The Earl and the Executive

by Kai Butler

  “Oh, Tiral, no,” Edah said. But there was something like hope blooming on her face, and Tiral realized that he was not just saving the land she loved and the people he felt responsible for. He was saving her own chances. With no fortune and no title, Edah could not make a suitable match of her own. If he managed to save the estate, she would at least be provided for, and that would be enough to secure her future.

  “To the marriage mart it is,” he stated dryly. “No time to waste.”

  1

  Zev examined the two shirts that his valet held up for him, both a pale cream. To the untrained eye, they would have looked identical, but after spending so long with the ton, Zev had learned how to mark the slight difference in color: one warmer and the other cooler — neither quite what he had in mind for an evening at the club.

  A soft chime sounded and his valet moved to the other side of the large closet to check the holo which was discreetly set into the wall.

  “Mister Nosre Laft, sir,” Drow said.

  Heaving a sigh, Zev waved a hand in a slow circle, and Drow pressed the button to accept the call. Looking back at the two shirts, Zev chose the one in the warmer color and let Drow help him pull it on without unnecessary wrinkling. When his head came out, he found himself face-to-face with a holo of his frowning younger brother, projected on the long dressing room mirror.

  An outside observer would be hard-pressed to see the physical similarities between the siblings, although each had straight black hair and high cheekbones that were common to the population of Viga. Unlike his brother, who wore a formal top-knot, Zev had his hair cropped short in the more common style of the ton. Their mother claimed the brothers had the same eyes and smile, but Zev attributed that to a mother’s fondness for her offspring. Most others would only say that they both looked Vigan and perhaps were distantly related.

  Neither one spoke, Nosre waiting out of politeness, and Zev out of obstinance. As was common, Nosre rolled his eyes and broke first.

  “Zev,” he greeted. “I received a note from Ovi about cancelling the boat party tonight.”

  “Yes,” Zev said shortly. He glanced at the sets of cufflinks that Drow held out, choosing the silver ones studded with sparkling diamonds.

  “Unfortunately, neither I nor Ovi has the power to cancel the party on such short notice,” Nosre said blandly. Nosre picked up a tablet on his desk, his hand briefly disappearing from the call, and then put it down, turning his attention back to Zev. “You no longer wish to see the ship in action and see how the Empire’s elite will perceive it?”

  “No,” Zev said, his tone curt. “They can wait for it like every other subject of the Empire.”

  Nosre said nothing in reply, obviously trying to mimic Zev’s own talent for silence. Detzev Laft could snub someone with a few words, and his set-downs were brutal, but as the head of the Laft Group, he was notorious for his ability to say something with no words. Ignoring the attempt, Zev focused on Drow as his valet fixed the cufflinks.

  A spike of irritation soured the amusement he felt at his younger brother trying to use his own techniques against him. The irritation was that he had been looking forward to seeing how the newest ship was taken by the ton. The design and construction of the ship had been hard work for the entire Engineering Department and although much of it had been in the areas of the ship that the ton never saw, he was eager to see how they reacted to it. Producing luxury ships was a different direction for the Laft Group and Zev wanted this new venture to be a success.

  “Is this about the article?” Nosre asked blandly, finally breaking the impasse. His eyes were sharp, though, and he narrowed them slightly when he saw he’d made a hit.

  “You know it is,” Zev retorted. His next words came out short and embarrassingly irritated. “‘Detzev Laft will be attending the party.’ No, ‘he’ will not.”

  “Do you think I planted it?” Nosre asked. “It is anonymous, so likely it was just one of the party planners trying to make the event a hit.”

  “Either way, now the whole thing will be a complete mess. Everyone will be looking for the CEO,” Zev said. “And any true reactions to the ship will be covered over by etiquette.”

  “You could simply not come,” Nosre said lightly. “I can report back to you. It would have been a wash anyway since ‘Detzev’ wouldn’t be attending. But then you would miss your first-hand observations.”

  His glance was pointed, and Zev nodded in amusement. He wouldn’t put it past Nosre to have planted the story, but it would also have been uncharacteristically shabby of his brother.

  “Fine,” Zev said, sighing. “I suppose I must attend a party I’ve already sported the blunt for.”

  “Not that anyone will know it,” Nosre muttered. He looked at Zev in calculation. “My secretary said that Ovi has reserved an entire restaurant for tomorrow evening for you and your guest. A new heiress, is it?”

  “Actress,” Zev said. He kept his expression neutral and enjoyed Nosre’s irritated exhalation. “She stars in that program Mother loves.”

  “Of course she does,” Nosre retorted. “Mother has been calling me to ask if you’ve made any decisions.”

  “On the new shipping line?” Zev asked. “Ovi should have sent the details to the board.”

  “On marriage,” Nosre said, his lips tight and brows drawing together. “She’s been calling me nearly every day that you’ve been on Lus, wanting to know if this is the year you’ll find a match.”

  “I don’t imagine so,” Zev said lightly, as if the thought of matrimony didn’t tie his guts in knots.

  “Neither do I since you are not even trying to find anyone suitable,” Nosre said. He brushed a finger over his eyebrow. “There has to be one of your indiscretions who would suit.”

  “That, dear brother, is why they are considered indiscretions. Because none of them would suit.” He allowed Drow to affix his neckcloth and then waved him away to finish the folds himself.

  “Well, if you care about me at all, you’ll make that clear to her. She’s even threatened to bring it up at the next board meeting.”

  With a frown, Zev turned his attention back to Nosre, who’d pinked a bit at the uncomfortable nature of their conversation. “At a board meeting?”

  “Something about corporate structure and heirs, I believe,” Nosre said. “You could just call her.”

  “I will not be bullied into marriage by Mother,” Zev countered. He gripped his neckcloth too tightly, wrinkling it beyond repair, and pulled it off, tossing it back to Drow. “If she attempts to bring it up in a meeting, she’ll be greatly surprised at how much I do understand about corporate governance and how much power I can take away from her presidency.”

  “Just talk to her,” Nosre said. “I won’t say another word, but both of you need to realize how charming it isn’t to be stuck playing messenger between the two of you.”

  Allowing Drow to put on a fresh neckcloth, Zev said, “Gracious as always, Nosre.”

  “So I’ll see Zev tonight?” Nosre asked.

  The emphasis on his name made Zev turn, his eyes narrowed. Just because it would have been out of character for his brother to leak anything about the enigmatic CEO during the season, didn’t mean that he hadn’t. But Nosre was focused on a tablet in his hand, marking quickly with a stylus.

  “I suppose I must enjoy the fruits of my labor,” Zev gave in unhappily.

  “I cannot wait to see you in such spirits,” Nosre said. “Much love, et cetera.”

  Nosre ended the call before Zev could reply. Drow was silent as he finished helping Zev into his coat and opened a large jewelry case to offer Zev different covers for the fob he would use for the evening. Zev chose the silver one to match his cufflinks and slipped it into his pocket as Drow attached the chain to his coat.

  “Trouble?” a voice asked from the doorway.

  Staring at the picture he cut in the mirror, now that Nosre’s holo wasn’t blocking his line of sight, he said, “I don't suppose you can arrang
e for Nosre to get convenient food poisoning before this farce he’s hosting.”

  “Not food poisoning, but a poisoning of some sort could be arranged,” his second-in-command answered. Ovi’s tone was perfectly neutral and Zev appreciated that he wasn’t sure if she was serious or not. She probably was serious. For the former military officer, it would be mere child's play to poison his brother in two hours and still have time to arrange an end to the blasted party. Since the latter would likely involve an explosion of some sort, he cut short the fantasy.

  “Thank you for the offer, but it will cause less friction at the winter holidays if I simply go to the party instead of arranging for him to spend a considerable amount of time clutching the toilet.”

  He took a seat in a nearby chair and poured himself a glass of scotch. Ovi nodded her head, producing a tablet that she placed near his elbow. “The newest numbers from the Aeromech Division.”

  Zev took the tablet and began scrolling, his frown deepening. It looked like another failure and, although they had attempted to make much of the minor success found in finally discovering the correct alloy for the engine, it made him itch to send his response immediately in succinct sentences that would make clear his opinion on the sort of epically expensive failures their department had been delivering.

  He looked up at Ovi, who was examining his outfit critically. Zev knew that one of the best business decisions he’d made was hiring her, despite the serious demeanor and body augmentation that had been so off-putting to other employers. She was pale, even by Central standards, and had dyed her hair a pure white that made her seem almost elemental. However, the most obvious source of discomfort was her eyes. After an accident she never discussed, they’d been replaced with prostheses that were an unnatural red. He knew that those extravagantly artificial orbs acted more as computers than mere cameras, and occasionally he wondered what else they told her.

  Catching his gaze, Ovi raised an eyebrow. He set aside the tablet and took up his glass again, twisting his lips as he formulated his response. Ovi glanced down, taking out a tablet, ready to transcribe his response to the department head.

  “It is clear to me,” he dictated, “that you are rushing to test before you understand the theory or goal of the project. I expect a report sent to my secretary that clarifies both. Until I am sure that you will not waste more of my time, the only funds available to you will be to purchase academic journals so that you may come closer to comprehending what we are doing at the Laft Aeromech Division.”

  Ovi nodded, her stylus pausing. “I’ll contact the Financial Division.”

  “Thank you,” Zev said. The incompetence of the Aeromech Division galled him. If he was exacting of his employees, it was only because he held everyone, including himself, to the highest of standards. These expectations had resulted in a company where the very best worked and were in turn compensated for their devotion.

  “I suppose I must go to the party now,” he said, still as unhappy as he always found himself at any mention of Detzev during the social season. He didn’t think he’d be exposed, but he hated to see what avarice that name evoked. Everyone always seemed to want a piece of Detzev. It was as if they’d forgotten how they’d treated him when he’d first come to Lus years ago, a poorer, less worldly man.

  Ovi said nothing in reply and, when he looked up, she was silently holding his jacket out for him, Drow glowering behind her at having his position usurped.

  “Onward, I suppose,” he said, and headed out.

  Tiral straightened his neckcloth in the mirror, merely to give himself something to do with his hands. His valet would give him silent, reproving looks if he managed to muss the artfully arranged folds.

  The townhouse on Lus was mostly quiet. It was much smaller than the Oican Estate and he was sure some ancestor had only purchased it so they did not have to spend any of the season in one of the elegant hotels that were overstuffed with eager mothers and their unmarried offspring. Luckily for the family, they had purchased the townhome on Spring Street before the neighborhood had become popular, so they struck the perfect note of being principal members of the street while also appearing as though they’d predicted what the ton would find worthy.

  Outside, Tiral heard the buzz of a courier drone and he could hear the butler, Masub, opening the front door. After a few moments, Masub entered the sitting room with several paper letters on a silver tray. Tiral tried not to groan. There was only one thing they could be, and he was already tired just looking at them.

  “Thank you, Masub,” Tiral managed. “Would you please ask Miss Rexe to join me?”

  With a silent nod, Masub deposited the tray on the side table and left just as quietly. The butler had been with the family for so long that he knew more than any of the remaining Oican children did about rank and etiquette. Lecc may have been more knowledgeable, but he grew up in the ton while Tiral and Edah had always only ever visited. Tiral had been glad to arrive at Lus and see the man still installed at the townhouse.

  As silent and judgmental as Masub could be, he was also one of the few people that Tiral knew he could rely on. The man was nothing if not loyal to the family.

  Without a knock, the door opened and Rexe entered. She was petite, shorter than Tiral by a good foot, and her hair had been pulled back into a severe hairstyle, which sharpened her cheekbones to the point that she looked like a knife waiting to slice.

  “Tiral,” she said, eschewing his title. It was a relief that at least one person hadn’t completely changed their treatment of him. His given name was a balm that left him feeling more like himself.

  Shaking off the spark of happiness, he gestured to the envelopes on the table.

  “The newest flurry,” he greeted her.

  Exhaling, she sat in a nearby chair and opened the first one with her finger, shredding the carefully folded envelope. “Can’t they send digiletters like everyone else?”

  “Where’s the elegance in that?” Tiral asked. “Paper shows that you can afford it and that you have the staff to address each one by hand.”

  “Well, it is not a small bit of trouble to enter each one by hand into your calendar,” she said. “Researching each host is not the simplest of tasks when I must try to read their name from calligraphy.”

  “Have I told you I appreciate your work?” Tiral asked gently. “You are a gift in these trying times.”

  Rexe snorted and rolled her eyes to where he was still standing awkwardly in front of the mirror. “I am no gift and if you’ve forgotten the price I demanded for my service, I’ll happily remind you of it.”

  “The next section will be completed this evening,” Tiral promised again. He picked up one of the small decorative statues off the mantel. It appeared to be a silver cat no bigger than his palm. “What do you think?”

  “A lot of balls,” she replied, flipping through the stack. “A few garden parties.”

  She pulled a hand tablet out of her pocket and began scrolling. “Do you want to go to the Nortefs’ ball or the Enopes’?”

  Tiral gestured upward helplessly with his hand and then shrugged. “What is your opinion?”

  Rexe looked up sharply and shook her head. “Oh, no, the agreement was not to untangle years of your own family’s social knowledge. It was to keep your calendar and make sure that everywhere you went was somewhere an earl should be.”

  “Ah, but you’ve already been researching them,” Tiral said. “Surely you must know which ball would be the better fit for my intentions.”

  “You’ll have completely edited chapter six of my thesis before you leave at five?” Rexe queried.

  Tiral picked up the tablet that he’d been using earlier from the mantel and handed it over. “Nearly done already. If I had no cause to waste time calling my mother to discover which she believes to be the more profitable venture…”

  Rexe glanced at the notes and pursed her lips, handing the tablet back to him. “While researching, it has become apparent that the Nortefs often inv
ite everyone in town to their balls while the Lady Enope is more selective with her guest list.”

  “Meaning more people with the right pocketbooks would be at her party if the balls are on the same evening,” Tiral said. “Brilliant.”

  “Make sure you note that in your review,” Rexe said. “This semester is supposed to be for research and writing and if I lose time due to this frivolity… I do have ways to make your life difficult, Doctor Oican.”

  The old title fell out of her mouth accidentally and Tiral knew that he looked sideswiped by it. Only a few weeks ago, his focus had been on his students and his graduates writing their theses. She’d been one of the best doctoral candidates he’d seen since he’d started the aeromech program at Somnu University. The use of his old title reminded them both that they weren’t in his musty office at Somnu; they were on Lus, chasing a rich partner for Tiral like the most conniving of fortune-hunters.

  “Don’t look so sour,” Rexe said finally. “Why you insist on this path I don’t know, but if you do, you should at least be full-hearted in the endeavor.”

  “This is the only path,” he said unhappily. He turned back to the mirror to tug at his neckcloth again.

  “It is not, and you well know it. You have so many inventions that a smart corporation would pay handsomely for,” Rexe said. “Not to mention the engine.”

  “Somnu University owns most of those inventions,” Tiral pointed out. He turned to look out the window where he could see a tree, blooms full and gorgeous like everything on Lus was. “And the engine is not even to prototype yet. A corporation would be foolish to take a gamble on it.”

  “With your history, they’d lief purchase it on spec,” she said.

  “I cannot risk it. Besides, it is not done — a lord dabbling in trade,” Tiral said. The words came out acidic. “You know the opinion of the ton on that.”

  Rexe was frowning and picking at the invitations she had opened. “Was that the reason you chose me? Of all your students? Because of what my family does for the crown?”