Chapter Text
The Vicomte Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon, to the aristocracy of London, was many things. Eccentric. Quiet. Skittish. Other. The Vicomte had not attended high society’s balls for over three months, by this point, and frankly would have continued that trend, had the weather not been so extraordinarily fine. This, perhaps, is not the reason most men of status would be present, that being connection, but it is Adrien’s. Fine weather, and a pond practically begging to be put to paper. He had no desire for connection, socialization, or anything that would require beyond the base necessity of interactions.
The garden with the pond was well kept, in bloom and teeming with life. The pond itself was shining, the moon reflecting off the water, partially hidden by the hanging boughs of the trees surrounding it. Lanterns, strung across the walkways, cast a golden glow across the water. There were flowers, though Adrien would not have been able to say for certain what kind, other than that their scent was pleasant, and mingled well with the fresh air and the faint sound of music drifting over the breeze. The garden with the pond was considerably more pleasant than the ball itself, there was no doubt.
The Vicomte sat against a low stone wall, sketchbook propped against his knee, looking out at the sight. He had removed his coat, draping it over the portion of the wall he leaned against. It was a ragged, battered thing, blue worn to almost slate in some places, frayed and patched and about twenty years out of fashion. This, coupled with his overall wrinkled appearance, shirt clearly in need of an iron and trousers nearly acceptable (if one did not look to closely at the knees), plus a wellworn navy waistcoat with tarnished silver buttons, spoke for his care, or lack thereof, regarding acceptable fashion. His slate cravat, an overhand ‘knot’ and no more, tied with such simplicity that it appeared almost an act of rebellion against those strangling the gentlemen inside. His oxblood hair, shaggy, tinged with the beginnings of grey, clearly having escaped whatever attempts, if any, had been made to tame it. Adrien had stopped caring about fashion sometime in ‘93, if he ever had cared to start.
The Ton, to its credit, had stopped caring about his lack of caring sometime in the early 1800’s. To them, he was an enigma, but a familiar one. At first, they regarded him with fascination, then suspicion (though that did not last long), then amusement. He was French. He was clearly of aristocratic birth. He was an artist. And he was awfully silent whenever the political state of France was spoken of.
Adrien dipped his pencil into the tin of graphite dust beside him, cocked his head like a quizzical beagle, and added another line to the pond. It wasn’t particularly hard to draw, no, this was downright child’s play. But nowadays, simple was best. Simple kept his mind from wandering. Simple was safe.
The sounds of the ball, of idle chatter and dancing and music and whatever else entertained the highborn masses trickled out. Adrien ignored it, focused solely on the paper in front of him. Another line. A pause. Another line. He was so focused, he nearly missed the crunch of leaves and grass and sticks coming up behind him. Nearly.
Upon looking up, Adrien noted the newcomer with mildly detached interest. The man was tall and lean in build. Hair tousled in the way that framed fine features. Eyes maybe blue, maybe grey, hard to tell in the lighting of the fading dusk. Had the blues of his clothes not rather neatly blurred his silhouette against the dusk, Adrien might have missed his presence altogether.
As it were, Adrien set his pencil down, sliding his spectacles on, clearly making a show of acknowledging his observer before, “May I help you, Monsieur?”.
A moment’s pause before, “I beg your pardon, I did not mean to stare.”, a pause before the stranger pushed on, “You’ve left out the lanterns.”
“I have. And the drawing is better for it.” Adrien responded, “If I were a wagering man, there’s something else that’s drawn you here.”
There’s a minute, probably less, but time has a way of moving slower when answers are expected. This was one of those moments. “I was curious.”
“About the art?”
“And the artist.” The stranger’s answer is honest, at the very least. Adrien appreciates that much, though catching anyone’s interest was decidedly not on his checklist, now or ever again. Clearly the universe had other opinions. “Generally, one attends society balls to socialize, make connections… You appear to do the opposite.”
Adrien hums slightly, “Astute observations, Monsieur-?” he fishes for the man’s name, one of the rare times he intentionally intends to continue a conversation.
“Benedict. Benedict Bridgerton.”
Adrien hums again, “One of the brood.” His words, though they might seem overtly aggressive or negative, contain a tone of amusement, perhaps joviality. Adrien stands, knees cracking slightly,
“Vicomte Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon.” A hand extended, “What curiosities can an old Frank satisfy?”.
The stranger, Benedict, Adrien reminds himself, seems to run through a list of dozens of questions, settling on the most important for the time, “Why are you outside?”. The question is simple, yes, but rather loaded.
Adrien takes a moment, glancing around, “I prefer the outside compared to-” here he pauses, almost as if looking for the right words.
“To the ball?” Benedict offers, and though Adrien nods, something in his steel eyes state otherwise.
“To an embarrassing degree.”
“And the drawing?”
“Landscapes are peaceful.”
“Peaceful?”
Here Adrien stalls, humming slightly, “Nature is hard to misinterpret. She can be fierce, no doubt, but likewise her beauty and calmness is hard to miss. People…. Not so much.” Silence falls for a moment, “And that makes three.” Adrien closes his sketchbook, setting it down, reaching for the ragged blue coat, “I fear you’ve exhausted your allowance for questions one evening.”
Benedict blinked, “My allowance?” he asks, watching Adrien shrug on the coat.
“Three.”
“What happens after three?”
Adrien’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but the movements towards one, “You will have to wait until our next interaction to learn more.” The smirk, for that’s what the grin is most certainly growing into, “Three is a perfectly polite number for riddles.” He picks up his sketchbook, tucks it under one arm, nods to Benedict, and begins to walk past, “Good night, Monsieur Bridgerton.”
It was only after Adrien was well on his way home when it struck him that he had intentionally invited the Englishman to speak more. Certainly, the punchline writes itself.