Page 109 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The doors opened then, and silence fell. The duke stepped inside, his presence filling the room without effort. Lords rose instinctively, bowing.

“Your Grace,” Marcus said too quickly, his voice an attempt at charm. “You honor us.”

The duke gave him a cool glance before turning to Tristan. “I hear much about Evermere’s future tonight, so I decided to do the next best thing. I came to hear it for myself.”

Marcus’s shoulders tightened, but he lifted his chin. “Then you shall hear the vision, Your Grace. Real vision.”

Tristan’s lips curved faintly. “Yes. Let us hear it. From the beginning, if you please.”

So Marcus began again, laying out his dream with elaborate gestures. He drank deeply between points, mistaking the room’s silence for admiration.

Tristan noticed the slight withdrawal he had in his second explanation. For some reason, it was like he became even more timid. Like this was not something he planned, but had to go through anyway.

Of course, it was clear he never intended to do this before the duke but now he had to. His eyes shifted to his grandfather, who listened with feigned rapt attention, but he knew there was only one thing on his grandfather’s mind, and that was to expose Marcus Harwood for the total fraud that he was.

Once in a while, the duke would ask a question or two, and Marcus would respond as aptly as he possibly could. Even Tristan was subtly impressed.

How could a man so selfish and evil drip with charm this severe?

When Marcus eventually finished, another wave of silence settled into the crowd until, at last, Tristan laughed.

“That was a wonderful presentation, Mr. Harwood. I could not have done it better.”

“Your words are well appreciated, Lord Vale,” Marcus responded, his voice clear.

Perhaps it had something to do with his grandfather’s presence or just the mere fact that he could properly see through the man’s deceit now, or even the lingering words of his valet about how this was no longer just about him but about Eliza now.

He didn’t know exactly what it was, but something gave him courage. The kind of courage he had been waiting for since he got into the gathering. He didn’t waste time.

He rose to his feet immediately, feeling Marcus’s eyes on him.

“You describe growth. But growth for whom? For the lords in this room, perhaps. But what of the tenant families who will lose their homes? What of the men who cannot buy their way into these ventures? Do they not belong to Evermere’s future?”

“They will benefit from the wealth created,” Marcus said, his tone clipped.

“Will they?” the duke asked suddenly. His voice cut across the room like steel. “Or will they starve while you sell their land?”

Marcus faltered. “That is unfair.”

“No,” Tristan said. His voice had grown steady, almost cold. “What is unfair is stripping men of the soil their fathers bled for. What is unfair is calling greed ‘progress.’”

A murmur swept the room. One lord shifted uncomfortably. Another whispered to his companion and slipped toward the door.

Marcus’s face darkened. “You twist my words, Lord Vale. These gentlemen know I speak the truth.”

The duke leaned forward, eyes like ice. “Truth? You speak of greatness, but every sentence begins and ends with you. Is it Evermere’s greatness you seek, or Marcus Harwood’s?”

A few lords chuckled nervously. More stood, muttering excuses. Chairs scraped against the floor. The room thinned.

Marcus’s voice rose, desperate now. “You are blind. You cling to an old world while the new one rises without you.”

“Better blind than deceived,” Tristan said.

The last straw came when one lord, red-faced with shame, muttered, “I will not be party to this,” and left with two others.Marcus stood surrounded by only a few loyal die-hards, his wine glass trembling in his hand.

It was time.

Tristan pulled out the ledger Miss Flick had given him and laid it on the table, ignoring the way the sound cracked through the room.