Chapter Eighteen
To say she slept easily that night would be a lie. In fact, she probably wouldn't have slept at all if it weren't for the alcohol in her system, dragging her into slumber in the early hours of the morning.
She'd just been so positively angry with him that she couldn't think straight. Violet was not sure she had ever snatched a throw blanket from the back of a couch with such fury before, nor doused the lamps with such a hard flick of her wrist. Lecherous, indeed!
But, with him gone, as well as his smug smirks and attractive forearms and boyish grin, she was able to think of other things. However those other things were her parents and the things they had done and then herself and the things she had done, none of which was conducive to sleep.
She believed him, if only for one reason. Count Olaf was an actor, but not a good one. She had seen him on the stage and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had not been acting when he told her his story. She did not think him capable of falsifying such sorrow and anger in his eyes. Perhaps in the way that he knew her so well, she knew him. She knew he was not good at masking his emotions, whether good or bad. Very often, except when he was playing a part on stage, what you saw with Count Olaf was very much what he was feeling at that moment.
Having come to the conclusion that he had, in fact, told her the truth then presented her next inquiry; how had she lived with her parents for fourteen years and not truly known them? And with this came a flurry of other questions demanding observation. Would they have ever told her what they had done? Did they think, perhaps, that she had been too young to know and then they had died before they got the chance? Or would they have let her and her siblings stay in the dark their entire lives and enjoy a life off a fortune which was not honestly earned? Why had she and Klaus not been sent to this special school? What sort of things did they learn at this school? Why had her parents chosen Count Olaf as the target of their schemes?
That last question hung heavy in her mind. Her parents had schemed. They had a scheme. They acted out that scheme.
This distressed Violet, whose worldview had been shaped to believe that noble persons were honest and helpful. Only villains had schemes.
'You are allowed to have complicated feelings about your parents,' she recalled Count Olaf saying. And then that niggling, insistent voice of his kept going in her mind. 'You are allowed to have complicated feelings about me.'
She squirmed against the loveseat cushions - which were, though she would never admit it, much more comfortable than the lumpy single mattress she shared with Alec.
How had she let him get so close to her on the loveseat on which she now attempted sleep? She had been aware, of course, that he had moved to sit next to her. Aware of his fingers tracing along her skin. But she had been so wrapped up in finally releasing the story she'd held so tightly that what he was doing didn't click. Not until he'd steered her chin toward him, his face so close to her own.
'What's a nice girl like you doing in a bad place like this?'
Just reliving the moment made a fresh heat crawl across her neck and face. At least she was hidden in the dark now, alone, and did not have to feel embarrassed for her flush.
'What's a nice girl like you doing in a bad place like this?'
Then his fingers had disappeared up under her skirts, tracing along her skin. She could see his forearm still, that sleeve rolled up, and she huffed out a shaking breath. Violet's hand found her thigh - above her skirts, of course - and she could imagine it was his hand resting there, sliding upward. She imagined what would have happened if she hadn't stopped him. If his hand had continued up the expanse of her thigh. Would he have continued his joke until it was no longer a joke, but something else?
'What's a nice girl like you doing in a bad place like this?'
Violet tore her hand away from her thigh and promptly rolled over toward the back of the couch, crossing her arms with a huff. It would be a hard night for sleeping, indeed.
It would likely offer Violet little consolation to know so, but Count Olaf also did not sleep well that night. In fact, by the time she finally rolled over on the loveseat, he was sitting with his back to his headboard, wineglass in one hand, pondering the current state of her exposed ankles. And exposed calves. And exposed knees. And exposed thighs. And possibly exposed -
A dark thrill ran down his spine. "Violet Baudelaire," he muttered into his glass, nothing more, nothing less.
He thought of her soft skin beneath his fingers, of how he turned her face toward his, of how her wide pupils stared up at him, of how he very nearly kissed her.
He had wanted to feel her lips on his. Because, much like the affairs of just ankles and just calves and just knees and just thighs, a kiss - just a kiss - became just a gasp, which could very easily become just a whimper and a whimper - if one played their cards right - could most certainly become just a moan.
But then he thought of that boy pressing her up against his desk, mouth locked on Violet's, and the moment was ruined. He growled into his glass and downed the wine in one swallow, slamming it on his bedside table and crossing his arms across his chest resolutely.
That affair was troubling him. He had half a mind to shoot the boy and cut his losses, but knew he was the key to the Langdon fortune and it was not just his losses that were being cut. He had a responsibility to deliver justice - or at least compensation - to the others in his troupe that had been ruined by the VFD. The Langdon's were not, per se, Volunteers, but they had always been aware they were banking for a secretive sort of persons. And, as bankers of secretive persons know - sometimes financials must be handled with discretion. Which, of course, means those secretive persons must be charged a heftier fee than an ordinary account holder, variable and depending on the level of discretion required from said banker.
The Langdon's were not Volunteers, no. But the money sitting in their vaults was just as stolen in their hands as it was with the VFD.
He thought of the banker declaring his intent to have Violet's hand by the end of the season. He would not. Though a thread of a plot wiggled its way out of his mind. He could see his scheme clearly, letting Violet marry the boy - therefore what is his becoming hers - and then, after the marriage certificate is signed, pulling a revolver from his jacket in a most grandiose fashion and putting a hole through the boy's head to many shocked and scandalized gasps from the audience. And then, well, if marriage made what was Oswald's equally what was Violet's, he would have to step over the corpse at their feet and have the minister begin again from the start, this time standing in the groom's place. Because what was Violet's would most certainly have to become what was his.
No, no, there were too many variables for that to work. He would be arrested instead of being allowed to wed Violet - unless of course he had one of his troupe study to become an ordained minister. No. No, it was a pleasant daydream. And Violet already had a history of wiggling out of marriage vows. He suspected she would not only be thoroughly angry at having to wed him, but also unhappy about having to first marry Oswald.
That thought, at least, cheered him.
She had seemed thoroughly annoyed with the banker after they'd left, which is very much how Count Olaf preferred it. The thought of her enjoying such attentions from someone else made his gut give a terrible twist. He…did not like how that made him feel.
Just as he had told Violet she was allowed to have complicated feelings, Count Olaf realized he must give himself the same grace. She was the daughter of his parents' murderers, had lived on his family's - his - stolen money. But, she had not known. And having her so near him, having her live under his roof once more had made things more complex than they ought to have been. He wanted her, yes, this had been an undeniable fact since the very first time he'd laid eyes on her. A better man might have seen young Violet Baudelaire's beauty and immediately thrown the thought of her uncovered ankles to the back of his mind in shame, but a better man still would have thought it. And Olaf never claimed to be a good man. He had wanted to punish the children for their parents' misdeeds, yes - but he had ached to punish Violet in a different way. Merely - merely - for revenge. But now she was in his house and so quick-witted, sharp as the finest blade, fast in her retorts, and he did not want anyone else to have her. Because he had not been lying when he told her he did not hate her.
And that was the source of his own complicated feelings. He did not hate Violet Baudelaire. Or her uncovered ankles. Or her soft mouth.
He imagined in that moment that he had leaned over and kissed her on the loveseat before she pulled herself away from his grasp. What would she have done? Smacked him? Possibly. Or would she, like the countless women before her, relax into him with a gasp (just a gasp) and return the affection?
While that, like shooting Oswald in the head, was a pretty daydream, he knew the answer. She would not have relaxed into him with a gasp.
The situation with Oswald would have to be played by ear. The situation with Violet would not.
He wanted just a kiss. And in order to get it, he would need a plot. And plots, commonly, come in the form of a play.
Olaf grinned and stood from his bed, rummaging around his nightstand drawer for the draft of his most recent play.
Yes, with a little reworking, it would do nicely.
There was a ringing in the distance that stirred Violet. It stopped. Started back up. Stopped again.
She also became aware of a scribbling noise near her. Then a bright light in her face. She pulled herself from sleep and peeked open her eyes, shutting them immediately as she turned on her back with a groan. There was a window behind the couch that was likely the only one in the house that wasn't boarded up. The sun had been shining through onto her face.
Then there was the scribbling and the ringing. She turned her head toward the closest - the scratching noise. It took her a moment to piece together that she had slept in his office. Count Olaf sat at his desk, engrossed with a stack of papers in front of him, scratching something out and turning the page to write something else in the margins.
"Good morning, Violet," he said, seemingly aware that she had woken, but not once looking away from his work.
"Good…morning?" she asked, the greeting coming out as a question. The ringing started again in the background and she creased her brow. "Is that the telephone?"
She watched his hand pause. The phone gave another shrill ring.
"I suppose it is," he said, continuing his scribbles. "Take a message for me."
Her eyes clouded over as she raised from the couch and stepped through the open door to the hallway. In the alcove, the phone gave another loud ring. She thought it might be one of the worst sounds to hear so soon after waking. Not wanting to hear it ring again, she plucked up the receiver.
"Count Olaf's residence," she said, trying to sound sure of herself though she had no idea how she was supposed to greet his callers.
"Veronica?"
It was Oswald. For a moment she said nothing until he added, "Veronica, is that you?"
"Yes, it's me," she said quietly.
"Finally," he said. "I've been trying to call for over an hour."
Had Count Olaf truly not heard the phone?
"May I ask what for?" she said politely. Count Olaf had said to take a message.
"Well, I was hoping to speak to you," he said, sounding a little sheepish. "I…I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I should have treated you more delicately than I did."
Violet gave a little smile. See? A perfect gentleman and not at all a scoundrel sitting at his desk, scribbling who-knows-what as if he hadn't spent the entire previous day accosting her.
Perhaps…perhaps showing Oswald some attention and receiving some proper attention in return would be a good thing? It would certainly give her a distraction from her rather alarming recent thoughts on one particular count.
It was clear she wasn't going to get out of whatever Count Olaf's schemes were for Oswald's money, so she might as well…make use of it.
"Veronica?"
"Oh, yes, sorry, it's…quite alright," she said. "I…didn't mind."
She had, in fact, minded, but perhaps she wouldn't have minded so much if her skull hadn't been trying to pound out of her head. He was terribly sweet. She may have even found his excitement endearing if she hadn't been feeling so poorly.
Oswald let out a relieved breath and she couldn't help the laugh which bubbled from her throat. In the office and out of her sight, Count Olaf's hand abruptly stopped at the noise.
"Were you so worried, Oswald?" she said with a teasing lilt to her tone.
"I…I admit I was," he said. "I thought perhaps you would think me a cad."
Compared to what she'd been put through in the last day by Count Olaf, this was laughable.
"No, not at all," she said with a grin in her voice.
"Do you think you might like to see me again? I would very much like you to see my home," he asked and she could hear a little flit of nerves in his voice.
"Of course, why wouldn't I?" she asked.
There was a momentary silence on the other line.
"I thought, perhaps, Count Olaf had given you a talking to after he saw us together."
Now it was Violet's turn to be silent for a moment while she collected her thoughts.
"Whatever would make you think that?"
"It was just…something he said before he left. He didn't think I was being proper."
Oh, he had no room to talk about what was proper. Her eyes narrowed and shot over to the office door, finding the subject of their conversation standing in the doorway watching her. His arms were crossed and there was some sort of sharp gleam in his eye that she could not quite put a finger on. He did not appear happy in the slightest.
Violet tipped her chin up in a slight show of defiance. "Well, it is a good thing Count Olaf is my employer and not my chaperone. Why should I care in the slightest what he thinks?"
Oswald gave a nervous laugh and she grinned at the thunderous look that passed Count Olaf's eyes. Perhaps she enjoyed getting under his skin as much as he did hers.
"The weather is supposed to turn bad Friday evening," he said. She knew this. She had been following the weather in the morning paper to calculate an upward trend in temperature for their trip into the mountains to retrieve the sapphires. They had broken into a false spring, mild enough to go without one's coat, but a terrible snowstorm was expected to hit Friday evening. "Perhaps if you come in the afternoon, say three o'clock if I leave work early, we might be enjoying ourselves so much we lose track of time," he said with a little hint of mischief that bordered on flirting. "And if the snow hits, it would be terribly unsafe for you to return home and you would have no choice but to stay in one of the spare rooms for the night. I do make an excellent breakfast."
"Oswald, I do believe you've crafted quite a perfect scheme," she said, in a scandalized tone that was given away by her grinning.
Count Olaf looked positively murderous. He pushed himself away from the wall and stalked toward her until he stood close, towering over her and giving her that same heated look that made her chest constrict. She stared up at him, refusing this time to look away, and arched her brow as if to say, "Yes?"
"Would you-," Oswald said through the receiver, which Count Olaf was now pulling between them to hear, his warm hand over hers. "-wish to partake in such a scheme?"
Count Olaf started to open his mouth, but she blurted out with a mean grin, "Of course, Oswald. How else am I to get some proper alone time with you?" Whatever Count Olaf had been about to say died on his lips and he snapped his mouth shut. "I do have to get back to work," she said, smirking - yes, she was the one smirking this time - at Count Olaf. "I will see you Friday at three."
And then, before Count Olaf could even think to object, she tugged the phone from his grasp and promptly hung up. She gave him a sideways, mischievous glance. "There was no message for you," she said.
He snatched her chin so quickly it stole her breath, his fingers digging hard into her skin as he forced her head back up toward him. "Yesterday-," he said through grit teeth, "-you seemed rather annoyed with him. And today you two are giggling and plotting schemes."
He watched her eyes again become that hard-edged flint. "Perhaps I'm feeling contrary today," she said with a nonchalant air. His fingers twitched harder into her chin.
"And what has you feeling contrary enough to be so shamelessly flirting like some tart?"
Was he-? Violet assessed that unfamiliar gleam in his eye, the one that was angry but not anger. Was he jealous? She had merely wanted to get under his skin by defying him.
"I'm sure you recall a certain episode of yours last night concerning ankles," she stated. "Perhaps you should consider that such an affair would have me preferring the company of more proper men."
Count Olaf gave her a long, searching gaze, then pulled his hand away as if she'd burned him.
"And besides," she said, shuffling back a step away from him. She had not - had not enjoyed the look in his eye as his hand dropped. It was like a twist in her gut, like perhaps she'd hurt him with her words. "I - I thought this was all going accordingto your plan. It was you who ordered me to woo him."
"I did," he said tersely, crossing his arms over his chest as if he wasn't sure what else to do with them. "I did not authorize an outing."
Authorize!
Violet felt her face flood with the heat of anger. "You seemed so pleased with my improvisation yesterday that I thought you wouldn't mind!"
That was not entirely true. She had, in fact, gone along with Oswald's little scheme purely to spite Count Olaf and create a little distance for herself.
"You are a piece in my scheme, not the other way around," he said hotly. "Tell me of this plot with your boyfriend."
Violet fought the cloudiness in her eyes, but felt the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "He expects me at the bank at three," she seethed, matching his hot tone. "Then he is going to take me to his house, where we are going to have such a nice time that we conveniently forget there is a winter storm coming and cannot drive back safely, so I will have no other choice but to stay the night!"
Count Olaf's eyes flashed with something so terrible that she took another step back. She did manage to keep her chin held high.
"And that-," he said in a snarl, "-is the plan of a proper gentleman? To have you trapped in his house all to himself?"
"How is that any different than you?" she spat.
His eyes were like fire. She watched his jaw clench and unclench. "And where do you think this will lead?" he said. "He doesn't even know your real name. You are playing a part in a scheme, Violet."
"Then let me play it," she seethed, stepping past him. Count Olaf grabbed her arm, his grip tight and angry, and jerked her against him.
"To what end?"
She tried to jerk her arm free, but his grip was as good as an iron shackle. "Is it so unbelievable that I would want a distraction from my life?" she said.
There was a beat of silence between them.
"Look at you, little fire starter," he murmured, the sharp edge in his voice still there. Violet's stomach twisted at the word and she looked up at him, her angry expression lost to one of confusion and hurt. "Fully prepared to lead him on knowing we're about to rob him blind, all for a little attention."
"What?" she huffed out.
"You are starting fires you won't be able to put out," he said and she thought, from the dark look in his eyes, that perhaps he meant his words in more than one way - and that one of those ways was certainly a threat. Count Olaf released her arm. "I will permit you to see him Friday. Under no circumstances will I allow you to stay overnight. If it is his attention you want so badly, then by all means have it. But I will not hear a word of complaint when he treats you poorly."
Violet's face hardened. It was he who was treating her poorly! But she said nothing, instead stepping past him and heading not for the stairs, but his bedroom.
"What are you doing?" he asked, following right on her heels. Violet still said nothing, instead marching over the threshold to his room and toward his dresser. She opened the top drawer, shuffled around, closed it when she did not find what she needed, and then promptly pulled open the next drawer down. "Violet, what are you doing?" he repeated, the heat creeping back into his voice. "Those are my things."
Violet found what she was searching for and fisted the little bundle in her hand, slamming the drawer shut and marching past him again. She sat on the edge of his bed and kicked off her flats. Then she began to pull a long pair of his trouser socks over her feet.
"Covering my ankles," she said hotly. While she was taller than average for a woman, Count Olaf was much taller still. His socks, when pulled taut, slid halfway up her calves. "There," she said, standing and letting the hem of her sky blue dress fall back into place. The socks were argyle, muddy brown and grass green. There was a small hole starting in the toe of the left. "How does it look?"
Count Olaf's mouth was twisted down at the edges. "Hideous," he said.
"Good!" she snapped, then turned on her heels and went to leave him.
"Violet," he said to her back, watching as she stopped in the doorway but did not turn around. The anger and jealousy still clawing at his chest made an apology out of the question - and he had nothing to apologize for - but he still felt the need to say something. "We're going to have a party Thursday evening before the weather turns," he decided on. Telling her about the party in this way deflated him. He had…hoped that she might be happy for some festivities, especially since they were to celebrate her and Alec's important help in the bank heist. Now he just wanted the party to be a punishment. Perhaps when she found out what the party was for, she would rightfully feel bad. "I've already extended the invitations this morning by telephone. I'll need you to call and secure a caterer and band. Then you and Alec can work on taming the backyard, where the party will be held."
Her shoulders stiffened, but she did not turn around. "You expect me to find a band and caterer with two days' notice?" she bit out.
Yes, he certainly wanted her to feel bad. Ungrateful girl. Why would he even try to woo such a spiteful thing?
"You're a smart girl, Violet," he said in a clipped tone. "Figure it out."
He watched her shoulders bob as she huffed out a tense sigh, then left him standing in his bedroom without another word.
He waited until he heard the bottom stair groan under her weight before he released a hiss of breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. That was a horrid start to the day. Not that it was his start of the day, exactly, as he'd hardly been able to sleep and had snuck into his office before the sun even rose to start editing his script. He had even worked in low light so as not to disturb her sleep!
What a wretched girl. But she had been…lovely when she slept. When her face was not tense with her hatred for him. But then she'd had to go and ruin it with her laughter from the hall. Such a pretty sound for someone that wasn't him.
'Were you so worried, Oswald?' she'd said in that teasing tone, in that tempting flirtatious lilt, and his stomach had frozen over with such force that even his hands felt cold. They did now, even just recalling it.
Perhaps he did hate Violet Baudelaire.
Count Olaf stormed across the hall and took his place back at the desk, but he couldn't think straight enough to work. He instead settled himself in with his decanter and foul mood, resolute in his conviction that he did not even want to see Violet for the rest of the day.
Brat.