Rooks and Romanticide (21 page)

 

 

E
MILY
WINCED
.

Aunt Ophelia dodged the slam of the doors just before she was shut between them, and, just as she had three times already, without another moment's thought, she jerked them open again and stood in the threshold, hands on her hips.

“I've had enough of this!” she roared.

Her coarse and unsympathetic voice echoed in the halls. Servants cowered around corners, casting apprehensive glances when forced to pass the scene in the master wing of the house. Emily stood at the nearest turn, with the Persians behind her, whispering in their bubbling brook of a language. Aunt Ophelia's words were hasty and fierce, and the retorts that met them from inside the master bedroom were not much better.

“All I've asked for is to be left alone, Auntie!”

“You've been slinking around the house like death itself, Cain, and frankly, I'm sick of it! I'm not asking you to let me into your little kingdom of trouble, but good Lord, you can't just decide to be a moody spoiled child again without any sort of responsibility for it. Your father wouldn't have had it, and I certainly won't either!”

“Then leave me be.”

“It's been
ten days
of this, my beloved nephew, ever since you stormed off the scene in the Pavilion—”

“
Just leave me be, Ophelia
!”

“We're a week into December, with many business items to consider before the end of the year. We've received letter after letter from the public and other lords, including Lord Ruslaniv, regarding God knows what. They've just been added to the rest of the pile in your office because business cannot proceed without the word of the Earl!”

“I don't
care
about any of that right now. I refuse to so much as
read
the names of those filthy, flea-ridden dogs!”

“You don't
care
? Are you ill? If you're not delirious, you're
mad
, and I'll be forced to—”

“Please, Auntie. I'm just in a foul state of mind. There is nothing you can do about it, and it's not like you're my nurse or my mother, so just
let me be
!”

There it was, a firm and hateful statement cold as the pit of Hell according to Dante. And there, again, the crack of Cain's palms against the door and the rush of air as he heaved them shut. But this time the movement was halted by the powerful smack of Aunt Ophelia catching the thick, masterfully carved doors in ready hands.

Emily could see it all from around the corner, hands clasped worriedly against her chin. Cain glowered up at his aunt, and Aunt Ophelia returned the murderous scowl. Cain seemed to falter for a moment. Emily thought about the way he'd been the last week and a half, after he and all of Security had rushed out to Dmitri's Pavilion at short notice.

He'd been sullen, and brusque, and vile, eyes damning everyone and everything they observed. He'd pushed one maid to tears with his insufferable attitude. Emily had caught her in the hallway after elevenses, trying to weep in secret, and Emily didn't want to admit that her fiancé was being such a despicable monster of a man, but it was the truth. He was almost intolerable, and despotic. And he wouldn't speak to her, and he wouldn't even look at her. Even when he sighed and touched her hand to bid her good night, he wouldn't meet her eyes. It pained her.

There was a hush in the hallway that lasted perhaps one simple second before it soured, warping into something dangerous. Aunt Ophelia's nails scraped against fine dark wood as her hand left the door in a flash, slapping across Cain's face.

The sound of skin on skin echoed in the corridor, sharp, and what followed was a deathly silence. Even the eavesdropping servants quieted. The last Emily heard before Cain shrank away into his bedroom with head hanging, his aunt following him in and closing the thick doors, was Ophelia's voice, low and menacing:

“
I won't have you acting like such a fool in front of your future wife. Now get your spoiled ass inside your room, so we can talk without the whole house listening in
….”

Sometimes Emily felt like she was alone in the big Dietrich house—with the servants, sure, but also with the ghosts and secrets of the noble family.

Sometimes she missed the country.

Sometimes she wanted to learn to shoot a gun.

 

 

H
E
FELT
bruised, all over. Inside and out, like he had when his father had disapproved of something and taken him into his den for
a talk
.

Cain knew that his aunt had been able to see the injured pride, the subdued rage burning in his eyes after she'd slapped him, but a childhood of
talks
with his father had taught him that, even as the earl now, and even as the earl in the future, there would forever be times when elders dominated. His ego ached just like his cheek, and he remembered the way his head would spin after a number of chastising smacks in his father's den.

In front of your future wife
! she'd said. It was only salt in a deep and unhealing wound.

Cain was alone in his room now. Aunt Ophelia was long gone, but the power of her words still sizzled in the air, hanging over him like a fever.

He paced at the foot of his bed, rubbing his eyes. They felt tired and glassy and sick. The silence was alive, it seemed, and suffocating him. The distant rushing of water in the house pipes, the tick of the giltwood clock on the mantle, the soft whispers of his bare feet in the white fur of his rug. Mocking him.
Silly man, silly, silly man, falling head over heels for the snake in the grass….

A Ruslaniv.

A Ruslaniv supporter, at the very least.

A
liar
and a
thief
and a
spy
!

Or maybe none of those things, but that was the worst part—the
not knowing
. The tangled, crushing questions and the emptiness where answers should have been. Levi sure as hell hadn't come around to explain yet, had he? And he hadn't sent any sort of courier wondering why Cain had halted all correspondence, an obvious sign of guilt. Nothing could convince Cain otherwise.

Whatever the answers or pathetic reasoning, he just couldn't get over it.

He was sick with it; his body ached with it. The betrayal, the sting of something akin to abandonment. All too like the death of hope under a misused church.

It wasn't fair!

The fury, the shame at being deceived, and the disgust that he had opened himself up to someone who quite possibly held the key to his demise in the same hands that had loved him,
ooh
—

And yet, the seething anger was not enough to blanket against the cold of despair, the chastened pain.

Because he'd been fond of Levi.

He'd
let
himself be fond of Levi.

And the lying, abominable bastard had just yanked all of that out of his grasp again, reminding him of the disgrace and revulsion that had
killed
him a few years ago. To be used and discarded… it
hurt
!

He had duties. He was the Lord of the Dietrich house. He had responsibilities that did not belong to his aunt, his uncle, his cousins, his feeble old grandmother out in the country, or any of the others who had tried so hard to run the family in the absence of an heir years ago. He was Cain Dietrich, engaged to Miss Emily Kelley. He was nobility, and of course he was not given the freedom to seek happiness on his own. He lived for the Dietrich name, and that was it. That was the ball and chain.

But he couldn't say that to Aunt Ophelia. She wouldn't understand.

All he'd been able to do was sit on his bed and stare at his feet while she reminded him of his place, of his reputation, of his
responsibilities
. Sometimes people as important as him could not afford to have a time of foul state of mind, she'd reprimanded. There was too much to take care of, and if he wasn't capable of accepting these responsibilities as a young man still plagued by adolescence's lingering erratic moods, well, something might have to be done about that. It was a threat.

Alone now, Cain climbed onto the foot of his bed and sat cross-legged, dropping his face to his hands and struggling to remain in control of his emotions. He'd never had trouble with it before, not after coming back home after his parents' murder; but this
hurt
!

No matter where his mind was, it always ended up coming back around to Levi, his ace in the sleeve. Or so he'd thought.
Levi.
Damn, it
hurt
. It hurt deep inside, heart hot and chest tight with anguish. Cain's jaw tightened. His fingers fisted in his hair.

He hadn't taken dinner again. He was vaguely hungry—or at least in need of some kind of nourishment. Maybe he'd wander down to the kitchen and make Weston fix him something to eat. Something that went well with scotch, because that's what he wanted more than anything else. Something to burn and numb at the same time.

The double doors to the balcony were slightly ajar. It was cold now that he'd calmed a little. Cain slid off the bed, trudging over to close the doors—but he stopped, picking up on the scent of tobacco. The aroma was sweet and pungent, and it came from out under the balcony.

Cain shoved forth outside and leaned over past the stone gargoyle, his granite friend who held so many of his secrets behind those austere, unseeing eyes. Full of rancor, Cain fired down below: “
Oh, you're a bloody bastard fool
!”

Levi stood under the balcony with one hand on the vine-covered wall of the house, perfectly out of view from any surrounding windows. He knew the routine too well, unfortunately. With his free hand, he smoked a Turkish cigarette, and as he stared up at Cain in this casual posture, Levi certainly didn't deny that he was a bloody fool. He smoked his cigarette a moment longer, then put it out on the wall and slipped the remaining half of it into his pocket. His brow knotted.

He said—in a perfectly reasonable tone and that damnable lovely voice””I'm no bastard, I'm afraid. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Cain glared down at him with a rage far too easy to offer. It didn't seem right, to send such scathing hatred that way, at that wonderful blond hair and those dark, expressive eyes. The fur of that collar framed Levi's face so handsomely.

“I don't want you here,” Cain hissed.

“I don't believe you,” Levi returned coldly.

Cain clenched his teeth against a shiver, the December night nippy. He could feel himself getting all sorts of worked up. “I should have upped security. I can't believe I failed to assume that something as dirty as you would come sneaking around again.”

“Hey,” Levi countered briskly, “maybe you didn't up security because you
wanted
something as dirty as me to come sneaking around. My lord, don't forget you've been
kissing
something as dirty as me.” He grasped the vines along the wall with both hands as if in silent threat that he'd climb up if he felt the need. He didn't smile. There was a spark of something predatory and tenacious somewhere in his narrowed eyes. He clearly held no intention of leaving. Cain scoffed.

“Please, I've already vomited and confessed twice because of such filth. Listen, my hatred is boiling, but my will is weary. I'll give you five minutes to get as far away from here as you can before I send my—”

“You've been
talking
to something as dirty as me,” Levi added, effortlessly evading Cain's insults. “You can't deny it,” he said, voice falling softly to a more intimate volume as he started to climb up to the balcony as easily as he had many nights in the last month. “Cain—my lord—Earl Dietrich, I'm just going to explain.”

“You're so certain you're going to explain! You don't even ask, you just assume I'll listen? Ha!” Cain offered a few rude gestures, backing up against his balcony doors. “What is there to explain? I've been exploited. I've been used. You've been hiding things from me, which is quite clear and irrefutable, and I won't accommodate a liar and a snitch. I'm going to call Security! Better yet, I'll shoot you myself!” Cain scowled as Levi's head crested the floor of the balcony. “
Why are you still climbing up here
? My gun is right—”

He shut up as Levi climbed over the top of the balcony, and he winced away a few more steps as he saw the look in Levi's eyes—confusing eyes, eyes that could be soft in one moment and sly the next. But in that breath, they looked dangerous with hardened guilt. Cain's hands shook.

“Who are you? Why were you there, in Dmitri's Pavilion? Why didn't you come talk to me right away? What is your connection to the Ruslanivs?” Cain demanded, jaw tight, and he was ashamed to hear the emotion ripe in his voice.

Levi drew a tiny breath and seemed to hold it for a moment the way he held Cain with his stare, strung somewhere now between that heavy guilt and something a little more irredeemable.

Finally, in a slow and empty way, Levi confessed, “Lord Ruslaniv is my father.”

Cain dodged for his Rapier.

“
You son of a bitch! You infernal lying son of a bitch! You
—”

Seemingly without a struggle—and whether that was due to Levi's skills or the way Cain's fighting spirit was being burned to ashes by the blazing rage, or due in part to both these things—Levi snatched Cain by the wrist and threw him up against one of the balcony doors. It rattled and thudded behind him. Levi's hand sealed his mouth shut, and his eyes were aflame with every last bit of his merciless resolve as he hissed, “You be quiet, little earl, or do you
want
to be found like this?”