Chapter Text
The door shut firmly behind him and he sighed as the sounds of the orchestra and the loud, echoing hush of people congregating and conversing finally faded away. He sighed, the fake smile fading from his lips as he retreated to the settee of the blissfully unoccupied room, staring longingly into the warmth of the fire.
This, he reflected sourly, surrounded by lavish wealth, gilded walls, and miles of lace and crinoline tucked around him, had to be its own special kind of torture.
He sighed, leaning back against the soft upholstery, soaking in the warmth through the layers of heavy silks. The palace was well lit, undoubtedly, with fireplaces ablaze aplenty to keep the chill away from the main hall, packed with people. But in the hallways, and the empty rooms, the chill of the French winter made itself known. Nevertheless, he was far better off than most of his people.
Oh, how he hated to be away from them. Never mind that George had all but bundled him off to Europe himself, determined beyond reason to see Alfred safely away from the continent. Especially now, when his winters were harsh and exacting on those unprepared for their ruthlessness. His men didn’t have equipment, they didn’t have food or resources, and they were stranded in midwinter down in Valley Forge, and he could do nothing. While his troops suffered thousands of miles away, he paraded amongst the gold-stained halls of Versailles draped in silks and luxury he could ill afford, all in the effort to determine whether or not France would ally with them…and how soon the British would realize.
He wasn’t unintelligent; he knew that England was well aware he’d left the states. The man had left no rocks unturned in his all-encompassing search through the states, desperate and fiercely determined to unmask and capture him. And England - the British Empire - was not a foolish man, nor an impractical one, no. No, the British Empire was ruthlessly pragmatic, even if he was incredibly illogical when it came to the only son he’d ever sired. He would know that if America wasn’t in the colonies, he was either on the sea, or he was seeking allies.
And all signs the former colonies had given out indicated that France was the first stop for business.
Which is why he hadn’t been at all surprised to catch a glimpse of the piercing green and hazel eyes on their party crashers. They’d caused quite a stir earlier in the gala, when the two nations had descended with a small retinue of their own. It had been the first time Francis’s charming smile had faded all night - a feat of its own when the man was in his element, flitting about and charming the aristocracy. They’d had a minor argument off to the side of the main hall - although, not discrete enough that half the gala wasn’t tittering about it, gossip flying around at warp speed - but they’d come back in, Arthur looking satisfied, Francis grouchy, and Rhys just looking exasperated.
Par for the course, Alfred supposed.
At the very least, though, it had validated the smaller disagreement he and Francis had earlier this morning, where he’d insisted on attending tonight in disguise, just in case. Francis had argued against the necessity, almost offended that Alfred couldn’t trust his own security. But given that Arthur still had the right to drag him off if he ever found him, wherever he might be… well, he sure hoped Francis realized how lucky they were right now. The only evidence that even hinted at Alfred’s presence in Versailles that night was the two American diplomats and their tiny entourage wining and dining at France’s insistence.
Even so, Arthur was not stupid. The elder man knew he was here. Alfred had no doubt of that.
The door swung open abruptly, startling him out of his contemplations. He looked up, and nearly had a heart attack.
The very man he’d been hoping to avoid stepped into the room, cunning green eyes scanning and dismissing the wealth of luxury around them, until they landed on the still form of a visibly startled young lady.
God please let that be what he was seeing.
There was a moment’s pause, as they both stared at each other, and then the British Empire inclined his head to the younger, “Désolé mademoiselle,” he said, tone apologetic, even as cunning eyes scanned layers of luxurious silk and crinoline petticoats and judged him harmless, “I apologize for my abrupt entrance. I hope I wasn’t disturbing you.”
Alfred stood, face resettling into a startled smile, “Of course not ,” he said in the flawless French that Francis had taught him himself, “I was simply taking some comfort of the fireplace while my friends went to fetch their escorts.”
“Ah,” the other nation said, not a single hint of the English lilt Alfred was so familiar with accenting the French, “Though it does seem a bit early in the fête to be turning in for the evening…,” he trailed off, as if waiting for an explanation.
Instead, Alfred smiled frigidly, drawing all the ways to be polite and insulting his father had taught him, “I’m not sure how that is any of your business, monsieur, ” he asserted tartly.
A brow hiked up, and Arthur inclined his head, “Of course not,” he drawled, moving to hold open the door for the young nation-to-be, who held his head high, chin up, as he glided out of the room, skirts swishing against the marble floor, “bonne nuit, mademoiselle.”
“And to yourself, monsieur,” he replied, walking proudly down the hallway, ignoring the green eyes staring at him before the door slid shut on them. He slid the fan from his sash and let it spread, covering the lower half of his expression as he made his way to the valet. It was about time he should head back if he wanted to make it before Ben and John did. Not to mention Francis was sure to join them, and he wanted to make it very clear how close it had been tonight.
“Mademoiselle?” the valet inquired politely.
“If you could have my coachman, Jean-Luc André, fetch my carriage,” he said firmly, watching the valet nod, “Inform him I will be waiting in the main hall, and to have someone fetch me upon his arrival.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.”
He retreated back into the main hall, as - regardless of what he’d said to Arthur - it was too early to risk being missed from the ball. Jean-Luc, as she’d asked to be called tonight, would understand and linger just long enough before going in to fetch him.
Of course, he’d returned just in time to catch sight of Arthur and Francis getting ready to go at it. Of course he did.
He slunk along the wall, smiling demurely over the lace frills on his fan at anyone who glanced over at him. He positioned himself in clear view of the entrance hall, so he might see his coachman when she came to collect him, and also get a clear view of Arthur and Francis, who were, as usual, arguing loudly. Uncle Rhys, it seemed, had no interest in playing peacekeeper today, and had abandoned the pair to their chaos.
He reclined against the wall, as much as his dress allowed for such things, and watched the pair of them, idly calculating the risks of walking past them when they were so close to the entrance, and if they’d recognize him with a second look. He could see Ben flirting with several enchanted and entertained noblewomen near the chaos, keeping one eye on the French nation and one on poor John Adams, who was not quite as amused by the whole situation as Ben.
As the fight began to truly escalate - to the point where it would likely devolve into violence if someone didn’t stop their insanity - a dark haired young man dressed in the typical attire of a coachman appeared and lingered in the entryway. He didn’t dare move too far into the main hall, as he’d earn the instant scorn of the elite who’d noted his presence idly, but was present enough that Alfred caught sight of him instantly.
Or rather, caught sight of her.
Jean-Luc André was, after all, the French cover of a mischievous young woman by the name of Kassidy Trevor. Alfred had recruited the young woman he’d found cross-dressing in the militia into his personal spying endeavors, much to her delight. She was fantastic company with a snarky personality and the perfect partner for their conspiracy. He straightened from his delicate slump against the wall and made his way discretely towards the entrance. He daren’t rush, of course, but by the time he made it to Kassidy, it didn’t matter anyways.
Arthur and Francis had finally broken out into a fist fight, and, naturally, every eye was on them.
Except, it seemed, for one.
.
Rhys stood off to the side, wallflowering as he usually did during balls and galas, and desperately trying to ignore the sight of his brother and Francis building into another one of their usual fights. Whether it was purely verbal, or devolved into actual violence, Rhys did not care to know at the moment. He’d have to do damage control regardless.
Rhys, it seemed, was also not alone in his wallflowering. His eyes caught on a young noblewoman - unaccompanied for the moment, which struck him as odd - lingering against a wall nearby. Unlike Rhys, however, she was staring at the growing argument, an odd edge of calculation in blue eyes.
His intuition twitched.
Her fan was held delicately in front of her face, just low enough to allow her to offer any newcomer a polite, demure smile, but high enough to ward off any company and conceal the edge in her smile from most observers.
But then again, Rhys wasn’t most.
Arthur and Francis’s argument picked up steam, and the young noblewoman allowed her shoulders to relax her almost regal bearing and reclined backwards, confident that no one was watching with the spectacle drawing all eyes forwards. Her hair, even restrained in a crowning braid around her head, swayed with the movement, a few riotous curls freeing themselves from the confining embrace of the updo. Her lips curled into a familiar, exasperated smile as she surveyed the scene, and for a single, impossible moment, Rhys saw Alfred’s image superimposed on her own.
He blinked, and the moment was gone. The young woman’s crown of hair was a burnished bronze, and while her eyes were terrifyingly similar to his nephews, they appeared a few shades off - although that could’ve been the lighting. And, of course, the most stark difference was that this was a French noble woman, who blended well enough with the court that none approached her or even singled her out as odd. As much as his nephew had taken the court lessons with his brother and fellow colonies, it was rare that Alfred really followed them, even when he’d still been loyal.
His intuition twitched.
Even as a child, Alfred had hated balls.
But...his eyes followed the young woman as she used the escalating situation to escape the hall, swept away by her coachman as soon as she got close enough to the entrance hall.
His intuition wrenched.
This required some attention.
And ear-splitting screech wrenched through his contemplations as Arthur and Francis tumbled into a standing candelabra and one of the draperies caught on fire, sending a hoard of screeching nobles out every possible hallway exit and snapping the two nations out of their fury. A nearby servant took up a bowl of water and put out the draperies with nary a second thought.
A disgruntled Arthur came up to him not ten minutes later, just as the nobles began creeping back into the main hall, seeing as the fire was out, and resuming their merriment. No one would notice the young lady who’d gone home, his mind hummed consideringly.
“Must you and Francis always make a scene of yourselves?” he asked, resigned.
“Oh, do be quiet, Rhys,” his irate little brother hissed. Not unfamiliar with his brother’s foul moods, he simply sighed. “The frog would tell me nothing about Alfred.”
And you expected him to? Rhys wondered, a little of his own irritation boiling up. True, the Frenchman might’ve bragged about his knowledge, but he would’ve never given up an ally like that. Especially not one as at risk as Alfred, or one so close to his heart. He knew Francis considered Alfred one of his own, just as Arthur considered Matthew the same. His eyes scanned the hall and caught on an interesting knot of people and an eyebrow rose.
“Perhaps,” he drawled, “it was not Francis you should’ve been asking.” He nodded towards the pair of American diplomats discussing something in low tones with Francis, one of them looking around, as if to confirm something, before turning back and nodding.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed to slits and he almost snarled as the three of them made their way into the hallway.
“Don’t,” Rhys warned sternly, in an old voice that halted his brother immediately, “it will only rile all of you, and you will not learn anything.”
“So what do you suggest, Rhys?” his brother growled, but restrained himself from following the trio with anything but his eyes.
“Have someone follow them once they leave,” he suggested quietly, “and leave them be for a day or two. Keep a watch. Surprise them once their paranoia wears off.”
“Of course,” Arthur hummed, eyes gleaming, “we’ll keep watch on the harbor as well, just to ensure they don’t leave before their welcome’s worn out.”
Rhys hummed in agreement, not saying another word.
A flash of intuition dragged his memory back to that odd, regal young noblewoman, and the image of Alfred he’d superimposed over her, and he frowned.
.
“You sent the message to Ben, right?” Alfred asked, a thoughtful frown on his face as he glanced over his shoulder at the magnificent palace fading into the background the further away they got.
“Of course, boss,” his aide chirped cheerfully, “We’ll head off to the secondary location, where they’ll meet up with us tomorrow morning. Don’t want any sneaky redcoats catching up to us.”
“And the harbor?” he asked. No harm in double checking.
Kassidy grinned widely, hazel eyes gleaming as she tipped a mischievous wink his way, “We’ve got a French merchant flag and permission to use it, boss.”
Alfred smirked and reclined on the bench, crossing his legs under the massive weight of his dress. He might be overdoing it, he considered, but it was better to be overly cautious than not cautious enough, and caught. As Francis learned tonight.
Try and find me now, he dared.