I just want to say that there is no continuity between any of my fics. They're all their own isolated AUs. Normally I'd feel no need to clarify, but given as I recently posted another fic with a very different explanation for why Lemony is following the Baudelaires, I want to prevent the any chance of people combining the two. The reason why should be obvious if you've read both.
Violet didn't tell her siblings about the man. Sunny wouldn't understand, and Klaus—Klaus didn't need another reason to worry about her. After all, Violet was the eldest. It was her job to protect her siblings, not the other way around. If she was harmed, it would be her own fault, and she would deal with it. Her siblings' safety and happiness came first.
Besides, she couldn't assume he was out to harm her, even taking into account his preference for trench coats and his tendency to hide his face. She knew better than to hold that against him. She still remembered days when she would come downstairs to her mother reading the Daily Punctilio with a frown on her face. "Violet," she'd say, "never believe what others say about a person until you meet them yourself. Rumors are terrible things, and they've driven plenty of noble people into deep hiding." If there was one thing Violet was sure of, it was that he behaved like a man in hiding.
Even if he was innocent, though, it didn't change that he was always there, watching. He wasn't like Count Olaf, who hid in plain sight and then struck suddenly. This man had never struck at all. But he was always there, standing in the shadows or walking on the other side of the street. No bystander would notice the way he always had his gaze fixed on them—no, on her. He only cared about one of the three siblings, of that Violet was certain, and she was that one.
That was why he worried her. Despite his attempts to hide his face, she'd seen how he looked at her, the same way Count Olaf had all through The Marvelous Marriage. The leering had continued even after the play itself had stopped, and peaked on one particular sentence: "Now, if you will excuse me, my bride and I need to go home for our wedding night." His eyes had shone then, but not like they usually had. Instead of a piercing stare, eyes glossy with greed, he made a series of scans over her body, her chest, the place her thighs met. That, more than anything else, had made her want want to grab her siblings and run far, far away from him.
She had seen Klaus watching on the side of the stage, his eyes wide with horror. It was clear he understood the meaning of such a look, even if Violet had never dared discuss it with him. From then on, whenever Count Olaf was near, she had caught Klaus fixing his attention on Violet, always looking over at her, always clutching her hand. He had whispered to her as they were escaping Heimlich Hospital in the trunk of Count Olaf's car, so quietly she knew he didn't want Sunny to hear. "Are you alright? Did anything happen?" Violet knew exactly what "anything" meant, and she hated that her twelve-year-old brother had cause to worry about it. But what she truly loathed was that though she told Klaus she was fine, that she had just been dragged away and then immediately put under anesthetic, when he asked, so faintly she wasn't even sure if she was supposed to hear it, "and nothing happened while you were under?" she could only answer, "I don't think so." The anesthetic had made her entire body heavy, and though she thought she would be able to tell, she was no longer so sure. Not when every inch of her still felt numb, and the feeling lingered until she woke in the next morning.
After seeing Klaus' reaction, even Sunny had understood that Violet was in danger, and in different danger than her siblings. If either of them knew that another man was following her, they would no longer sleep, consumed with worry, and Violet only wished that was an unreasonable reaction. But fear was logical. They were grown men—if either got tired of looking on from afar, Violet knew there was nothing she could do.
But unlike Count Olaf, she trusted the other man to never cross that line, to look but not touch. It wasn't because he clung to the shadows and hid his face, proving that he knew it was despicable and yet couldn't help himself. It was because she recognized him.
Tucked between the pages of an old book on eavesdropping devices on the top shelf of the Baudelaire library, she had found a picture. She has already noticed the book was the only one on that shelf not coated in dust, but she hadn't realized why until she saw that photo. It was one of her mother, wearing a single ring on her left hand that she didn't recognize. The man she stood with seemed uncomfortable with being photographed, but he hadn't covered his face. That made it easier for her to realize years later that he and the man were one at the same.
Violet knew she was not her mother. She knew she was just a fourteen year old girl, and no matter what, noble men didn't chase teenagers, didn't look at them like that. But she also knew that she and her mother were nearly identical, from their dark hair and olive complexion to their long, lanky frames. If he had been attracted to her mother, it was not unreasonable for him to be attracted to her. Perhaps if the man had been engaged to her mother like the photograph implied, there was some hope for him. Perhaps.
But no matter what, she'd never learn to love the stares. If every theory she had about him was true and the leering was only out of love for her mother, Violet still wouldn't believe him to be truly noble. The man might have been trying to avoid lust, despite how she saw it in his eyes. She would grant him the benefit of the doubt, regardless. Still, as long as he continued to stare, she couldn't trust him. No matter how certain she was that her mother had known him, that perhaps he was even the man in hiding her mother had told her about, she would never speak to him, or ask him for help. Even though everyone she had ever trusted except her siblings had either betrayed her or died and she was desperately in need of a new associate, she couldn't ignore the way he looked at her. She knew that no matter how desperate she was, if she ignored that look and something went wrong, it would be her fault. It sometimes seemed that everything was.