act of the late 18th century had spurred improvements, with some main roads paved with smooth flagstones and the addition of drainage ditches and streetlights, most areas remained backward. The streetlights were simple oil lamps, maintained by residents contributing to the cost. At dusk, lamplighters would light them along the streets, their dim, yellowish light flickering like will-o'-the-wisps, barely enough to see the road ahead, but unable to dispel the darkness deep within the alleys or prevent street crime—armed robberies and thefts were commonplace. The uniformed constables patrolled the streets, but struggled to control the chaos.

Wearing a large cloak, Dugan Connby braved crossing the main road, turning onto a side street, and after several turns, arrived in front of a small theater.

The gatekeeper was a bald, burly man who rudely stretched out his arm to block Dugan's path.

Dugan pulled back the hood of his cloak and looked at the other person with an impatient expression.

"Charlie, it's me."

"Oh, it's you." The burly man withdrew his arm, his hands clasped and hanging down over his lower abdomen.

Dugan entered the theater and, as if familiar with the place, went to a private box on the second floor and sat down.

On the stage on the first floor, several young girls were singing their hearts out.

However, Dugan had no interest in their rendition of the opera King Lear.

A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman who was dressed fairly neatly knocked on the door and entered the private room. "Young Master Dugen, the dance troupe has a few new girls today. Same as always, six pence an hour."

Dugan said impatiently, "Get out, I'm waiting for someone."

The woman quickly and meekly left, afraid of offending the God of Wealth.

A moment later, an old man wearing a dirty jacket and a worn-out nun's hat walked into the private room.

"Why are you so late?" Dugan said, displeased.

"You know what kind of rifling you want to have done; that's a technical job," the middle-aged man said with a half-smile.

Dugan felt nauseous looking at the cavities and holes in his mouth.

"Ten pounds. The agreed price." Dugan tossed a small bag to the middle-aged man.

"You might not have heard me clearly; perhaps you were captivated by the beautiful singing." The middle-aged man clenched his pocket.

"Integrity is the foundation of business, Banks, don't you understand?" Dugan was very dissatisfied with Banks's behavior of raising prices on the spot.

Banks, however, was unfazed. "It's a technical job. I injured my hand trying to carve rifling grooves into the inside of your gun barrel, and I won't be able to work for at least a month."

Banks raised his right hand, showing Dugan the dirty bandage.

"Shove your filthy hands back into your shovel," Dugan said, noticing a disgusting stench emanating from Banks's wound. He then pulled a few coins from his pocket. "Take your money and get going."

"Okay, I promise you'll never see me again." Banks' eyes lit up when he saw the money. After taking the money, he handed a wooden box to Dugan.

Then, Banks pulled the brim of his hat down further and walked out of the box.

Dugan could vaguely hear Banks saying, "Hey, Jennifer, one hour, sixpence."

"Scumbag." Dugan spat indifferently, then carefully opened the wooden box.

Inside lay a flintlock pistol, its sound coming from walnut wood and oiled.

After confirming that there were no bullets or gunpowder in the gun, Dugan turned the gun around and squinted at the barrel.

Four rifling grooves neatly encircle the barrel.

"This bug looks pretty well made." Dugan was very satisfied with what he received.

Then Dugan put the gun back in the wooden case, tucked it under his arm, and left the theater.

As I walked out the door, I saw Banks leading a young woman into the back alley.

Dugan returned to the main road, where a carriage was already waiting by the roadside.

Dugan opened the car door, jumped in, and shouted, "Aldo, to the outskirts."

"Yes, young master." The coachman replied and drove the carriage towards the outskirts of the city.

Yes, just as everyone thinks, this young master Dugen is a time traveler.

Dugan Connby is 21 years old.

Three days ago, he was just an ordinary Chinese youth in the 21st century. When he opened his eyes again, his soul had squeezed into this British body that shared his name.

The original owner was the second son of the Earl of Connaught. He was handsome and from a wealthy family, but he was also a notorious playboy in the entire London high society. He was a regular at casinos, a loser at the racetrack, and had countless romantic affairs that were known to everyone. The scandalous rumors between noble ladies and wives had already made the Reeves family lose face.

Just a few days ago, the arrogant young master Dugan accepted a duel challenge from Ken Rivers, the third son of the Earl of Rivers, a London earl family. Rivers was also a spoiled brat, and the two argued heatedly over a female singer from the opera house. In the end, Ken threw a white glove at Dugan.

"Dughan, I challenge you to a duel."

"Ken, you're dead." Dugan picked up the white glove without hesitation.

However, Dugan wasn't stupid. Ken was 1.85 meters tall and weighed nearly 220 pounds (about 200 catties), while Dugan was only 1.75 meters tall and weighed only 190 pounds. They were not in the same league at all.

Therefore, Dugan proposed a duel using pistols, rather than Ken's proposal of a duel using swords.

Now, Dugan touched the pistol in his hand and thought to himself, "Fortunately, the original owner of this body wasn't stupid either."

When Dugan arrived in the world, there were still three days until the duel. To ensure his victory, Dugan spent a lot of money to have Banks, a famous figure in the London black market, rifling his duel pistol.

Banks didn't hold back either, demanding an exorbitant price of £20.

Fortunately, it was worth the price.

In the suburbs, Dugan test-fired his pistol, hitting the target accurately three times in a row.

"Ken, you fat pig, you're dead meat."

Dugan casually blew away the gunpowder smoke from the muzzle.