Page 115 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Later that morning, Tristan was still unable to get any kind of sleep. The journey back home from the edge of town should have, on normal occasions, thrown him into a deep sleep the instant he landed in the manor. However, the reverse seemed to be the case. He could not sleep because he could not stop thinking.

Not of Marcus. Not of the gathering. Not even of the ledger that had nearly shattered him. His mind circled the same truth: the maid, the child, the silence.

The silence hurt more than the scandal. His grandfather had chosen it, and in doing so had left shame to rot in the dark. Secrets instead of trust. Pride instead of honesty. And in that silence, the family had been wounded far worse than by any rival’s blade.

He stopped by a window. He couldn’t remember any time he had been up while dew still grazed the flowers. Of course, there was that moment he was leaving the inn with Eliza, and he needed to be up before the first light.

Eliza.

He thought of her, how often he had kept her at arm’s length. Had he been mirroring his grandfather without even meaning to? Holding people away, building walls, guarding wounds instead of sharing them.

His grandfather had done the same, brooding, resentful, never explaining. A cycle of distance passed from one man to the next, until it reached him.

And he was tired of it.

“Up before the sun, my lord?”

The voice drew him back. Gideon stood at the corridor’s bend, a cup in his hand, his expression calm as ever. He sipped, then walked toward him with the steady ease that had steadied him in darker days.

“You look like a ghost walking the halls,” Gideon said.

“Perhaps I am,” Tristan replied. His voice felt rough in his throat.

Gideon tilted his head. “Does she know?”

“She does,” Tristan said quietly. “I told her. Or rather, she learned it before I could decide. And still she stayed.”

“Then she is braver than most,” Gideon said. He leaned against the wall, his tone blunt but warm. “Listen, my lord. A name may be passed down, but it is only as good as what you make of it. The world remembers deeds, not pedigrees.”

Tristan let the words sink in. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple. You carry the Vale name, but what people will remember is whether Lord Vale fought for them or not. Titles vanish with the holder at the end of the day, but actions? They stay forever.”

Tristan almost smiled, though the weight in his chest remained.

At that moment, Clara came into view at the far end of the corridor. She carried a book pressed to her chest, her hair loose in the morning light. Gideon, calm as ever, tipped his head in polite greeting.

“Lady Clara,” he said.

She blinked, clearly startled, then dipped her chin and continued past, though not before a faint flush rose across her cheeks.

“I thought you did not exactly like Lady Clara. You told me that a few days back.”

“Yes, my lord. I remember.”

Tristan’s brow lifted. “And now you greet her as if she were a duchess. So tell me, what changed?”

Gideon shrugged. “People are not defined by one mistake, my lord. Not Lady Clara. Not me. Not even you.”

With that, he pushed away from the wall. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a household to see to. You, however, have a different matter to face.”

Tristan watched him walk away. The faint blush on Clara’s face lingered in his mind, and for the first time in days, something inside him eased. Perhaps the world was softer than he had always believed. Perhaps people were more than their shadows.

He turned toward the grand staircase, climbing slowly until he reached the duke’s study. The door was open. The old man sat behind the desk, his cane resting across his knees, his face drawn with fatigue.

Tristan stepped inside. “You wished to see me?”

The duke lifted his eyes. They were weary, but steady. “I thought perhaps you would come without summons.”