The Earl and the Executive

by Kai Butler

  Zev laughed genuinely. “A conversation at a crowded party is hardly a relationship.”

  “I’m sure that most everyone will know what I am now and avoid me like a case of the pox,” Tiral said. He put his empty glass down on a passing tray.

  “And what is it that you think you are?” Zev asked, an eyebrow raised in apparent curiosity.

  “ A fortune-hunter.” The words tasted bitter on Tiral’s tongue, and he reminded himself that it wasn't the worst thing; plenty of people had been as mercenary before him.

  "How nefarious," Zev said. “I doubt she'll say anything. It would be ill-spirited of her. Unsporting.”

  “You think she'd keep it to herself?”

  “Lady Socis is known for her friendly nature, and she never has a bad word to say. I think accusing the new earl of being out to let would qualify as quite a few bad words,” Zev said. He reached out and briefly clasped Tiral’s shoulder before dropping his hand.

  Tiral felt his shoulder warm deliciously, and he savored the momentary touch. He cleared his throat. He was being ridiculous, fawning like a schoolboy with his first crush.

  “You think I'll be safe,” he said.

  “Yes, I do, but even if she does tell anyone, it would only serve to make your job easier,” Zev added. “It would certainly weed out those who are also on the hunt for balsam.”

  A string quartet began to play. The sweet music, the impressive ship, and the kindness of his newest acquaintance made for a heady atmosphere, and Tiral couldn’t help being frank.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve been to a party that wasn’t college-related. I’ll admit it’s much more pleasant than I’m used to.”

  “The Laft Group did dig deep for the event,” Zev said, something in his voice that Tiral couldn’t quite parse.

  “I meant the company,” Tiral said. He stuttered over his explanation as if he were an undergraduate again. “That- that is, I’ve spent so long in the company of other academics that it’s refreshing to remember one can have a conversation without getting into an argument over hyperdrive theory.”

  “I’ll strive to keep my theories on light travel to myself,” Zev replied, a smile crinkling his eyes. “Is that what you were before your brother passed? An academic?”

  “I suppose I won’t be able to hide it,” Tiral said, realizing that after his error earlier it probably was obvious. “Yes, I was at Somnu University.”

  Zev looked at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Tiral’s for something. He nodded and gave Tiral a slow, soft smile. “The quartet is quite talented.”

  The subject change allowed Tiral to breathe. He smiled gratefully and said, “Quite.”

  “A tragedy that there’s no dancing,” Zev looked at Tiral again and his smile turned wolfish. “I would love to see your talent.”

  Tiral snorted. “Years-old dancing instruction would hardly qualify as talent. I’d more likely step on your toes than manage to be taken around a dance floor.”

  There was something charming about Tiral’s complete and utter self-awareness mingled with his bewilderment as to how, precisely, he was supposed to fit within society’s rigid hierarchical etiquette. Through his awkwardness he was a refreshing breath of honesty and Zev couldn’t help but want to hear what he was going to say next.

  Usually at this point in a seduction, he’d have managed to turn the conversation from banalities to flirtation. Then again, at this point it was usually clear if the person he was with was interested in more than just intimate conversation. With Tiral, Zev could see the possibilities, the potential for an amazing season. But Tiral had been honest with him about his intentions, and Zev didn’t want to repay that forthrightness with what could only be, at most, a season-long affair.

  “I suppose I’ll have to wait to see you at the next ball. There you would have to dance,” Zev said, enjoying the playful spark in Tiral’s eyes.

  “Oh, no, do modern manners require that, too? I’d thought I could merely stand at the refreshment table and catch potential suitors as they came off the dance floor,” Tiral said. “When they were tired and perhaps more open to my weak attempts at flattery.”

  “Very crafty, my lord,” Zev said playfully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this entertained by someone he wasn’t trying to seduce. “But, I would need to hear an example to ascertain the strength of your flattery.”

  Tiral looked him over and said, “Ah, you look to be quite attractive. Good hair and nails.”

  Zev laughed, and Tiral cracked a smile, giving away the game. “Oh ho. I see now my charms are judged in comparison with the attributes of a horse?”

  “I told you, my blandishments would only work on tired guests,” Tiral reminded him. “Who are, perhaps, in their first season.”

  “Someone should teach you better, then,” Zev said. “No one who had been through even half a season would fall for such nonsense.”

  “I implore you to teach me better,” Tiral said, with a small smile. “In this, you are the professor.”

  “I’d guess that even the deaf Lady Nollion could do better,” Zev teased. He looked Tiral up and down, as Tiral had him and then said, “My Lord Gret, you do the stars a great injustice showing them up as you do.”

  The pink flush that rouged Tiral’s cheeks made him appear that much more innocent, despite the fact that they must be close in age. He truly was unique. The son of an earl, now one himself, whose head was still turned by a generous word.

  “I suppose I must admit that it’s been too long since I was complimented for more than my published papers,” Tiral admitted after a pause, his cheeks still flushed, allowing Zev to drink in the response his pretty words had drawn.

  Zev arched an eyebrow to indicate how clear that was, and Tiral took the hit with a nod of his head.

  “You must strive to not be complimented, then,” Zev advised. “Granted, I imagine that will be hard as you are quite charming.”

  Shaking his head, Tiral said, “I hope more than you think so.”

  If he’d come well breeched, or even just not in dun territory, he’d be a hit, as the ton welcomed anything fresh. But because he lacked juice and was different, it would likely be a long season for Tiral. Doors might open for his title, but he wasn’t mistaken that the mark of a fortune-hunter could hurt one’s chances.

  “I have faith that you will be a success,” Zev said. Even if Tiral only managed a respectable match, it might be enough to help him out of whatever straits he was in.

  His eyes caught on Nosre across the room. “I wish you all the best, Lord Gret.”

  “Oh, of course,” Tiral said, and his face turned stoic again, as though Zev had turned him over to the hounds.

  Bowing, Zev made his way across the room to Nosre, who acknowledged him with a nod. He was alone; Zev had timed his approach carefully and anyone trying to eavesdrop would be stymied by the quartet nearby.

  “Mister Laft,” Zev greeted.

  “Mister—” Nosre said. “Ah, I forgot. Mister Yuls, is it?”

  “I see I am not outed yet,” Zev said mildly.

  “Charming looking fellow,” Nosre said, his eyes cutting to Tiral. “The new Earl of Gret, isn’t he?”

  “Merely introducing him to the thought processes of the ton,” Zev said, aiming his tone towards bored. He tried not to sound too defensive about his new acquaintance but also not so dismissive that Nosre might try to charm Tiral for himself.

  “Not as interesting as your actress?” Nosre asked, pursing his lips. He clearly had been thinking of his brother’s future rather than his own.

  “You were hoping for a match?” Zev asked. “Tell Mother she'll not be rid of me that easily.”

  “Mother wants an heir,” Nosre said.

  “Well, then, she should be satisfied! She has two, conveniently. How splendid that I can inform her of it,” Zev said. He found himself frowning and realized that whatever lightness had carried over from his talk with Tiral was fading. He felt sour and
annoyed all over again.

  “Zev,” Nosre said. He nodded in passing at someone who sketched a small bow at him. His eyes were sympathetic when he turned back to Zev. “Just choose someone. You'd only have to see each other at public events and on holidays.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Zev said, “You know, you're the second to suggest such a venture this evening.”

  “Well, take note,” Nosre said. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped as another acquaintance approached.

  Taking the escape, Zev bowed and headed off towards where he’d left the earl in question, but Tiral was missing from his place at the edge of the room. Scolding himself for assuming Tiral would be waiting, Zev left the party.

  4

  Watching Zev head towards a man he recognized via every newsfeed in the galaxy as Nosre Laft made Tiral’s stomach twist unhappily. He knew very well that he was not nearly the most important person at the party, yet his academic sharpness had deserted him, and he’d still hoped that perhaps Zev would stay and help him through any other interactions.

  Selfish, he berated himself. Zev clearly had more important things to do. Looking around, Tiral was surprised to see that there were fewer people onboard than there had been when the ship took off. He glanced out the massive window and realized that the ship had lowered itself back to dock. That was how strong Zev’s spell over him had been, that he hadn’t even felt the descent of the ship he admired so much.

  The party was nearly over and all he had was one definite no and a conversation that left his whole body sparking, not that he’d managed to get even a contact address. He could ask Rexe, who had a talent at research that would put most professional matchmakers to shame. But then Tiral remembered Zev’s firm stance on marriage.

  “Merely a flirtation,” Tiral muttered to himself. No point in pursuing it further. A weight settled over his shoulders again and he looked down to where his hands gripped the edges of his coat tightly, fingers white. Finger by finger, he released it and took a long breath.

  Glancing again at the interplay between Zev and Nosre, Tiral saw a startlingly different person. Gone was the playful conversationalist he’d met; now Zev was serious, the expression aging him.

  Zev’s evident frustration was none of his business, he reminded himself. Zev’s affairs were his own and Tiral owed him courtesy for the gentle introduction he’d provided to ton affairs.

  Glancing around, he headed out, stopping to pick up his coat at the entrance. As he allowed the footman to help him put it on, he heard someone come up behind him.

  “Gret,” someone said. “Glad to catch you.”

  Looking up, he forced a friendly smile. “Yes?”

  The young man nodded at him and accepted his own coat from another servant. He tugged the collar straight and looked Tiral up and down as Tiral waited awkwardly for the man to continue.

  “My mother told me that she heard you’d taken your brother’s death hard. Terrible thing, the flyer accident. Didn’t think your brother was much for piloting his own vehicles. Poor circumstances to take the title, but you do look the part,” the man remarked.

  Tiral wasn't sure he’d ever heard a less true statement, but was still grateful for the falsehood. Nodding, he said, “I’m sorry, are we acquainted?”

  “Oh, not at all! So sorry. I’m Lord Deva and this is my dear friend Mister Asta.” The man bowed perfunctorily and gestured towards another young man coming up at his elbow.

  Executing his own bow, Tiral searched his memory for a Deva and came up with a vague sense that the name was somehow familiar, even if he didn’t remember the exact relationship between their families.

  “Lord Deva, of course,” he acknowledged. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Of course, of course,” Deva said, leading Tiral down the stairs, Asta following silently behind. The lift was empty when they entered it and Deva took out a cloth to polish his fob as they descended. “Thing of it is, your mother asked my mother to keep an eye out for you this season. Only my mother is staying on Lohon this season, due to both my sister and the twins having the flu or some nonsense. So my mother pressed me to keep an eye on you, since Asta and I never miss one.”

  “Ah?” Tiral was at a loss. Had Deva observed the hash he’d made of his meeting with Lady Socis? Was he here to try to steady the ship since he apparently understood how Lus worked far better than Tiral?

  “And I don’t want to get too far in with your business, but I did see you talking to Mister Yuls.” Bringing his fob closer to examine it, Deva avoided looking at Tiral, his eyes instead flickering to where Mister Asta stood. Tiral looked at him as well, and found Asta with a wry smile on his face.

  “Yes, he was quite friendly,” Tiral said. Something like dread settled into his stomach. Was Deva one of the mysterious clients that Zev had spoken of? Was he worried that Zev had told Tiral something he shouldn’t have?

  “Friendly, yes…” Deva trailed off. He put away his fob and turned to face Tiral. “He’s known for being friendly. To very wealthy… patrons. Comes every year, spends most of it in a series of affairs and then disappears.”

  “Ah,” Tiral said, his stomach sinking further. The conversation between Zev and Nosre Laft took on new meaning.

  “Hate to even bring it up, but your mother stressed that you needed to avoid anyone who might only be wanting a dalliance… or a fortune. Said that you were concerned about heirs. The thing of it is, I like Yuls quite a bit. He’s a member of my club, you know,” Deva said.

  “You like winning money off him,” Asta said, amusement warming his voice.

  “Well, that, too. But if it were my sister here instead of you — she was supposed to come out this year, you know — I’d warn her from dallying with him. It’s all well and good for a widow or someone who doesn’t need to worry about heirs.” The disdain pressed into the word made it clear that Deva had had many unwelcome conversations about his own future. “He’s a good enough man, but… well, who knows if it’s just rumors or if there is something to his reputation?”

  The doors to the lift opened and they exited to the street, two drivers waiting. “All that’s to say, if you are serious about marrying someone this season, I’d steer clear of Yuls. If that’s just a mother’s hope, well, no harm in a flirtation for the season, as long as you have the blunt for the sport. Man has to spread his wings a bit, especially if he’s just come into your responsibilities.”

  Searching for a polite way to end the conversation, Tiral settled on, “Thank you for your help. I look forward to any advice you have in the future.”

  “Of course, of course, and you should join us at the club! The tables are always honest,” Deva said. Asta snorted and shook his head. Bowing their goodbyes, Deva and Asta entered their flyer. Tiral slid into his own, grateful when his driver shut the door and muffled the noise of the street. The expense for a driver and car had been another he’d fought against, but Edah had pointed out that an earl couldn’t be seen getting in and out of rented hacks regularly.

  Tiral’s hands shook in his lap. He’d thought a fortune-hunter was the worst one could be. But Deva was implying worse about Zev. He’d insinuated that Zev was attuned to searching out fortunes and being paid for his efforts in the bedroom…

  Snorting, Tiral realized that if that was true, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about any advances. Zev knew now that Tiral was cleaned out. Perhaps it had been kindness that had led Zev to approach him, but it was more likely to have been curiosity. Zev hadn’t recognized him and so had come by to check out the fresh face.

  No harm done. Tiral had now been warned and so he could, hopefully, recognize better in the future when someone was on the same hunt as him. Still, he felt a stab of regret as he realized that Zev had no reason to seek him out again.

  The driver pulled up in front of the house, and Tiral let himself take another deep breath as he waited for the driver to come around to the flyer door. Nodding at the man, he stepped out onto the street and started up the sta
irs. Masub opened the door before he could reach for the handle and watched silently as a footman took Tiral’s coat.

  “Thank you,” Tiral said. He headed up the stairs to his room and waved away his sleepy valet, a man he’d inherited from Lecc and still struggled to find a use for. “I’ll handle it.”

  Getting out of his clothes was easier than getting into them had been. Tiral left everything in a messy pile in his closet, feeling guilty for a moment before he realized that the feeling wasn’t much worse than the sense of dread he constantly felt. Irritated, Tiral settled into bed, resisted the urge to pull the covers over his head like a child, and instead waited for sleep to claim him.

  The garden party was supposed to be casual. When Rexe had handed him his itinerary for the week, she’d said casual. Yet he felt underdressed in his hunting jacket and breeches, acutely aware of the coats and frocks that surrounded him. There was no dancing to claim others’ attention, and he felt all eyes on him: the new, underwhelming Earl of Gret.

  Nodding at someone he vaguely recognized from the Laft party, Tiral tried to think of something to say, but the man and his companion moved past without pausing. Mostly relieved, he wondered if it would look odd for him to wander the gardens by himself. After another puzzled look from a passerby, he realized he couldn’t look any stranger than he did at the moment, standing by himself, hands awkwardly tucked into his pockets.

  Decided, Tiral turned to head into the gardens when he was stopped by someone stepping in front of him.

  "Good day, Lord Gret," the man said.

  Out of habit, Tiral nodded his head in acknowledgment. Looking the man up and down, he realized he was not the most out-of-place person at the party. The man in front of him was dressed in out-of-season browns with an incongruous evening hat on his head.

  "I came to give my condolences about your brother," the man continued, his eyes searching Tiral’s. His accent was strange, and Tiral realized that the man sounded more like one of the servants than a guest. The way that his eyes stayed fixed on Tiral’s made Tiral nervous.