The Earl and the Executive

by Kai Butler

  “Thank you, Ovi,” he ground out. “Would you please call them to let them know I’ll be dining there this evening.”

  “Would you like —” she started.

  “Yes. Ask them for a private experience,” he said shortly.

  Nodding, Ovi left the room for her own office. Standing, Zev moved towards the window, his eyes focused on the garden outside. He could see a gardener working on the specialized flowers that his mother had insisted be planted. “In case I visit you and your new household,” she’d said.

  Zev hated to admit that she was right about how much better it looked and knew that ‘new household’ was merely a coded reference to the new spouse that she assumed he’d acquire soon. If she knew he was seen in the company of an earl, especially one in financial need, she’d likely fly the vicar to Lus herself.

  At least, that was the reason Zev told himself he needed discretion. Between his brother and mother, the pressure to marry was getting greater every year. What had used to satisfy his mother — that he was too busy working, providing for the family and corporation — had lately stopped appeasing her.

  She would inevitably say that while she enjoyed the pleasures the money Zev made brought her, she had not asked for them. She had, on the other hand, asked for marriage and grandchildren. Could he not grant her this one request?

  It didn’t help that something about said earl had caught his interest. More than the actress, certainly, and more than any of his other flirtations he had thought of starting this season. Likely it was that Tiral was so different, unique compared to the rest of this year’s new faces. Zev could say that with certainty.

  “Sir?” Ovi reappeared in the doorway. “It’s been arranged. They’re expecting you.”

  “Thank you, Ovi,” he said. “Message the Earl of Gret’s household that he should be ready in an hour. And have Greon bring the car around.”

  She nodded and left, closing the door behind her. Zev opened the adjoining door to his bedroom and then moved into his closet, startling Drow, who’d been steaming one of his coats.

  “Sir?” his valet asked, quickly hanging up the coat and moving the steamer into its hidden compartment.

  “I’d like to wear something more dinner-appropriate,” Zev informed him. He waited until Drow pulled out two of his favored suits, and chose the one that he was sure Tiral hadn’t seen.

  After changing, Zev walked out the front, taking the keys from a startled Greon. The man was so surprised, he spoke before being addressed.

  “Sir, are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” Greon flushed from the impertinence of his question.

  “No, no, don’t bother yourself,” Zev said. He slid into the seat and pulled out, relying on memory to direct him to Spring Street. It was unusual to drive oneself in the city, but Zev was a confident pilot, and preferred privacy over comfort for the evening.

  When he arrived, Zev circled the block once to get the lay of the land. Most of the households were older. The street delivered on its reputation as a quiet, established neighborhood for families of distinction.

  Zev nearly rolled his eyes. Of course this was where Tiral was housed. His family had probably purchased the land before there was even a city around it. The street had the feel of nobility hanging from every branch, making the trees themselves bow with the weight of it.

  Pulling the car into the curved driveway, Zev walked up the steps and rang the bell. The door was opened by a butler who stood serenely, waiting for his introduction. At the man’s appraising gaze, Zev straightened. If Tiral was half as sharp as the staff he employed, he’d be well-heeled before the season finished.

  “Zev Yuls here for Lord Gret. Please let him know I’ve arrived,” Zev introduced himself, entering as the butler stepped aside.

  “Of course, sir,” the butler said. He mounted the massive stairs, leaving Zev and a footman in the foyer. The house had been updated, and recently, too. Zev wondered if Tiral saw that and knew how much of his fortune had been sunk into his brother’s sense of design. Likely he did and had no idea how to recoup any of the costs.

  Ovi would know how, but he was beginning to realize that he needed to limit his exposure to Tiral. Whatever interest had prompted him to agree to their arrangement was fading, Zev told himself. He would fulfill his duty and then escape into the arms of a real lover. Not the actress, but there were other fish in the proverbial sea.

  He heard footsteps and watched as Tiral rushed down the stairs, curbing his haste when he saw Zev waiting in the foyer for him. Tiral’s smile was contagious, and Zev found himself reflecting it back.

  Whoever had dressed Tiral this evening had clearly done as much as they could with the material provided. He was dressed in a dark coat with enough pockets to be fashionable and a pale green shirt that was accented with a darker neckcloth. His breeches matched the coat and made the whole outfit look as though it was intentional.

  “Lord Gret.” Zev executed a short bow.

  “Mister Yuls,” Tiral said. Zev frowned a little bit. He had to have been imagining the emphasis Tiral put on his alias.

  “Are you ready?” Zev asked. Tiral accepted a hat and topcoat from his butler and followed Zev out the door. The sun was near setting, painting the sky in reds and blues that faded beautifully into each other.

  “May I ask where we’re going?” Tiral accepted Zev's opening the car door for him with a nod. Zev wondered if he even noticed or if it was so ingrained for him to accept servants doing things for him that it didn’t register.

  Taking the driver’s seat, Zev pulled out of Tiral’s driveway onto the street. He guided the car at a sedate pace at first, the vehicles around him barely moving faster than a walk. Zev took the time to glance at Tiral.

  “Hart’s,” Zev said. He chose his next words carefully. “I know you expressed an interest in Lady Socis, but I thought perhaps your preference was male.” Tiral’s tale of his lover, the professor, had stayed with Zev.

  A flush of pink spread across Tiral’s cheeks. “I would prefer a husband, but I understand as the party seeking a spouse, my preferences aren’t the important ones.”

  “Your needs and wants will become obvious with time,” Zev said practically. “We can use them to focus your search.”

  “A marriage can be more than desire,” Tiral said, his eyes trained on the sidewalk outside. “It’s a partnership. In that, I have no preference.”

  Letting the matter drop, Zev instructed, “If you are courting a man, you can take him to a club. It’s a more intimate setting than a ball or even a dinner party, and it’s still proper. There are some clubs where you can take women, so you might wish your secretary to find out if your brother was a member at any. Your entry would be easier if the club would accept you on an… inherited basis.”

  When he heard the click of a stylus on tablet, Zev glanced over to see that Tiral was writing. His brows were pulled together, and the flush had faded.

  “You said we’re going to Hart’s?” Tiral asked. “Why choose that one?”

  Turning back to the road, Zev fought a smile. Of course the engineer would treat this as merely another problem that could be solved by observation, logic, and judicious note-taking.

  “I’ve been a member there for quite some time and it allows a certain amount of privacy that others don’t,” he said. “Are you yourself a member of any club?”

  “Well,” Tiral stopped writing. “When I was younger, I was. It’s all gone by the wayside now, I’m sure. But in college, I founded a club with some friends.”

  “Yes?” Zev asked, even more intrigued now.

  “You’ll laugh, but we called ourselves the Four Fisherman,” Tiral said.

  “No,” Zev exclaimed, a grin breaking out over his face. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

  “Can’t say we did. My mother would have washed our mouths out,” Tiral said. His eyes crinkled in the corner like he was on the verge of laughing. “I can’t believe now that we thought it appropriate.”r />
  “Well, I’m sure as students, the tale of the four fisherman and their… er, catch was quite… a taking story.” Zev tried to think of a tactful way to talk about the bawdy story that was usually passed from schoolboy to schoolboy after lights out.

  “The club faded when we all went our separate ways after school,” Tiral said. “Although I might be able to ask if any of them are members of more legitimate clubs. They might stand for me.”

  “I'm sure you'll be able to get into any you wish on your family history alone.”

  “Oh, you don't know my family. Never quite the joiner types,” Tiral said. He raised an eyebrow. “In fact, most were kicked out of their clubs.”

  By now, Zev found himself familiar with Tiral’s teasing and he played along. “Too radical for the clubs?”

  “Much too boring,” Tiral corrected. “Put the whole membership to sleep. Had to install alarm clocks in every room.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t just hire more servants to come wake members at mealtimes,” Zev said.

  “That, too,” Tiral said. “However, poor footmen were falling asleep on their feet, just keeling over while standing. The insurance claims from all the head injuries were bankrupting the club.”

  Zev chuckled. “Well, there still should be some club that would accept you.”

  “Likely,” Tiral agreed, turning back to his tablet. He wrote a few more notes down and Zev glanced over.

  “Is your plan to transcribe our whole encounter?” Zev asked. He turned into the club’s drive and pulled up in front of the valet stand.

  “Yes,” Tiral said earnestly. “You’re being so generous with your time, I shouldn’t waste a second of it.”

  “You’ll miss quite a bit,” Zev noted. “Writing and not enjoying.”

  “I’m not here to enjoy, I’m here to learn,” Tiral said. He tucked the tablet into his coat as they exited the car.

  “And if one of your students failed to laugh at your jokes because they were so focused on recording your every word, would they understand the lesson?” Zev asked.

  “Well, in their defense, my jokes are terrible,” Tiral said. “They’d probably be better off ignoring them.”

  “On that we disagree,” Zev said. “You’re quite charming when you want to be.”

  He gestured with his hand and Tiral mounted the steps ahead of him, clearly unsure of what to say. At the entrance, he looked to Zev for guidance. Entering, Zev took off his own coat and hat, handing it to the servant and watched as Tiral did the same.

  Hart’s was the sort of club that one went to for a night of gaming, dinner, and little political talk. Zev had joined mostly because of the good food, although he was also a casual gambler and liked that the tables were honest. There’d been a few sharps who came in as guests, but, as they were easy to spot because of their unfamiliarity, he usually trusted his fellow players.

  After greeting a few acquaintances, Zev ushered Tiral into a private dining room with a hand on his back. At the touch, Tiral stiffened, his whole posture changing. Choosing to ignore it, Zev pulled out his chair and then joined him at the table.

  Tiral was well aware how much a meal at the club cost. Membership fees alone were something that he’d been shocked by when he saw the itemized list while he was going over the estate’s accounts with Renn. He felt painfully uncomfortable that he was causing Zev to dip into his own pocket to fund his romantic education.

  “I’ll pay you for all the expenses,” Tiral said. “If you can just provide me with an accounting. For my man, you know, the whole estate is on a strict budget for now.”

  Zev laughed and picked up the wine glass that the waiter had just filled. He waited until the man had left before saying, “My dear Tiral, I’ve no intention of charging you for my company.”

  Tiral felt himself go stiff and he hastened to correct Zev before offense could set in. “Of course not! I wouldn’t dream— it’s just that I don’t want you to feel burdened! I’m sure courting can get terribly expensive.”

  Shaking his head at Tiral’s half-finished apologies, Zev held up a hand. He had a gleam in his eyes that Tiral couldn’t decipher. When Tiral stuttered to a halt, he said gently, “It is. Which is why you should save your money for when you start doing the courting yourself. When you’ve landed a rich husband, I’ll happily send over an accounting. Until then, let’s have no more talk of money.”

  “Right,” Tiral said, feeling as though he was fresh out of the schoolroom. “You said it was impolite to mention.”

  “More like a way to end a perfectly good conversation. Unless one likes to gossip about other people’s money.” Zev took a sip of the wine, his eyes dancing, and Tiral couldn’t help but take up the challenge.

  “An obviously acceptable solution,” he said. “I have heard that a bank requested a loan from the Empress’s grandson.”

  “Really?” Zev asked, feigning intrigue.

  “A very small, local bank,” Tiral said.

  “And was it granted?” Zev asked.

  “No,” Tiral said, picking up his own glass. “The request was so small to him that he simply gifted it to them out of his pocket change.”

  “As one does, when one is in line for the throne,” Zev said. He gestured for Tiral to pick up the wine glass. “This blend is particularly interesting.”

  “Oh?” Tiral asked. He pulled out his tablet and noted New conversational topic: the alcoholic beverage. Look up before date?

  When he looked back at Zev, Zev’s eyebrow was raised and Tiral realized in noting the technique, he’d let the conversation drop. Tiral took a drink of the wine himself, aware as his mouth filled with the liquid that he’d taken too large a drink, like it was water on a hot day. The flavor exploded across his senses, overwhelming his tongue and nose, and he swallowed the wine in a gulp.

  Zev was still watching him, face unreadable, but it was not the horrified look Tiral was afraid of seeing. Instead, he merely put out a hand, pulling Tiral’s tablet and stylus toward him, and tucked them away into an invisible inside pocket. Then he brushed his fingers over Tiral’s knuckles. Tiral’s whole hand jerked at the touch.

  He was aware of Zev’s smooth fingertip and felt it catch on his own rough skin. Edah had bullied him into a new haircut and a facial before he’d headed out to Lus, but he still felt like an awkward teenager dragged out of the estate’s garage to be put on display for his first season. Zev was watching his hand, and his eyes slowly moved up to Tiral’s. His gaze was warm and open.

  It was impossible not to fall into those eyes. He wanted Zev to look at him that way forever.

  Zev must be amazing at his job.

  “Has anyone even touched you since your lover left?” Zev asked, gently.

  The question made Tiral pull his hand back, and he busied himself with the napkin, his fingers still twitching. Jolip now hung between them, his presence an invisible third at their intimate dinner. Unsure how to continue, he reached for the topic that Zev had offered earlier.

  “The wine does taste unique. Is it a local?” he asked.

  Zev withdrew, an army retreating to known terrain, and began talking about the wine. He was even able to name the winery and the type of grape, although his eyes kept straying to where Tiral picked at his napkin.

  “The wine,” Zev said finally. “Hold the wine loosely. It will give your hand something to do without appearing nervous. You can move it as though smelling it or enjoying the color.”

  Quickly, Tiral obeyed and mimicked how Zev was holding his own glass.

  “I suppose that would work with any alcohol,” Tiral said.

  “Any drink,” Zev corrected. “Tea, coffee, whatever they’re serving. You might appear to be constantly thirsty, but you won’t give away nervousness by murdering the table linen.”

  Exhaling slowly, Tiral said, “So, alcohol, money gossip, we’re quite the pair this evening. We should add some gambling to the mix and truly be shocking.”

  “Do you play?” Zev
asked. “I dabble myself.”

  “I’m no sharp, but I do know my way around a table,” Tiral said. “It’s the math that interests me.”

  “An engineer and a mathematician?” Zev chided. “It’s a wonder your parents didn’t assume they’d been given the wrong child.”

  “They did check,” Tiral said. “But, sadly, testing revealed it was flaws in their own genetic material that gave them such a son.”

  “Such a tragedy that you'll pass on those flaws to your children,” Zev said, teasing.

  “One can only hope they take after their other parent,” Tiral said. He tapped his own head. “I could try to fix the problem, but I fear to do so I’d have to only ever talk of frivolities.”

  “I fear for your conversational partners,” Zev said.

  The door opened and a waiter brought in their entrées. He lifted the silver covers to reveal steaks and fresh vegetables, grilled enough to be soft and deeply colored. When he left, Tiral waited for Zev to begin before starting himself.

  “I find that a shorter dinner is better for a first date,” Zev answered the unspoken question. “No appetizers, no salad course.”

  “Why?” Tiral asked, wishing his tablet hadn’t been confiscated.

  “You want to leave your partner wanting more,” Zev said. “Make them wish that the date had been hours longer. The longer they fantasize about you, the more they have invested in you.”

  “You’re talking romance,” Tiral said. “Making them fall in love with you.”

  Zev shrugged. “Modern courting does draw much from that.”

  The idea made Tiral’s heart sink a little. He’d known he would have to marry someone, but he’d hoped that they could keep it professional, like his parents’ completely functional, but occasionally chilly, relationship. If he was expected to make someone fall in love with him, or even just hint that love was on the table, he wasn’t sure he was up to that task.

  Some of his hopelessness must have played out on his face.

  “It isn’t going to be real love,” Zev said, his fork clinking against his plate. “But it needs to be clear that your offer is not merely a title and no financial contribution, but also affection and love.”