The Unknowing Heir

“Why are you wearing it then?” Valentin smiled – on the verge of a laugh. “Personally, I think you look serious.” 

A tiny shiver ran down his spine. He lied through his teeth: “That’s wonderful!” He was a bad liar. “Will you stay much longer or return home soon, feeling accomplished?” 

Wow, Americans were really bad at being polite, weren’t they? He laughed again, just as shallow of a sound as his smile had been. “I’m having a lovely evening, the only disappointment being that whoever-he who promised me my dance does not remember me.” As he didn’t want to be remembered, though, he took advantage of a twirl and a partner-change to change Mister Smith’s ideas.

“It was the only costume I could come up with,” Roger answered. “My decision to attend tonight was rather…spontaneous.” And, between the uncomfortable shoes, the even more uncomfortable mask, and this ridiculous accent that was becoming more and more of a struggle to hold onto after so many hours of drinking and dancing, quite possibly a mistake.

He laughed a little at the next question. “Oh, I’ll see the Season to its end, no doubt about that. I’m only just getting started, and certain recent events have made me even more confident of how far I’ll be able to go.” He certainly did feel accomplished. But satisfied…that was a different question, and its answer was “not yet.”

“Ouff,” Ira grinned, hand to the heart. “Heartless Romantic, then.” But of course, Smith had already explained that. A heartless romantic indeed. Fine then, Ira had found what he’d hoped not to find, but it was found, and at least it allowed resolution now for a plan.

He laughed. “Luckily for you, you don’t have to. Thanks for the drink,” he patted the counter, heavy-handed. “I leave now before you do end up thinking I was trying to scam you. Was nice meeting you, though.” 

Heartless romantic. Roger wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, although he didn’t bother protesting it. He liked to think he still had a heart even if he didn’t often let it lead him, still mixed plenty of truth in with his lies, still had a moral compass guiding him even if its needle was shakier than other people’s. But Mr. Vaisman was making him reconsider that, and wonder if maybe he’d only fooled himself into thinking it, as easily as he fooled everyone else.

“Nice meeting you, too,” Roger answered automatically as the other man took his leave. But, truthfully, he wasn’t entirely sure it had been.

“Aw,” Ira cooed, which in his mouth sounded more than mocking, “one true love? Or rather one true ass? Or, no, one true dowry, aye?” Despite the rudeness of his words, he bat his lashes as though he was speaking about romance.

He laughed. “Oh, yes, I’m very romantic. That’s why I’m sweet on the daughter of an Earl and dream about marrying her all the time, while still very much having an affair with the brother of one of her best friends. Pure romance.” 

"One true anything," Roger said easily. "I'm not particular, as long as it gets me where I'm wanting to go." He reached for his drink and sipped at it a little.

“Hey, same here. Love the sun, love the Summer, really do, but if my future bride has to sweat on her special day? Not happening.” The mention of the snapdragons had him smirk a bit, mostly because he always thought they looked rather … phallic. But whatever floats your boat, right? If you needed those at your wedding, then so be it. He laughed. “Are you not afraid they’ll come and speak up last moment? Oh please, Smithy, marry me instead!” The last bit was squeaked in a terrible imitation of a woman’s voice.

He nodded but said nothing. Dreams. Dreams were … something.

"They can speak up, if they want," Roger said, shrugging one shoulder, brushing off the concern as if it was nothing at all. "If I'd already chosen who I was marrying, I wouldn't be about to change my mind, no matter what anyone said. I don't go back on a choice, once I've made it, even if it looks to be the wrong one. I prefer to wait it out and see where it takes me." In truth, he wouldn't have to worry about any past lovers showing up at his wedding; his mind had always been on other matters, and it still was. Marriage, for him, would come one of two ways: either it would be after he had reached his goals and had enough time to start considering the romantic side of things, or it would come with an opportunity he couldn't pass up, and be the catalyst that launched him into everything he'd dreamed. For now he was content to wait and see which it would be.

Valentin was nervous. All he wanted to do was run and tell someone what he had just heard, instead he needed to play it off, at least for long enough to draw no suspicions. 

The fact that he had straight up lied about the promised dance, and that the lie was simply called out, didn’t make it better. “Oh, you,” he laughed, and hoped it was enough. Once in position, he asked: “How’s your evening been, then? Your stay, so far?” 

Now Roger was beginning to relax, at least a little. He'd been determined to enjoy himself tonight, and whatever this interruption turned out to be, he didn't intend to give up on that goal just yet. Not until he had a real reason to. "As far as the evening goes," he laughed, "truth be told, I feel like an idiot in this outfit, and I'll be absolutely shocked if I don't take at least one scandalous fall down a staircase in these shoes. But all that aside, this is quite the event. I've enjoyed it more than I thought I would."

He was a little less forthcoming about the second question, just to be on the safe side. "As for London, if you'd asked me how I liked it the first week or two I was here, I might have told you it didn't agree with me and I was more than ready to return home. But I've developed a taste for it, so to speak. Starting to accomplish what I came for, and I could hardly ask for better than that."

“Nah, too late,” Ira said, grinning, “you’re Mr Romantic now in my eyes. Have you thought about which flowers you’ll want, too? Summer or Winter wedding? Oh, are you going to invite the women you loved before or is that a big no-no for you?” No. Bottom line was that Smith would do anything for business. And that was a thought Ira wasn’t sure he liked. 

“Very much salmon swimming against the stream, yes.” 

What a weird thing to say. Weird, not because it didn’t make sense, not because Ira couldn’t imagine it to be true for America, not because he thought he had acted so very unpolitical until now but because… Well. “It’s kind of the first time someone’s telling me that.” 

Roger couldn't hold back a laugh at that. Jokes were something he rarely encountered, since there was always a double meaning to any conversation he had. "A winter wedding," he said, matching Vaisman's grin. "White snapdragons, I think, for the flowers, and maybe a few carnations. As for the women, of course, all of them, why not? Oh, and whoever the one I'm marrying turns out to be, I'll serenade her outside her window for a week beforehand. Just as icing on the romantic cake. I like to be certain of things."

So it was Mr Smith. Shit. Valentin wasn’t sure if he was terrified of what that meant for all those who had agreed to Mr Smith’s schemes, or relieved that he’d finally gotten his answer. Either way, he too, kept his smile.

“Of course! I’m sorry. Call me Tuliptoes then.” He held out his delicate, bare arm, improvising on the fly. “I was promised a dance, I want one now.” Anything to explain why he had called him.

“Love!” Ira exclaimed in a snorted laugh. “Who says anything about love!” He hadn’t, that was for sure. But he was happy to bite. “So you’d only marry out of love? That’s awfully romantic of you.” And he gave Smith a few heavy pats on the shoulder, still grinning. “So you’d do it? You’d give up everything to look after a shitty little county for the rest of your life? For love?!” 

So London it was for now. Ira wasn’t quite sure what he had hoped for. Maybe that Smith would be too eager to move to the new project, prove himself eternally bored of the now, always wanting more. Or maybe that Smith was too loyal to his home country, or indeed so fixated on the idea of bringing modernity that he’d never even think about doing something small and insignificant with his life. As it were, it sounded like he was ready to take life head-on, whatever it would throw at him. And Ira wasn’t sure if he liked that. “Recommendable,” he said instead. And because he didn’t want the conversation to feel like an interrogation, he added something about himself: “I like to think I’m the same. Just going with the flow. But of course, that’s harder to say for a footman.” 

“I like you for it,” he said, and actually rather meant it. But to be called a politician?! He laughed, barking this time. “Politician?!” he said, confused and amused at the same time. “That’s a bit grand of a title for me, isn’t it?” 

"You misunderstand me," Roger said. "Or perhaps I misunderstand you. I'm not intending to marry anytime soon, but when I do, I'd hoped there would be some element of love involved. If, however, I had to let go of that hope in order to take advantage of an opportunity that would come only with a marriage, I'd find a way to set that dream aside. It's my business dreams that matter most to me right now, and I'll do my best to make them come true even if I have to give up some of the others."

So, Mr. Vaisman felt the same way, did he? That wasn't too hard to believe. Roger could already tell that the two of them weren't entirely unlike each other, despite coming from such different backgrounds. Though he could sympathize with Vaisman's lot in the world affording him less freedom over his life than Roger had over his. "Yes," he said. "I imagine the flow might be a little more...rigid, in your case."

Valentin had missed the better half of this conversation. He’d been dancing, in his pretty and swishy green dress, and returned only to the land of the wall-liners when his partner had to excuse himself. He stood alone for a little while, feeling a little lost, then spotted the by now almost familiar frame and pale-white colouring of Prince Alexander. He’d been looking for him all night! Now, he’d be able to snatch him and bring him to Dinah, and marriage would be right around the corner! 

But as he approached, he overheard a name. His name. And his heart stumbled heavier than his feet, pushing him around to give him an air of accidental proximity. His eyes were on the dance floor, but his ears were tuned sharply onto the conversation behind him. For a just long enough moment, he feared that the person who had spoken was Prince Alexander himself. But no. No, of course not. That wasn’t his voice. His tone. His … accent? 

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. Shit! And all the other bad curse words he couldn’t use! Shit! What should he do? Run? Tell someone? Interrupt?! No. No, much more simple: He needed to out the speaker for who he really was. He already had a witness to those words, Prince Alexander himself, but it would be of no use if neither face nor name were attached to that confession.

So, taking a deep breath, Valentin swung around and approached the group of men. “Roger?!” he asked, and his soft voice accommodated the lady’s voice he was playing quite well. “Roger, I’ve been looking for you.”

Just because Roger had thrown caution to the wind tonight didn't mean he'd lost his ability to read a situation, to recognize danger signs and get himself as far from them as he could. Though he'd mostly been employing his quick smile since entering the ballroom, he still had his quick wit at the ready- as his skillfully manipulated conversation with the gentlemen proved- and he was more than ready to make a quick getaway if something happened to go in a way he wasn't hoping for.

And as far as danger signs went, a masked, unidentifiable woman he was absolutely positive he'd never seen in his life, who not only knew his name but had actively been seeking him out, and was not afraid to approach him in the middle of a group of men, was a very, very clear one. Though his smile never wavered, he was immediately on guard.

DATE: June 9th, towards the middle of the evening

PLACE: Outside the ballroom]

STATUS: Closed, for @valentin-talbot

Roger hadn't been sure about the ball in the least. He'd worried about making a venture into high society and wondered whether he was truly ready for it. He'd felt like an idiot in his ridiculous outfit. He'd even had trouble, for the first few minutes, keeping a smile on his face.

But all that was over with now. Now, a few hours into the ball, he was truly enjoying himself for the first time since he'd come to London.

There had been food. A lot of it. And drinks, although he was more moderate with those, knowing he'd have to keep his wits about him and maintain his accent if he wanted to keep himself truly anonymous. He'd been more than happy to embrace a different sort of character for the night than the one he usually played, and there'd been a steady stream of ladies equally as happy to let Puck charm them into a dance or two.

At least until those stupid leaf-shoes made any further dancing a difficult prospect. Then he'd taken his leave of both the ladies and the dance floor, and, just as in the play, vanished.

It didn't take him long to find something else to occupy his attention, inserting himself neatly into a group of Lysanders who seemed to have deserted their respective Hermias (or Helenas, he could never remember which was which) in favor of clustering on one of the benches for a little conversation. The subject, luckily enough, was business, and in no time at all he'd taken complete command of the discussion, managing to make it amusing enough that none of the other gentlemen minded.

Somehow, after about half an hour or so, the talk had turned to more recent ventures here in London, over the course of the Season. And, having only one such venture to speak of, Roger had proceeded to speak of it. He left out names, of course, but he described in great detail the deal he'd struck with Mister Forester, and how eagerly and naively the other man had fallen for every word of it.

"Of course I meant what I said, about helping him get started in business," he finished. "Perhaps someday he'll be making the same kinds of deals. But I'll be helping myself, too, and naturally, I'll be my first priority."

Right. Ruthless, then. “Would you marry the daughter of an Earl if she had power over the local infrastructure?” he asked, point-blank. “Even if that meant you’d be inevitably stuck with that locality forever? Or rather, would you be interested in joining the Peerage to help your business?” 

“That says something,” he smirked a little, taking a sip of his beer. “You got plans for after London, then? Maybe going into this Wild West of yours? Maybe going to the colonies, discovering new land, if there’s still such a thing? Disappearing forever and becoming a legend?” 

The response came so out of left field, that Ira couldn’t help but laugh. “I’d like to know the same!” he grinned, genuinely amused now. “Maybe they think you too modern. That scares them. They all hear ‘trains’, think ‘socialism’, then imagine their heads rolling in a basket.”

Well, that was a loaded question if he'd ever heard one. And Roger had too often had an ulterior motive himself not to recognize one now. There was something behind this conversation, something this man was driving at. He answered a bit more carefully than before.

"I'd always hoped, when I did have time for love, it would be the one thing I could keep separate from the business part of my life," he said. "But, that being said, I'm not one to miss an opportunity. If one came along, hand in hand with an Earl's daughter, then I'd have to have a very good reason to pass it up."

After London. Strangely enough, even in all his scheming ahead of the Season, he'd never thought about after London. London itself had seemed enough to handle. "The West is still too uncertain for my liking," he said. "Maybe one day, though. And I've got too many dreams to be interested in disappearing just yet. Where I go after this is all in the hands of fate, I suppose."

“Yes, yes, wonderful,” Benny blabbered, excited enough to give a full body shiver as he sat in his chair. “Well, wonderful, you can draw one up, yes? And I shall sign, and then,” Benny’s fists drummed on the table, and made dregs of beer in their glasses shake and slosh, “bam! Business!” Yes, business! Entrepreneurship! Success! Benny could hardly wait. If there were papers before him at that moment he would have signed straight away. Unfortunately, there were not. All he could do was fidget in his seat as if he had sat upon an anthill, grinning with pure glee. His future was finally going to be within his own hands.

The compliments landed, and Benny quickly turned into something semi-bashful and semi-proud, smiling more at the table than Mister Smith. Him, a natural. Him, obviously sincere! How wonderful, how absolutely wonderful. He opened his mouth to give modest cries of ‘oh, no, you are simply a natural teacher!’ yet before he could the question came, and Benny halted, accidentally biting his tongue in the process.

“Oh,” he said, trying his best to think of anything which he hadn’t mentioned, things which would impact their lovely little venture. “Uh, hm…” Benny’s mind was very, very blank. “I don’t think so? We have a high street, a church, the doctor’s office. The harbour. There’s very little to say about the rest. Oh! Oh, but I have yet to actually procure the factory. I will, mind you! Of course I will. But for the moment, it is not actually mine. So. Yes. That.” Yes, actually, Benny wondered if he should have made that clear, earlier. He was suddenly struck with the fear that Mister Smith would recant his offer. “It will be mine, though. You really needn’t fear. Think- think of my investment as insurance. I’ll get it. I really shall.”

“You can draw one up, yes?”

It took absolutely everything Roger had in him not to answer that question with flat-out laughter. He’d been too kind, branding Mister Forester merely naive; that word didn’t go far enough. He almost shook his head in pity- and not false pity, either, you couldn’t help but pity this poor young idiot- but just in time he caught himself and turned the movement into an easy nod. Oh, he could have a contract drawn up, alright. One that placed a great deal of the risk on Mister Forester’s end of the bargain, and a great deal of the reward on his own. Really, he wasn’t doing anything wrong by that. It was exactly what any successful businessman did, and if he wasn’t quite what could called be successful yet, well, he’d be there soon enough.

He waved off the matter of the cider factory. So Mister Forester had promised a bit more than he actually had to give. Well, so had he, even if he was the only one of the two of them who knew it. “That won’t be a problem,” he said. “With an investment as proof of good faith, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll have your name on that factory’s deed in no time. And of course, as your partner, I’d do my best to help things along if you did run into any trouble.”

  With that said, he brushed his hands together briskly and stood up, no longer bothering to restrain the bright grin that threatened to split his face. “If that’s the only thing you can think of, I think we can consider this a bargain struck. I’ll get that contract drawn up as quickly as possible, and after that, as they say, the sky’s the limit.” Ending their meeting the way it began, he offered his hand to the other man. “I know it’s a little trite, but please, believe me when I say it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“A business man, yeah?” Ira asked, leaning back on the bar stool to regard Smith with open scrutiny. “And how you’re gonna do that?” Certainly not by becoming the next Earl of St Maur County, that was for certain. 

“Land of dreams, land of dreams. Why coming to London, then? Your dream too small for the big ones over there?” Do you know what future could really await you here?

“Oh, so you’re planning on staying that long? A whole year? You sure you won’t suffocate in all this smallness and slowness?” When the question was returned Ira gave it a grin and a shrug. “Nothing as exciting as your reasons, Sir. Am just a simple footman. I go where my employers go, and make sure their glasses are always filled with wine. Though,” there was no harm in saying it, right? “I do have some ambitions of my own. Politics, to be precise. Ever heard of socialism?” 

Roger shrugged. With anyone else, he might have taken that question- how was he going to do that?- and used it as an invitation to launch full force into his usual explanation into his plans. But this conversation didn’t seem like much of an opportunity, and besides, he’d come here tonight to have some time away from all that. So he kept his answer short. “However I have to do it, as long as it’s done in the end. I’m not particularly choosy about how I have to go about it.”

He shook his head, smirking at the mere suggestion that he might ever have a dream too small for anything. “Not too small,” he answered. “Too quick, maybe. I like things to move fast, and even New York wasn’t keeping up with me, so here I am. As to how long I’m staying, that depends on a great many things.” Like how many more golden opportunities were handed to him, how well he made use of them, and how cleverly he could hide the fact that he had little more than dreams and promises to work with. If any of those things happened to go south, he’d more than likely make himself scarce in London, with even more than his usual speed.

Roger spends a great deal of time talking himself into attending the ball, convincing himself that it’s the perfect first foray into the high society he hopes one day to be part of. By the time he’s made up his mind to go, there’s not enough time left for a costume.

So he gets one the way he gets everything else: by keeping his ears open and striking up the right conversation at the right time. He spends a very long evening at a club serving as a sympathetic listening ear for some lord whose name he immediately forgets, whose son, near Roger’s age, seems to have run off to Italy with a pair of friends for a wild, wine-soaked and completely spur-of-the-moment trip, leaving his parents with a scandal to mop up and an expensive costume going to waste. It takes a while- the lord likes to ramble- but eventually Roger steers the conversation the way he planned to, and soon, for only a fraction of what was originally paid for it, he finds himself in possession of the perfect costume- Puck, the quick-witted trickster, manipulating the events of the play however he pleases, with a smile always on his face. It suits Roger just fine.

Well, the character does, at least. The costume, not so much. The lord’s son is somehow both pudgier and less vertically challenged than Roger, so there’s no hope of using the main parts of the ensemble. After some thought, he replaces them with a simple green waistcoat and brown pants, hoping the rest of the outfit is ostentatious enough to make up for it. The shoes are alright, if a bit snug (and a bit ridiculous-looking, designed to seem like they’re made out of leaves), and the cape made of leather branches is fine once he figures out how to get it on without poking himself in the eye. The mask is shaped like a moth, and it would probably be more comfortable to just have an actual moth glued to his face, but there’s no help for that.

Valentin smiled. “That is a good answer,” he replied, and meant it quite earnestly. Mr Smith was a realist then, perhaps, and not a mere, blinded optimist. “But perhaps you ought to find out. Britain’s past, I mean, naturally.” Because of course he wasn’t going to tell a stranger to find out more about his own past. Of course not. He’d, at the most, give him the idea and see what might happen. 

It depends on what Valentin called darkness. It depended on what Valentin called a win. It was interesting that Mr Smith rarely spoke of what he considered one or the other. Valentin nodded. “And in the end none of it matters because she who dictates the unspoken rules of our county will tell you what you want.”

He rose. “I should be going. I do hope to see you again at one of the great events of the Season. Until then, it was very nice to meet you.” And because he had read somewhere that Americans liked that, he extended his hand for a shake. 

Before this conversation, Roger would have dismissed the suggestion about Britain's history out of hand, placing it firmly in the category of the many things that, frankly, didn't interest him in the least. Now, however...now he wasn't so sure. If there was something he could learn from the country's bygones, or perhaps even from his own past, there was no sense in ignoring the opportunity. "Wouldn't be the worst idea," he agreed, "since my path seems to have led me here, for better or for worse. I don't care much for the past, but I might as well see what it's made of before I start trying to change it."

He frowned, slightly, at the next comment. "None of it matters?" he repeated. "Not sure I'd say that. I know some would- that's another of those things I'd like to change someday, but me? I've always known what I want, and known it too well to let anyone tell me I want something different."

No, this certainly wasn't the kind of conversation he was used to. But he'd enjoyed it, somehow, and he was glad to shake the other man's hand before they parted ways. The last few words rang in his head for the rest of that evening: one of the great events of the Season. Buckingham Palace seemed beyond him, but maybe attending one of the other events wouldn't be the worst idea either. It'd be a chance to try out the suggestion of working from the top down. There was no way to know if it would work, but he had never been the type to be afraid of trying.

It wasn't a certainty, not by any stretch. But then again, when it came to him, neither was anything else. He’d learned, by now, to embrace that.

He didn’t need to admit it. As Valentin averted his gaze in a polite manner of accepting the words and agreeing to change the topic, he had already seen enough. Heard enough. “Very well.”

The next words had him smile again however – though he wasn’t certain if he had stopped smiling once since beginning this conversation. After all, it was polite to smile. It expressed mildness. All this were lessons Valentin had been taught to follow all his life. “Without wishing to overstep boundaries, Mr Smith, may I ask what you know about the darkness of the past? Specifically the past in our little Britain?” It wasn’t at all an attack filled with doubt. It was once again but a mere question, trying to figure Mr Smith out. 

“Oh, well, we don’t know who the old owner is as of now. It’s quite a mystery, and naturally that makes it hard to buy the factory and rebuild it, as some important names in our town are eager to do. But I suppose that once the old owner is found, which is only a matter of time, it won’t be difficult to buy it from them, seeing how right now, they’re most certainly not profiting from the factory. So any sum exchanged for the purchase would be a win on their side, wouldn’t it be?” 

These, Roger had already decided, were very strange questions. Hardly the kinds of things you asked a man you'd just met, at least not in New York anyway. Maybe things were different in London. Or maybe that was just what a priest did with everyone they encountered, prying a bit deeper than someone else might have, asking harder questions with more complicated answers.

Whatever the case, he found he didn't exactly mind it. "The darkness of the past," he repeated, considering for a moment. "I doubt I could say what I know of that until I know what you might call darkness. Plenty of things in the world that could be given that name. But I will say this- even if I'm a dreamer, even if I like to see the best potential in things, I don't pretend life is brighter than it is, or that everyone's as lucky as I am. I know there are people who don't know what having a dream is like, let alone having the means to go after it. I'd like to change that someday, if I can." He paused a moment. "As to England, I can't say much on that at all. I don't remember much of my past here, let alone all the social complexities. The memories I have are the good ones, not the dark."

“Oh, yeah? Like what? Is there even such a thing as a definite way to make a living? I mean, the world is constantly changing, round and round it goes, and there’s no way to go back into the past. The only thing that is a stable thing we do every day, is breaking bread. And I tell you, even if you were paid for breaking bread, you’d still not be sure you’d be able to do it until the rest of your life.”

Ira gave the man’s response a barking laugh – and despite its loud and explosive manner, it wasn’t a dishonest laugh. He held out his hand heartily. “Ira Vaisman of Manchester, Sir. Same goes, same goes. So how’s the famous city across the pond? As sparkly as they say? Got a girl?” The three question followed in an easy flow, like the beats of a drum, coming and coming and coming, rather giving a beat more than being the melody on top of it. “I’m obviously just asking about the girl because I’m still trying to get my kissing-quote full for tonight.” 

Round and round it goes. Now there was a sentiment Roger could agree with. "I agree with you there," he said. "Luckily my business has nothing to do with the past. Matter of fact, I believe it's exactly what's going to carry the world into the future. You're right, the world's changing, so I'm making sure I know how to change with it."

The next few questions came rapid-fire, and between that and the accent Roger had to take a moment to make sure he'd really understood them. "New York is as much as you've heard and more, and that's the only way I can think of to describe it," he said, not afraid to wax a little sentimental in front of a man who probably wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning. "It's the kind of place where anything might happen. Unfortunately, the kind of things I'm needing seem to be happening a little faster in London, otherwise I never would have left."