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Chapter 95: Britain
Duke Mountbatten was surprised to see Princess Alice arrive unannounced.
But he didn't show it long. With years of polished instinct, he stepped forward and greeted her with a warm nod. "A very warm welcome to Your Highness, Alice."
Alice gave a practiced curtsy, light and poised. "Thank you, My Lord Duke."
Just as she rose, another young woman in a striking red evening gown appeared beside her, golden-haired and glowing with excitement. She linked arms with Alice, then turned to her father.
"Father, I invited her," she said quickly. "I meant to tell you earlier."
Mountbatten let out a short laugh. "Haha, it's quite right. You're always full of surprises, aren't you? I certainly welcome Her Highness tonight."
With that, he turned to mingle with other guests. A moment later, he was back at George's side.
"Apologies, George. Didn't expect the Royal Household to show up."
George didn't look bothered. "Not every day you get a princess at a countryside banquet."
Mountbatten smiled thinly. "Come with me. There's a small reception inside. You're not the only one hoping for a word with you tonight."
George glanced back over his shoulder once before leaving. Both Alice and her companion were looking toward him. Their eyes met for half a moment. George gave a polite nod. Alice smiled faintly, then looked away.
Her laugh, light and unforced, still echoed faintly as George followed Mountbatten across the hall.
As they walked, the Duke leaned in. "She's barely eighteen, you know. Raised in the palace after her parents drowned. The King's niece. She usually avoids all this."
George only nodded. "Seems well-mannered."
The Duke shrugged. "She's smart. Just quiet. The kind people don't expect much from until they open their mouth."
George didn't respond to that. He was already reading the room they entered.
Inside, several gentlemen were seated near the fireplace. Mountbatten made the introductions quickly—noble titles, some ministers, and one energy magnate.
The meeting, as George had anticipated, was about natural gas. Since he'd handed over the technology for maritime transport, the Arabian Peninsula had exploded onto the export scene.
Now, these men wanted in.
George didn't decline. He listened, offered a few comments, and laid down his conditions. The discussion stayed high-level—no numbers yet. That would all go to legal teams and boardrooms. Still, the message was clear: everyone wanted a piece, and they all knew George's share was the key.
Later, as the conversation drifted, George casually asked why he'd been invited to court again.
Mountbatten answered plainly. "It's the King preparing for succession. The usual soft touch before the real shift begins. He's getting older, and the advisors want to make sure you're seen—still standing, still relevant."
George nodded once. It made sense. He was known, after all. Not just in business or invention, but across the aristocratic landscape. Even the Crown couldn't afford to forget names like his.
The next morning, George arrived at Buckingham Palace.
He was greeted by Prince Albert himself, who had been assigned to accompany him through the art galleries and state rooms.
"You'll enjoy this," Albert said. "Father remembered your eye for detail."
"I appreciate the thought," George replied. "Always happy to visit again."
They wandered through high halls and curated corridors. Priceless portraits, tapestries, and armory relics—each came with a story, and Albert shared them with crisp, well-rehearsed pacing.
In one corner of the stables, they encountered Princess Alice again.
"Your Highness," George said with a polite nod.
"Earl Swinton," she returned, smiling. "I hear you're being toured around?"
"Dragged through history, yes. But your cousin does a fine job of it."
She looked at Albert. "If you don't mind, I could take over."
Albert grinned. "Be my guest."
And just like that, George found himself walking beside Alice as she led him deeper into the palace, pointing out details Albert had skipped—small things, architectural flourishes, forgotten corners of heritage.
He listened, occasionally commenting. Eventually, they slipped into a discussion about art technique, symbolism, and period styles.
Then it widened.
Politics. Literature. Trade.
She asked questions freely, and George, always willing to teach, answered. But somewhere along the way, she stopped leading the conversation and started following it. George's knowledge covered more ground than she'd expected, and her curiosity grew.
Time passed quietly. No interruption. No obligations.
By the time Prince Albert returned to call them to dinner, twilight had already settled in.
"George, they're waiting."
"Just a moment," George said, turning to Alice. "Thank you for the walk."
She shook her head. "I should thank you. I learned more in one afternoon than from a month of lessons."
George laughed. "Then we'll call it even."
"Goodbye, George."
"Goodbye, Alice."
Albert gave George a sidelong look as they left. "I think she enjoyed that."
"I think she likes having someone who'll answer her questions."
Back at his villa that night, George poured himself a quiet drink and took a seat by the fireplace.
Nothing stirred in him.
Not romance, not ambition.
The girl was bright, yes. Clever, even charming. But his mind wasn't in palaces or carriages.
He'd been invited back to Britain for a reason, and none of it had to do with royal matchmaking.
The next morning, there was a knock at the door.
Duke Mountbatten stood outside.
"You're up early," George said.
"Haha, I've got something to show you. Get dressed. You'll want to see this."
They drove across the city, winding through an alley off Savile Row. A nondescript tailor's storefront stood in front of them.
Inside, past the shelves of suits and ties, they reached a hidden corridor. Mountbatten led the way through a back room, pressing his hand to a panel behind a fitting mirror.
The wall opened. Beneath it—tracks.
A small train car waited.
They boarded silently and within minutes, arrived in a facility far below ground.
"This," Mountbatten said, "is the last real power left in Britain."
George stepped out onto steel tiles and looked around.
It was clean, cold, and efficient. Filled with Training fields, Weapons lockers, and Labs.
"Kingsman?" George asked.
Mountbatten smiled. "Still exists. Since the Great War. Been quiet, but still effective. I'm its current director."
"And why show me this?"
"Because I want you in."
"No."
The word came instantly.
Mountbatten blinked. "You didn't even hesitate."
"I don't have time," George said plainly. "I have work in the U.S., students in Hogwarts, research projects, labs, and a dozen giants of companies to run. I don't need another title, nor do I have time for this."
Mountbatten wasn't surprised. "Still worth asking."
They walked to the firing range. A small group of teenagers trained under watchful eyes.
One girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, stood steady, both hands gripping a pistol.
Ten shots. Ten bullseyes.
No recoil flinch. No hesitation.
George watched silently.
Mountbatten leaned toward the instructor nearby.
"What's her name?"
The instructor answered without looking away.
"Carter, sir. Peggy Carter."
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