Heritage
viii. everything that rises must converge
Sebastian wrinkled his nose.
He tasted the miasma as soon as he crossed the entryway. It reeked of a familiar, damp rot, and pervaded the air in a way that no man blindfolded would have been able to discern the manor from an open sewer.
None of the humans noticed. Sebastian reasoned snidely that their olfactory nerves were already deadened by the cloying odors they doused themselves in every morning. Even Hell smelled better. Which brought him to the point. The real reason the ladies and gentlemen were leisurely savoring their canapés, rather than climbing over each other to escape the stench, was that only those who had been to Hell would recognize the smell.
This would be all well and good if Whitford Manor was Hell. As it were, Whitford Manor was not Hell, though the Young Master might contest that assertion. Sebastian scanned the room again—he slid above the chandelier for a better vantage point—but found no possible source of the stench. It simply ghosted over the room like a shadow.
Sebastian frowned. The miasma itself posed no threat to the Young Master, but its source...might. At any rate, the Brat would throw all manners of tantrum if this important negotiation was interrupted. He slid to a dark corner and eyed the air, wondering not for the first time if an old friend had decided to pay him a visit.
Ciel counted the steps clicking his way. He had observed the young duke step into the room with the thin lips and furrowed brows of one unused to the gaieties of high society. Rather than accosting Durless directly, however, he chose to plant himself by the window, where he would have time to tailor his demeanor to this unfamiliar man.
"Lord Phantomhive, I take it?"
Ciel molded his lips into a warm smile and turned. "Lord Durless! So glad to finally be of your acquaintance." They exchanged a firm, cautious handshake, and he gestured to a passing servant. "Some canapés?"
"Oh, no," Durless shook his head. "I keep to a very regimented diet."
"I see. Well, shall we...?"
"Ah, yes, of course."
Peering over his shoulder for signs of the Marquess, Ciel led Durless into a smaller room devoid of company. The two settled in chairs opposing each other and opened their mouths at the same time, closed them, opened them, and closed them again, in an awkward choreography where neither knew who was leading.
"Ahem," Ciel coughed. He felt somewhat vindicated by Durless's embarrassed frown. "Well. Well! This is a pleasant time of the year for business, isn't it, Lord Durless?"
Durless, thankfully, had enough social and business acumen to pick up the cue. "Indeed," he straightened. "It heartened me greatly to hear from you, Lord Phantomhive. Your proposition interests me very much. I, too, believe a mutually beneficial arrangement can be made."
"Excellent!" Ciel steepled his fingers. "Your company would receive exclusive rights to distributing my products overseas, as I mentioned. We will iron out the smaller details later, but I assume your company has expertise in determining which markets we should enter and the best way we should do so?"
"Yes, of course," Durless nodded vigorously. "We have specialists for that. When the agreements have been drawn up and signed, I will have them process the relevant data and help chart the best course we should follow. Do you have any regions in mind?"
"Well," Ciel paused. "I would like to expand throughout Northern Europe, and across the Atlantic. But I leave the specifics to your experts. I should like to discuss the details with you after my options are clear."
"Yes, yes, that can be arranged."
"Good. And the costs?"
"That would depend on where you decide on expanding to, of course, among other things. I can give you the specifics at a later date, but I will mail a rough calculation to you first, if you so desire."
"That would be excellent, thank you."
"All right."
"Good."
They settled back into a more satisfied silence. Now that the inital phase of negotiations was settled, Ciel focused his attention on Durless the man. His—partner? cousin?—bore a certain Middleford air, with his wispy golden hair and firm, athletic frame. A glint to his right revealed a sword swathed in black, and if his genealogy was any indication, it was not there for adornment. Ciel stifled a snort. The Middleford line was known for producing masters of the blade who were more often— eccentric—than not. Just what the world needed, he thought: another swashbuckling, sword-waving, walking hazard to society.
Durless, however, met his gaze stably, if a bit uncomfortably. It was evident that he was out of his element, though less so than when they were in the company of the larger group. His face might have remained stoic, but his crossed arms and fidgeting knees betrayed his discomfort. Taking pity on the man who might have been the only nobleman less keen on the farce of high society than himself, Ciel stood.
"Well, let's join the party outside for now, shall we?" he said.
Durless grunted, stood, and let him lead the way. As they slipped out the room, he spoke again.
"This manor..."
"Hm?" Ciel peered behind.
"You mentioned it belonged to the Middlefords?"
Ah. Ciel stopped. "Yes, Whitford Manor is the residence of the Middlefords. I believe you were earlier conversing with the daughter, Lady Elizabeth Middleford?" He gestured towards the female, who was entertaining guests some steps away.
Durless looked stricken. Ciel watched him closely.
"My—mother. She was a Middleford." He uttered.
Ciel looked at his hair and his sword and clamped down the temptation to say, No, of course. He resorted to an, "Ah, yes. Indeed." Then, "What of it?"
"Oh!" Durless shook his head and straightened. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to be made of it. She...rarely mentioned her family. That's all. Private woman." His eyes took in the room with a new wonder.
Ciel had little patience for reminiscing, but decorum forced a smile on his face. He was about to renew his pace when a familiar bluster invaded his ears:
"Ciel! Young Phantomhive!"
Freezing in a grimace, Ciel gripped his cane, and willed distance to magically separate him and Durless. No such luck.
"Why, I see you are finally socializing! With people!" The Marquess boomed as he sauntered over. "That is certainly an improvement. Constant solitude does not become a young man like you. Why, something of merriment is lost—and something of pleasure, too."
"The only thing lost is your head," Ciel muttered under his breath.
Leopold ignored his remark. Swiveling towards Durless, he raised his eyebrows dramatically, taking in the vision of someone who might well be a spectre of some long dead relative. "And who might this be...?"
"Astor Durless," Durless said, taking an imperceptible step back. "Duke of Durless."
"Oh?" Leopold's eyes glinted. "I don't believe we have met. I am Leopold, the Marquess Middleford. Welcome to my humble abode!" He swept an arm lengthwise and let loose a hearty laugh.
"It is very beautiful," Durless remarked.
Taking Durless by the shoulder, Leopold cut off Ciel's cry of protest, and steered him away from Ciel. "I presume my daughter Elizabeth invited you here today. Are you a friend?"
"Oh, no, not at all," Durless shook his head, eyebrows raised in alarm. "I am here on business."
"Business?" Leopold parroted, his teeth showing. "What's this?"
No! Ciel groaned. Mentally, he gave Durless the evil eye.
"Just small business, Leopold," Ciel cut in, slamming his cane between the two men and wedging himself in. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we'll be on our way. Lord Durless?"
"Ah—"
"Now, now, what's this?" Leopold countered. "Surely a moment or two could be spared? Lord Durless and I were just getting to know each other, after all!" He deftly maneuvered past Ciel's cane to Durless's other side and rewound an arm around his target's shoulder. "I happened to notice your sword. Exquisite piece of craftsmanship. There is something very curious about it, though, I must say," he said, resting a finger on the crest embedded in the hilt. Durless's fingers flinched. "This sword...where did you come by it? If I may be so bold as to ask." He smiled with narrow eyes.
Ciel's breath caught. Yes—perhaps—this was the moment that would make or break—
A silence. Leopold's hand came to rest comfortably over the hilt.
"...It belonged to my mother," Durless said. He clamped his hand over Leopold's and met the older man's gaze with eyes of steel. "I inherited it when she passed."
"Your mother?" Leopold's brows furrowed. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, of course. Might I inquire into her name?"
Ciel watched a thousand shadows flicker across Durless's hard eyes.
"Phillipa. Phillipa Middleford."
This pronouncement provoked no spark of recognition from the Marquess. Instead, he pursed his lips, then brightened. "Ah, a more distant relation, I presume!"
"She didn't mention her family much."
"Well, who's to stop me from calling you my dear cousin?" Leopold beamed, casting a narrow eye towards Ciel. He released his hand from the hilt and Durless's grip, and wiped it on his pants. "You must tell me more about this matter. But now, shall we join my daughter for a small gathering? It's not so often that you reunite with long lost family!"
A blink of hesitation crossed Durless's face, but something in him seemed to heed the beckoning of blood. "Why, yes, if you insist," he relented. "It has been quite some time since I have—been in such company."
If the remark was cryptic, Leopold did not linger on it, but energetically steered Durless towards the room which earlier they had emerged from. Ciel pursed his lips. That Durless's feelings towards Leopold were in a position to run very hot or cold put him in a precarious position, but that the Marquess did not recognize the name of his own sister—
"Sebastian!" he muttered under his breath, as he tailed behind the pair.
No answer came.
To be continued
