Chapter Text
July 28th was a day that Adrien had mixed feelings on. The day of his birth, a happy occasion (depending on who was asked), for seventeen years. The day of his death, metaphorically, of course, on that eighteenth year. The day of his rebirth, on his twenty-second year. And now, on the hour beginning his forty-first year, a day that heralds a new era.
That was how Adrien found himself inside Bridgerton House, surrounded by more than he had initially anticipated.
That was how he had found himself tucked on a chair, facing Benedict, sketchbook in one hand, pencil in the other, drawing the scene before him. Except the sketchbook was new, handed to him prior to entering by Benedict himself, with nigh a word spoken. A sketchbook which now received its christening drawing in the form of the second son himself.
Across the room, Anthony and Colin sit, Anthony sipping from a cup, decidedly not watching the two Artists from afar, totally not, while Colin flipped through a book, though whether he was actually reading was up for debate. Penelope and Eloise, a different corner, Eloise reading select passages through the latest of Lady Whistledown’s gossip columns, Penelope, fully aware of the fact that only half of the rooms occupants, those being Eloise and Colin, know of her alter identity, listening to her friend’s commentary. The rest, the younger Bridgertons specifically, Hyacinth and Gregory, had at one point been in the drawing room, but had since retreated deeper into the house.
Now, nothing about this specifically screamed ‘birthday’, but it did not take a genius to put two and two together and get four. From the conversation in the garden a few days prior, and the invitation on this day of all days, and then, of course, the sketchbook itself. Replace the bad memories with good indeed. And, all things considered, the day was going spectacularly well. Which, of course, meant something was almost certainly bound to go wrong at some point.
“Dearest Gentle Reader,” Eloise was reading aloud the most recent of Lady Whistledown’s publications, fresh off the press this very morning. This would prove to be quite the turning point in this tale, no doubt.
London has long since proven her remarkable talent for overlooking what sits directly before her eyes. This has become nonesomore abundantly clear than in the case of the one Vicomte de Montfaucon. A staple memory ingrained in the younger generation of the Ton, the Vicomte has long since been allowed to wander our most respected drawing rooms with nothing more than a paintbrush, a ragged appearance, and a personality quite unlike the gentlemen who surround him. It should be considered fortunate, then, that the Vicomte’s eccentricity has long been mistaken for innocence.
At this point, Adrien’s eyes flicker up from where he sits, observing Benedict, capturing his likeness on paper, in order to observe Eloise, and by extension Penelope, as the young Bridgerton daughter reads the pamphlet. Adrien’s expression at hearing his name became very clearly one of interest, though he kept it tamped down for the most part.
The Revolution, as we are all aware, was not so considerate towards those of noble blood. For a family such as the Montfaucon’s, this goes double, devoted so as they were to the old order, rather than France’s great experiment at liberty. So, dearest reader, how can it be that when the entire Montfaucon family met their fate during the Terror, what was so different about our mysterious Vicomte that he escaped the blade free and unharmed?
Adrien frowns at this, head cocking slightly, ear turning slightly skyward. Something is clearly amiss here.
It appears, dear reader, that the Vicomte’s artistic pursuits were not confined to landscapes and the agreeable views of the countryside which now decorate so many of the houses in England, and beyond, if the rumor among collectors are to be believed. In his youth, it seems, our dear Vicomte served as recordkeeper, and later, as pamphleteer and propagandist for causes much less popular in the drawing rooms of London, and men whose name requires no introduction to the well informed. Robespierre. Saint-Just. Architects of Terror.
Adrien fully looked up from his drawing at this point, frown reaching proportions more akin to a scowl, and something odd gleamed in his eye. At this point, nobody bothered trying to hide their interest in the pamphlet, and the Vicomte’s reaction to such news.
Finally, dear reader, we get to perhaps the most damning, and most controversial, piece of evidence regarding the enigma that is Vicomte de Montfaucon. The painting, notably not done by the Vicomte, that bears his name. ‘Montfaucon at the Scaffold’, sometimes titled ‘Citizen Montfaucon at the Scaffold’, or perhaps ‘The Libertine Montfaucon at the Scaffold’, is oft considered one of the most important regarding the final days of the Terror. For those familiar with its many incarnations, for several copies, not all carbon copies, have been created by different artists, they will recall the depiction of a young aristocrat, revealed to have been the Vicomte himself after much research, collapsed at the foot of the guillotine, overcome by a grief that some have deemed rather more intimate than friendship ought to permit. Whether such interpretations reveal anything of the subject himself, or merely the appetites of those who have repeated them, is a question this author shall leave to the reader.
Eloise finishes the pamphlet, “And if the Vicomte de Montfaucon has kept such company, and concealed such a past, what might his present companions discover should they look a little closer?”.
Silence is expected, but silence is decidedly not what the audience gets.
Adrien stood abruptly, startling the Bridgerton's present. His expression is not the passive, emotionless, uncaring one that they had come to know and expect from him. Rather, what graved his face could only be described as a wolfish snarl, muscles tense, almost as if to leave.
If only things were that simple.
Adrien stalked forward, swiftly and with purpose. His long stride, helped by his usually gangly and awkward seeming proportions, places him in front of Eloise before Anthony could fully rise from where he sat. Speaking of Anthony, the Viscount is half-risen, a poorly concealed look of concern clearly painted on his face. Colin seems not far behind, though his concern is not, Adrien would note, directed at the Vicomte, but rather at Penelope, a few feet from him. Odd.
With a growl, a genuine growl, he plucked the paper from Eloise’s grasp, flipping it around so aggressively that it wrinkled slightly. His eyes, sharp, alive, and decidedly not like the steel eyes of the Vicomte they’ve come to know, skim the paper. He hisses again, “They know nothing of what actually occurred.” His voice is rough, and his breathing heavy. He seems… wilder.
Adrien, from his view, was far from wild. As a matter of fact, his heart had all but dropped into his feet. His pulse felt rapid, his skin clammy, and his throat tight. But even as panicked as he was, he is smart enough to still observe. Eloise’s eyes kept glancing next to her. Colin was under no pretence, instead staring openly at his wife. Anthony looked about two seconds away from putting himself between Adrien and whomever was closest. Benedict. Benedict looked physically unwell, and Adrien could not blame him. Perhaps, had he not been so used to giving, and taking, written slander as such, he too would look the same. Instead, his fear, for Lady Whistledown was, while not fully right, also not necessarily wrong, took the form of anger. Of Defensiveness.
Adrien felt a smile slide onto his face. A smile that most certainly did not reach his eyes. He turned slowly towards Penelope, placing the crinkled paper down next to Eloise on the table, and took a few steps towards the only other member of the group not blood related to the Bridgertons. He directed that shark-smile at her.
“You write well, Mrs. Bridgerton.” He smiled at her, and cleared his throat. Turning to the assembled Bridgerton’s, whatever, whoever had taken the place of the Vicomte de Montfaucon, slid away. “I am afraid I must take my leave early today. It appears something has come up.”