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Chapter 97: Scandal
August 1935
George had intended to stay in London for just over a week. One royal banquet turned that into a month.
King George V's birthday celebration at Buckingham Palace was something he couldn't decline, no matter how much he disliked these stiff, ceremonial affairs. But Princess Alice, always poised, always kind, had stayed close through the evening. Her presence made the endless pleasantries bearable, even pleasant at times. That, George admitted, had surprised him.
Still, by the next morning, he was back on his plane to the United States—suit pressed, itinerary clear, and mind turning once again toward the growing storm on the continent.
What he hadn't expected was the storm waiting in the papers.
Three days after the banquet, nearly every major British daily ran a version of the same front-page feature. The Times, most prominently, published two full pages covering the event. The first was all business: dignitaries in attendance, speeches given, and a brief recap of the King's address. The second was what stirred the public—the ballroom photographs.
In one, the Royal Family stood in a long, formal line, the faces familiar to most British readers. But nestled among them stood a relatively unknown figure—an American nobleman with a clean-lined suit and a relaxed posture.
George Orwell Swinton.
The second photo drew even more attention. The palace ballroom lit by crystal chandeliers, dancers caught mid-step, and at the center, unmistakably, Princess Alice in a white gown, eyes turned toward George. They danced alone, surrounded by others, but absorbed entirely in their conversation.
The headline in The London Evening Echo read:
"The American Earl and the King's Favorite Niece—A Match Made Across Empires?"
The column below didn't stop at reporting. It speculated. Heavily.
"...Throughout the night, the pair were seldom apart. From early in the evening until the orchestra played its final piece, Princess Alice and Earl Swinton danced only with one another. Sources close to the Palace noted their familiarity, the natural rhythm between them. While official statements remain forthcoming, the guests in attendance needed none. A romance, perhaps long in the making, seems to have stepped into the light…"
Other tabloids followed suit—some breathless, some skeptical, most simply eager to feed the public's appetite for royalty and wealth.
And feed it they did.
Within days, papers in New York, Paris, Rome, and Washington ran versions of the same narrative. George's face, often elusive and rarely photographed outside corporate boardrooms, now appeared under headlines like America's Prince? and The Earl and the Heiress.
George received the clippings bundled neatly on his desk, delivered by Fred with a raised brow and the smallest twitch of a smile.
George didn't need to read them in full. The photos were enough.
"Buckingham still hasn't issued a statement?" he asked.
"None," Fred replied. "Not a word."
"Tell our people to stay quiet, too. Don't deny it. Don't confirm it. Let it pass."
Fred nodded but hesitated. "You think it will?"
George looked down at the photo again—Alice in white, her smile genuine, her gaze soft. She'd been kind. Smart. A touch sheltered, but not naïve.
He sighed through his nose. "No. I think the Palace wants it to linger."
He wasn't wrong.
Buckingham Palace
Behind the marble walls and tall windows, the Royal Family had seen the same stories. And they had made a choice—one that spoke volumes.
They made neither any statements nor any denials.
The Queen had read the same article three times, glasses perched on her nose. She'd passed it quietly to Princess Mary.
Mary, pragmatic and loyal, said nothing immediately. But later that evening, she knocked gently on Alice's door.
Alice sat curled on a velvet chair by the window, a book open in her lap, though her eyes hadn't moved over the page in minutes.
Mary sat beside her without a word, glancing at the untouched tea on the side table.
"You've seen the stories?" she asked softly.
Alice nodded.
"They've spun a whole novel about you. Shame they're not playwrights."
That got a small laugh.
"It's not all untrue," Alice said after a moment. "We did dance. And I did... enjoy the evening."
Mary studied her sister. "And him?"
Alice didn't answer right away. She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap.
"He's a good man. Confident. Funny. Quiet in the right ways. Not like the others."
Mary smiled, but gently. "So you like him."
"I suppose I do."
"Do you think he likes you?"
Alice was quiet again. Then: "He's not the sort of man who says things he doesn't mean. But he's careful. I don't think he lets himself feel much."
That was true. George had always been hard to read—measured in speech, deliberate in action. But Alice wasn't foolish. She had seen something in his eyes, and for all his control, George wasn't cold.
Mary stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. "I'll tell Mother. No statement, then."
Alice looked up, surprised.
Mary offered a small shrug. "If we say it's true, it becomes political. If we say it's false, we insult you both. Silence lets it breathe."
George's Villa, New York
Back across the Atlantic, George stood on his balcony, a stack of papers in one hand, untouched whiskey in the other.
The view from his estate was quiet. Below, the Hudson shimmered under the evening sun. Far from London. Far from Alice.
His thoughts drifted, not to the banquet, but to the small apartment he maintained above the old Hogwarts security compound—the one where She sometimes stayed when the children were asleep.
He smiled faintly at the memory of her humming in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, helping the cook knead bread while three kids clung to her apron.
That life was quiet, Real.
Alice was a royal, and whatever charm she held—and she had plenty—George already knew where his heart leaned, even if he hadn't spoken it aloud.
Still, he wasn't blind. He saw what was happening. The silence from the Palace wasn't an oversight. It was a strategy.
Just like everything else in that family.
Two Days Later
Prince Edward proposed a quiet engagement for the fall. Tabloids screamed about royal weddings. The papers named George the next Duke Consort before he'd even returned a letter.
He didn't reply to any of them.
Instead, he turned inward.
Two and a half years of dimensional energy pulsed, stored, and waiting.
The power he needed would not come from palaces or photographs. It would come from what he built next.
Romance and Politics could wait.
The world wasn't slowing down, and George had already chosen his pace.
___________
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