CHAPTER 29: EASING THE TENSION

London, Early Spring 1784

A soft drizzle veiled the streets of London, blurring the lamps into shimmering halos as carriages rolled through the cobblestone avenues. The Thames was wrapped in morning mist, ships appearing and vanishing like silent ghosts.

At the gates of Buckingham Square, a small procession approached—not ostentatious like a royal parade, but unmistakably foreign. The coats were a shade too fine, the cut a touch too elegant, and the blue-and-gold banners of Fonseine fluttered quietly from the lead carriage.

Inside it sat Crown Prince Adrien de Montclair.

He watched the passing city with steady, measuring eyes. The chimneys, the foundries, the clattering workshops—London had become a living furnace, its pulse faster than any city on the continent.

Beside him sat Marquis Dufort, ever the diplomat.

"Your Highness," Dufort said softly, "London seems... transformed."

Adrien nodded. "Britain moves now. Not in centuries, but in hours. Steam has made them faster than thought."

"And the man behind it," Dufort continued, "is the one you will meet today."

Adrien’s lips curved faintly. "Phillip Wellington. Yes. A mind worth understanding."

And perhaps a mind worth warning.

The carriage slowed before the wrought-iron gates of the Royal Engineering Exchange—the building Parliament used for sanctioned scientific delegations. Guards saluted. British ministers waited beneath the stone archway, their coats dampened by the light rain.

Standing among them was Phillip Wellington, Son of the Duke of Wellington.

Adrien stepped down from the carriage with graceful composure. His coat—navy, trimmed with silver—seemed almost too sharp against the drab London fog. The two men approached one another.

Phillip bowed politely.

"Your Highness. London bids you welcome."

Adrien returned the greeting with equal formality.

"Lord Wellington. It is an honor to finally meet the architect of the Iron Road."

Henry Carter muttered from behind Phillip, "Architect, engineer, dreamer, madman—depends on the day."

Phillip shot him a quiet look, but Adrien actually chuckled.

"I admire candor," the prince said. "It makes diplomacy bearable."

They entered the Exchange together, footsteps echoing through the vast marble hall. Tables were set with maps of Britain and miniature models of locomotives. British officials lingered at the edges, watching every move.

As expected—the first meeting of two men who could reshape Europe was not left unsupervised.

Once seated in a modest private chamber, tea steaming between them, Adrien spoke first.

"Lord Wellington, allow me to be direct. Fonseine seeks cooperation, not rivalry. Our geography is unforgiving—mountains to the east, rivers unpredictable, roads worn thin by centuries. And yet, we are a nation of trade, arts, and industry. We must move faster to survive."

Phillip listened carefully.

"We have no interest in stealing your designs," Adrien continued. "We wish to buy what is permitted, to learn what is lawful, and to build what is beneficial. Rails will strengthen our farms, our factories, and our ports. Trade between Britain and Fonseine would flourish if connected by efficient lines on both shores."

Phillip folded his hands.

"And what of the balance of power? Many fear that rails allow nations to move armies more swiftly."

Adrien’s expression remained composed.

"A kingdom that can feed its people and speed its goods to port is stronger in peace than in war."

Then, after a pause:

"Besides, Britain is far ahead. You need not fear Fonseine. Not yet, at least."

Phillip wasn’t sure if that was reassurance—or respectful honesty.

The prince continued, tone sharpening slightly.

"I am aware of the new Railway Safeguards Act. Parliament fears foreign misuse. I understand this. But Britain cannot wall itself off forever. If you allow trade to stagnate while steam grows stronger, tensions rise."

Phillip finally nodded.

"So you have come to ease the tension."

Adrien smiled.

"Or prevent a future fire by offering water now."

Phillip leaned back in his chair.

"Your Highness... I cannot act independently. I am a businessman, not a sovereign. And Parliament has tightened every valve around this technology. Imperial Dynamics cannot release blueprints, cannot allow unsupervised inspection, and cannot build rails abroad without Crown oversight."

Adrien accepted this without offense.

"Yes. I expected as much."

He tapped a finger against his knee.

"Then let us be pragmatic. I am not here to demand secrets. I am here to negotiate what is allowed."

Phillip raised a brow. "Such as?"

Adrien counted on his fingers:

"—One demonstration engine for Montfleur, under British supervision.

—Fifteen miles of rail produced in your factories, shipped by British freight.

—A team of Fonseine engineers allowed to observe but not replicate your boilers.

—And, most importantly..." His gray eyes fixed on Phillip’s, steady as tempered steel.

"...a long-term commercial treaty. Britain supplies the rails. Fonseine supplies the materials—timber, wine, dyes, and iron ore."

Phillip considered the scale.

It was reasonable.

Measured.

Not grasping like Granzreich.

Not paranoid like Orosk.

Not backhanded like the Iberian Union.

Adrien wanted trade, not theft.

Phillip finally said, "Your requests are not impossible. Parliament will review them."

Adrien inclined his head.

"And you, Lord Wellington? What do you think?"

Phillip hesitated a moment.

Then he answered plainly.

"I think the world is frightened. Britain’s advantage is too new, too sudden. Nations fear being left behind, so they panic. They scramble. They send spies. They imagine threats where none exist."

Adrien’s gaze softened slightly.

"And Fonseine?"

Phillip met his eyes.

"Fonseine is the first to behave like a nation with confidence. You want rails not because you fear us—but because you see the value in cooperation."

A faint smile curved the prince’s lips.

"Good. You understand me."

The room fell into a thoughtful silence.

Outside, faintly, came the distant whistle of a locomotive from the London–Birmingham line. A symbol of the world that Phillip had created—and the world everyone now competed to join.

Adrien stood, adjusting his coat.

"Lord Wellington, I will remain in London for several weeks. I would like to see your factories, your craftsmen, and perhaps even ride the Iron Road myself."

Phillip nodded.

"It would be my honor."

The prince extended his hand.

"Let us build not rivals, but partners."

Phillip clasped it.

"If Parliament allows it... then so shall I."

As their hands separated, Henry muttered under his breath:

"Well... that wasn’t as bad as I expected."

Phillip didn’t answer immediately.

He watched Adrien’s back as the prince left the chamber, posture tall, movements precise—a man who measured everything, including Phillip himself.

When Adrien disappeared down the hallway, Phillip finally exhaled.

"Henry... the world is shifting again."

Henry crossed his arms.

"And this time... it doesn’t look like war."