The Earl and the Executive

by Kai Butler

  It was too small, for starters. Two people could fit comfortably, but any more than that and the space would feel cramped. It had been fitted with all the most expensive details, things that only a mechanic would have noticed. The engine had been cutting edge at the time, but now, a few years later, was merely standard.

  He wanted Tiral to see it.

  He couldn’t decide why. Perhaps he wanted acknowledgement from an aeromech engineer; perhaps it was that now that someone, a friend, knew who he was, he could take pride in his accomplishments. Perhaps it was that he could imagine Tiral’s smile when he took in the sleek little flyer, his eyes brightening as they always did when he talked about his passion.

  It would be a reminder of their first meeting, and after their previous encounter, he felt like they both needed something to cast them back to a time when their relationship had been easy. Tiral could talk about the ship, and Zev would be able to make sly comments that Tiral would parry back. The encounter was clear in his mind.

  When he rang the bell at Tiral’s home, he was surprised to see more movement than he usually did. Maids moved quickly up and down the stairs, and an extra footman was in the entryway. The stoic butler seemed to be instructing him on an error at breakfast, and Zev followed a different footman into Tiral’s library.

  The door's opening appeared to startle Tiral, who jerked and swung his head over quickly. Upon seeing Zev, he relaxed with a sigh.

  “Mister Yuls,” the footman announced.

  “Thank you,” Tiral said, waving a hand dismissively. The footman bowed and left, leaving Zev to walk to where Tiral had slumped back into the chair.

  “Did you not get my message?” he asked. “I had planned an outing for us.”

  “Sorry,” Tiral said. “With my mother here, this is the first free moment I’ve gotten since yesterday.”

  “She’s already taken over this house as well?” Zev teased. He perched on the chair opposite Tiral, noting the untouched glass of brandy on the side table.

  “Like a general mounting a campaign against outer-rim pirates,” Tiral said. “You’d think that we were planning an invasion instead of merely attending a ball tonight.”

  “Oh, merely,” Zev teased. “And here I thought that it was only through my tutelage that you were able to summon the nerve to attend at all.”

  “Quite,” Tiral agreed. “You understand perfectly. Without your companionship, I fear that I will revert back to the stuttering, bumbling, backwater rube who couldn’t even make conversation with a trained courtesan.”

  “Oh, that’s not true,” Zev said mildly.

  “You think I’ll be able to maintain my progress?” Tiral asked, appearing hopeful.

  “Just that you never stuttered,” Zev said. “Everything you said, no matter how inappropriate, was clearly enunciated.”

  With a groan, Tiral said, “I am doomed.”

  Zev laughed, an amused sound that made Tiral turn towards him. Zev was reminded of a flower turning towards the sun, blossoming into something beautiful and precious with the first hint of warmth.

  “You aren’t doomed. Don’t think so little of the education you’ve received. I think that you’ll continue to make a splash, as you did at the last ball you attended.” The reminder fell on deaf ears.

  “But you were there!” Tiral said. “I knew you were there, and I felt… reassured.”

  The words hit Zev in the chest, and he forced an easy smile on his face. He remembered the odd feeling of jealousy that had stolen over him when he’d watched Tiral charm someone else. The knowledge had weighed heavily on him, that for all he wanted to keep the engineer to himself, he would have to share him. No, not share. In a few weeks, he’d be forced to give Tiral up entirely.

  “Well, imagine my presence. I will be as the ghost haunting Utriedes, forever with you, but unable to be seen or heard,” Zev predicted.

  “Both Edah and I thought poison might be easier,” Tiral said morosely.

  “For what? Matricide? Your mother cannot be as bad as that,” Zev said with a laugh.

  “Oh, no. To play the schoolroom prank,” Tiral said. “Taking just enough of something one shouldn’t to become ill, with few complications afterwards. We found that a large dose of cold water often had the desired effect.”

  “I think your schoolroom and mine were very different,” Zev laughed. “My father would have skinned me for pulling such a stunt.”

  “No doting nannies to coddle you and keep you away from whatever public event you wanted to avoid?” Tiral asked.

  “No,” Zev said. The truth felt freeing. “We were quite poor when I was young. Perhaps not poor. The Laft Group was a local delivery service and so, humble as it was, we were better off than many on Viga. But we had no nannies. No schooling, either, other than the local state school. It sounds liberating compared to your cosseted childhood.”

  “Well, I can say that I am a bit jealous of the freedoms you must have enjoyed,” Tiral said. “However, it merely reminds me how spoiled I must sound. Complaining about servants who were too doting.”

  “You do sound a particular sort of rich,” Zev admitted. “The sort who doesn’t realize how rich they are.”

  “Ah, good,” Tiral said. “Making my conversational partner feel poor has always been a goal of mine.”

  “You’ve successfully achieved it,” Zev said. “I feel quite penniless!”

  Tiral smiled, and his eyes held a hint of the sparkle that had so charmed Zev. After a moment it faded, and the silence stretched between them again, growing awkward in increments, like a warm drink cooling as it sat untouched.

  “Do you think I’m ready? Have my studies proved me a capable lover?” Tiral asked, quietly.

  “I would need more observation to give you an honest grade,” Zev said. “I am not an instructor who tosses off assessments without a full rubric.”

  There was no answering laughter when Tiral looked up at him. “I need to know.”

  His smile dropping off his face, Zev found himself suddenly serious. There was no need to equivocate. Zev had known, had even thought just this morning, that soon Tiral wouldn’t be his. Not that the earl was his at the moment.

  “Can you not put it off another season? There are —”

  Tiral shook his head and interrupted. “The banks will not give us any more credit. It is this or lose the estate and so many people are relying on me. I thought… I thought that perhaps if I was doing it for another reason, I could lose it and my conscience would feel unblackened. But, if the only reason I do not try is cowardice or pride… I cannot subject my tenants to that.”

  The words were an acknowledgement of what Zev already knew from his own research. The estate’s finances were in a precarious situation. Their man was walking a very fine line, paying the servants and expenses he could without accruing any more debt. It was already miracle enough that Tiral had been able to afford this current season.

  “You are ready,” Zev murmured. “Your conversation has improved greatly. You are able to talk with almost anyone and be your charming self. I’ve taught you how to avoid the pitfalls of topics best left untouched, and you know how to make one feel desired.”

  The compliment felt hollow, a reminder that those very skills had been used on Zev, who should have remained immune as a proper teacher would.

  “Thank you,” Tiral said. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Of course,” Zev said. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Tiral said, the word tight. He looked like he might say more, but instead pulled his lips closed unhappily.

  “Shall we go, then? We can at least enjoy one last afternoon of your education,” Zev said with forced cheer. The words landed softly, consumed by the quiet that had enveloped the library.

  “I have a list,” Tiral said abruptly. “Of men who my secretary thinks might be amenable to marriage for a title.”

  “Oh?” Zev asked. He couldn’t help but be curious about who was on it. Was Detzev
Laft listed?

  “I would appreciate your input. I’ve always valued your insight,” Tiral said.

  “Let me see it,” Zev said. He waited as Tiral lifted a tablet and passed it over.

  The list was short, no more than six names, and there were a few notes about each man, their age, and their profession. For all of her social-secretary inadequacy, the assistant had done a good job narrowing the field from all of Lus to six men.

  Zev knew most of them. He’d met them at parties or worked with their corporations professionally. He was slightly amused to realize that what Tiral had thought of as his forays into corporate espionage was about to be used to help marry off the Earl.

  “I’d stay away from Cirot Nept,” Zev said. “He has a reputation for being unkind to his employees. We’ve poached a few of his more intelligent people and they’ve come eagerly. It indicates that he’s not the sort of man that they would stick around for.”

  Tiral made a note on a pad he was holding and looked up, his brown eyes guarded.

  “Do any of them seem like a good match?” he asked.

  Zev stared at the list again and tried to imagine Tiral with one of them at a soirée, his contagious smile directed at one of the men on the list.

  “Yun Rit,” Zev said, finally.

  Tiral tapped the name into his tablet and frowned a bit when it pulled up a picture. He glanced between Zev and the photo; Zev, who knew he and Rit looked similar, wondered what Tiral was thinking. They had the same Vigan coloring, dark hair that was kept slightly long and swept out of their face. Their eyes were where they differed. Zev’s golden eyes were a pale green on Yun’s face. It was enough of a difference that Zev didn’t question his own motivations in suggesting Yun.

  “He’s known to be good to his staff and employees. His family owns a fair number of the hotels on Viga and Central. I believe his sister was actually supposed to marry a peer, but she fell in love with her assistant instead. I think the family would support the marriage, especially since all you want is money and not a cut of the corporation.”

  “Do you think he’d be a good match for me?” Tiral asked. “Do you think we’d be able to be friends?”

  Zev thought on the issue and spoke slowly. “I don’t know him well. From what I know, he seems kind and like he would make a good husband. I know he wants to marry; he was engaged two seasons ago, but it was called off when his fiancé’s carrier group was sent to the outer rim.”

  “So someone wanted to marry him,” Tiral said.

  “He’s a wealthy bachelor who is known to be good-looking and amiable,” Zev said. “I’m sure a great many people want to marry him.”

  “I’ll just have to get past all the angling mothers and other fortune-hunters,” Tiral said.

  “You can probably start tonight,” Zev said. “I’m sure he’ll be at the ball.”

  “So this is it,” Tiral said, his smile sad. “I hate to say goodbye.”

  “Then let’s not,” Zev said, standing. “We’ll reconvene after you’ve made his acquaintance, and I’ll help you however you need.”

  Tiral’s eyes followed Zev as he stood and he frowned, “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Zev said.

  “I think, perhaps, I should go the course alone,” Tiral said quietly. “Win or lose, it will be in my own hands and I’ll not take away any more of your time. You’ll be free to enjoy the rest of the season.”

  With a nod, Zev said, “As you wish. Then I will take my leave of you, Lord Gret, and I will wish you the very best of luck.”

  “Thank you.” Tiral turned his face away quickly, a small smile on tight lips. “Farewell, Zev.”

  Bowing a final time, Zev left the room, aware that his feet were heavier than usual, his gaze more stern. He took his gloves and hat from the footman and rushed outside.

  On the steps, he paused to decide what he would do next. He’d reserved the entire afternoon for Tiral, but now that seemed motivated by a foolish hope. What had he been expecting anyway? A recreation of their night in the garden?

  Scoffing at himself, he waved off his driver and told him he’d call him when he needed a ride. He began walking, a frown pinching his brows. He nodded when greeted, but didn’t stop for any conversation.

  Soon, he became aware of rushed footsteps following him; glancing in a window, all he could make out was the blurred shape of a woman, skirts in hand, clearly trying not to run. He slowed, curious who would be approaching him in such a hurry. He was rewarded with the woman’s company as she came up alongside him and stood too close for him to brush past.

  “Mister Yuls,” she said, voice only slightly impeded by panting breath from her exertion.

  She was a short woman, petite, if he was being kind. Her light brown hair had been pulled back appropriately into a style that seemed to toe the line between servant and scholar with a fashionable walking hat tied under her chin. Her eyes were assessing, though, and they caught on his in a way that made him feel exposed.

  “Do you know me?” she asked, abruptly.

  Frowning, Zev tried to place her face and failed. “I find I’m at a loss, I’m afraid.”

  “My name is Rexe Stof,” she said. “I’m Lord Gret’s secretary.”

  The information was a surprise. Zev looked around, slightly confused. “Ah. Did he send you with a message?”

  “No,” she said shortly. “He doesn’t know I’m here and he won’t.”

  Taking the news with a slow nod, he wondered what her intention was, since it so clearly wasn’t by her master’s wish that she had hunted him down.

  “I know who you are.” Her words were so soft that not even the most devoted eavesdropper could have heard them. “Mister Laft.”

  For a moment, Zev found himself flummoxed. He didn’t believe that Tiral would have told anyone else of his true identity, but this woman was using his last name. Then, his frown clearing, he remembered that she didn’t have to know that he was Detzev Laft in order to know his surname.

  “Yes,” he said, amused again. “Lord Gret told me that you’d discovered I’m a member of the Laft family when you found the deed to my house.”

  “Yes, but I know he doesn’t know which member, and I’m not about to tell him that he’s been spending all his time with Detzev Laft. That would be too cruel.” Her voice was soft enough that he could tell she was trying not to be overheard. “And I think we can agree that neither of us wishes to be cruel. Tiral is a great many things, but he’s kind. And good in a way that most nobles aren’t.”

  Zev nodded, unsure where she was heading with her line of thought. She did know who he was, and Tiral hadn’t told her, if she still thought he was ignorant of Zev’s identity.

  “But it’s not fair to him, and you should know that,” Rexe said. “I would hate for him to find out the information from some other source.”

  “Are you blackmailing me?” Zev asked, raising one of his brows archly. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to blackmail him, but it was the boldest. Most blackmailers were more subtle in their art.

  “Don’t be offensive,” she snapped. “I have nothing to gain from the information getting out. I was saying that if I can figure out your true identity, I’m sure others can as well.”

  “Perchance, but it hasn’t happened yet,” Zev said. “And I doubt it will when so many see me as nothing more than a seasonal diversion.”

  “You need to tell him,” Rexe said. “It’s not fair to keep it from him.”

  Zev watched her for a moment, his eyes taking in her frown and her assurance.

  “And then what?”

  “Either marry him or hire him,” Rexe said, breath exploding out of her.

  “I’ve no intention of marrying,” Zev said.

  “Then pay him to work for you. Tiral’s too kind by half to get roped into marriage with someone he doesn’t love.” She glanced at him again. “And you do love him.”

  “That you can’t know,” Zev said.
“No computer will give you that intelligence.”

  “It’s true, though,” Rexe said. “Or at least, he loves you. And so it’s not fair for you to make him fall in love with you when you are only toying with him.”

  The comment cut too close to what Zev had been thinking himself. Zev stopped walking and turned to really look at her. She met his gaze with unblinking eyes nearly as intimidating as Ovi's, and seemed to read something in his that made her shake her head disdainfully.

  “Coward,” she said. “You aren’t planning to do anything, are you?”

  Bristling, Zev snapped, “I certainly won’t be told what to do by an uppity secretary.”

  “Tiral's best graduate student,” she bit back.

  “Either way, you’ll find it hard to coerce me into doing your bidding simply because you have the right information,” Zev said.

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Rexe said. She looked at him unhappily and sighed. “I don’t know why I bothered. You clearly care less for him than I thought.”

  She turned, then, her feet moving back towards the townhouse. He said quietly, “Miss Stof.”

  She turned, her eyes narrowed. He said, “Are you planning to tell anyone the information you find yourself in possession of?”

  “Will I expose you, do you mean?” she asked, her tone disdainful. “No. As I said, it’s of no benefit to me. My only hope was that if you knew his feelings for you, you would do the right thing and offer for him. But I suppose it was too much to expect that you should prove to be a decent man.”

  Irritated, Zev wanted to argue the point, but she had already turned and started to head back. He shook his head and began his walk again, his strides longer, his expression darker. The few people he passed on his route avoided him without any attempt at a greeting.

  When he realized he had walked so far that he would need to trek the entire day just to return to his house, he called for his car. His feet were beginning to pinch in dress shoes that were intended for occasions where the most physical exertion was the walk between the dinner table and the game room. When he settled into the car, he raised the window and leaned back into the warm seat. The supple leather was a reminder of his wealth and he shook his head, glancing out the window with a sigh.