Page 15 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Tristan walked into the drawing room as steadily as possible with his hands tucked behind him. Marcus Harwood sat on one of the settees closer to the fireplace, a satchel wrapped around his shoulder and a cup of tea in hand.

On the small table before him was a tray of freshly made cakes and biscuits. However, it was clear from what he’d seen that Marcus seemed to enjoy the tea more than the cakes themselves for some reason he could not understand.

Tristan stopped a few paces from him, and Marcus’s eyes snapped up, a sly smile on his face.

“I will be honest with you, Mr. Harwood,” Tristan began, his tone clipped as he settled into the chair facing Marcus, “I rarely take visit requests if they are not made at least a week in advance. It is a rule my grandfather put in place, and I have found it works for me as well.

“Oh,” Marcus responded, and the smile on his face faltered just a little.

Tristan exhaled and continued, “But since you are my brother-in-law, I will make an exception.”

Marcus lowered his cup, a gentle smile spreading across his face.

“And I am grateful for the courtesy, Lord Vale. Next time, I will be sure to notify you with the proper formality. It is simply that this chance fell into my lap. I thought it would be a disservice to you if I did not take it at once.”

Tristan gave the smallest nod. “Then let us call it settled.”

Marcus leaned back, letting his eyes sweep across the room. “These walls,” he started, tapping the panel nearest to him, “they feel incredibly luxurious. Top of the line, I imagine?”

Tristan followed his gaze but offered nothing more than a calm nod. “My grandfather does not compromise on comfort.”

“I can see that,” Marcus said warmly. His eyes moved again, almost hungrily to the doorway. “On my way in, I passed the stables. Magnificent creatures. And the saddles … They look like they were drafted just for you. They must have cost dearly.”

Tristan shifted slightly in his seat, his expression still, but his eyes narrowing.

Marcus did not stop. “And the cobblestones…when were they polished last? They glimmer in the sun. I just say all in all, the manor is being kept in a remarkable position.”

Tristan cleared his throat. “You’ll have to thank our staff for that.”

“And in the hallway just before this room, I saw a painting of the manor itself. A fine hand must have worked on that canvas. Now, I am certain that would have cost a fortune. No painter in his right mind would take that work without a proper sum.”

The air grew thinner with each observation, and Tristan shifted again in his seat. He pressed his thumb against his knee, then cleared his throat with a deliberate cough.

“Mr. Harwood,” he eventually said, evenly, “are you not missing something?”

Marcus paused, as though he had been waiting for that moment. He set his cup down on the table and folded his hands together. “Yes, I knew I was. I was saving it for last.”

Tristan allowed a small curve of his mouth, but his eyes remained sharp. “And that would be?”

“The cushions,” Marcus said with a grin and patted the arm of his chair. “These feel immensely kingly. Sitting here, I almost imagine I am on a cloud. Pure comfort.”

“No,” Tristan said flatly. His voice cooled.

Marcus cocked his brow. “No?”

Tristan sighed. “Eliza.”

Marcus blinked. “What?”

“You have been in this room for almost ten minutes. Eight of those I have spent sitting with you. You have complimented everything in this house except the chamber pots, and yet you have not once asked about your sister.”

The smile on Marcus’s face faltered again and was replaced by a cold glare. One Tristan could almost swear wasn’t that of remorse or regret.

“Is what you came here for so urgent that you have forgotten who granted you this familiarity in the first place?” he asked, letting the silence carry his words.

Another wave of silence settled between them.

Marcus’s hands clasped tighter in his lap. “I was going to mention her eventually.”

“Eventually,” Tristan repeated, his tone dry. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Marcus. “I am afraid that isn’t good enough, Mr. Harwood. She is your sister. The least you could have done was ask after her at once.”

Marcus gave a shallow nod. “You are right, Lord Vale. I trust her well enough in your care, which is why I thought it safe to wait. Still, I should have asked. My apologies.”

Tristan leaned back again, exhaling through his nose. “What is it you wanted to discuss with me?”

Marcus straightened, his voice lowering. “I feel it is best if we move this discussion to your study.”

Tristan’s brow furrowed. “The drawing room is not sufficient for you? Does the light here offend your purpose?”

“No, not at all,” Marcus said quickly. “It is only that your study seems the more appropriate setting for the nature of our conversation.”

Tristan’s jaw tightened, though he kept his voice level. “Very well.” He raised his hand and signaled to a maid waiting by the wall. “Clear Mr. Harwood’s table.”

The maid stepped forward, reaching for the tray.

Marcus lifted his cup once more. “If Lord Vale does not mind, I would prefer to hold on to the tea.”

Tristan’s eyes settled firmly on him. “I do mind. Visitors do not drink in my study.”

The words fell like a stone in the air. Marcus hesitated, then let out a shallow breath and passed the cup to the maid. “As you wish.”

Tristan rose from his chair, straightening to his full height. “Follow me.”

Marcus nodded and rose to his feet as well. Tristan watched him adjust his coat, the same smile on his face.

“Thank you, my lord,” Marcus continued. Tristan only gave him a brief nod and turned around. They both made their way down the hallway and up the stairs toward his study. Marcus cleared his throat as they walked, a bid, Tristan imagined, to clear the silence.

Tristan, on the other hand, continued to think about his first impression of Eliza’s brother. There was something about him. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. Something that continued to pull at his mind over and over and wouldn’t budge one bit.

The study was quiet save for the faint ticking of the clock on the mantle. Tristan motioned to the chair across from his desk.

“Sit, Mr. Harwood. Let us not waste more time. Why are you here?”

Marcus settled himself, his coat brushing against the armrest as he reached into a leather bag at his feet. From it, he pulled a folder, thick and bound with ribbon, and placed it gently on the desk between them.

“I have been working on an investment opportunity, Lord Vale. Nearly three years of work with a few colleagues. I would hate for a man like you…a man responsible for my sister, no less, to miss out on it.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes, though he remained still. “An investment, you say?”

“Yes.” Marcus slid the folder closer. “All the details are inside.”

Tristan untied the ribbon and opened the cover, feeling the faint smell of ink and wax fill his nostrils. On the first page, a wave of bold lettering caught his eye. He read it and then looked back at Marcus, his face and tone edged with skepticism.

“The Berkeley Project?”

Marcus’s face brightened. “Indeed. We researched it deeply, five of us. We saw ways the town’s conditions could be improved. Basically, avenues where opportunity might grow.”

“You must forgive me, Mr. Harwood, but I am struggling to understand you.”

Marcus exhaled. “I do not blame you, my lord. It is quite the most robust topic.”

“Then make it less robust, will you?”

“Very well, my lord. It is quite simple. The Berkeley Project is a way to redefine community.”

Words and more words.

“The plan, of course, is to revolutionize land developments, the use of trade routes, and industry in general.”

“I see,” Tristan responded, his voice faint as he began to flip through the pages. Each page was filled with notes and messages he would have to take some time with. Marcus continued anyway, forcing Tristan to choose where to shift his focus to.

“Remember, I said five of us came up with this project? One of our group, his name was Sir Isaac Berkeley. He laid the foundation of it all. You might know him.”

“The name does not sound familiar,” Tristan responded, his voice sharper than he’d intended. “He was a brilliant man,” Tristan continued anyway. “He died of measles last month.”

Tristan looked up briefly. “So you named this after him.”

“Yes. To honor him, and to carry forward his vision.”

Tristan tapped the paper once with his finger. “And how does it work, exactly?”

Marcus leaned forward, his eyes bright. “It is simple. The land and trade routes are developed with help from contributors like yourself. Once developed, we petition the Crown for letters granting us authority to commercialize.

Then, profits flow back to our investors. Imagine it this way: You pay a portion…perhaps only a quarter of what your eventual profits might be. The rest multiplies in return.”

Tristan didn’t know what worried him the most, the words or the glee with which his brother-in-law delivered them. Marcus, on the other hand, smiled and lifted his hands slightly as if presenting a gift.

“This is not only business, Lord Vale. It is securing the future for yourself and your family. I am assuming, of course, that you and my sister intend to have children.”

Tristan’s jaw stiffened. He coughed lightly and set the paper flat on the desk. “We have yet to properly discuss that matter.”

Marcus waved it off. “Naturally. It is to be expected in time. But still, this project ensures stability for the next generation. It is more than just money. It is a way to build a strong legacy.”

Tristan’s gaze returned to the folio. The words blurred slightly as he thought of Marcus’s tone. He sounded polished. Perhaps too polished.

Has he always spoken like that? Or was the entire thing rehearsed to impress him?

He lifted his head again anyway. “So, in short, you mean to make me richer by charging people for routes and land that were once free.”

Marcus gave a light laugh. “You make it sound so exploitative.”

“I think you are doing a good job of that all by yourself, Mr. Harwood,” Tristan said flatly.

The air shifted, and he knew Marcus sensed it as well.

The man leaned back, his smile dimming. “I understand your doubts.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, and I believe it is quite wise to have them.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes in the brief moment of silence that settled between them.

“Which is why I leave this with you.” Marcus eventually said, pointing to the folio. “I would like you to study and understand it.”

Tristan’s eyes shifted to the folio once again.

“This is the future, my lord. And before you say more, know this … the poor will not be taxed. Only the wealthy, those well able to afford it.”

Another wave of silence stretched between them. Tristan let it settle, then exhaled through his nose. “Very well. I will read it through. You will have my answer in time.”

Marcus gave a sharp nod. “I urge you not to waste that time. Others have already joined, so the opportunity grows thinner by the day.”

“Others?” Tristan asked, his eyes narrowed.

Marcus straightened, as though he had expected the question. “Yes. Noblemen just like yourself have expressed interest.

“Really?”

“Yes, my lord. People like Lord Witherford, Lord Ellis, Lord Prescott …”

Tristan’s brows rose at the same time. “Prescott. I knew him. We were at school together.”

Marcus continued, listing names. “Yes. Also, people like Lord Endicott and Lord Hargrave.”

Tristan’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I knew Hargrave as well. We served together in the Army.” He raised his eyes. “And they are all committed?”

Marcus nodded firmly. “Entirely. They understand the opportunity here. I only hope you will, too.”

The clock ticked again in the silence that followed, and Tristan pushed the folio aside, his expression unreadable. “Is that all?”

Marcus stood slowly. “It is. I must take my leave.”

“You could stay the night,” Tristan said, his tone polite.. “A bed can be prepared for you.”

Marcus shook his head. “I would never impose. Perhaps next time.”

“Very well,” Tristan said.

They left the study together, Marcus moving with a spring in his step, Tristan with deliberate calm. In the front hall, Marcus collected his bag and coat. Tristan nodded once, then turned back toward the hallway.

However, he decided to wait at a window, curiosity pulling him. He drew back the curtain and looked down at the path outside. Marcus had just stepped out, the late afternoon light catching his coat.

Eliza stood a few paces away. She looked up, her expression hopeful, but Marcus passed her without a word, his shoulders stiff and his stride quick. Her gaze fell to the ground, and she held herself still.

Tristan’s chest tightened as he watched. Then he let out a long breath as Marcus climbed into the carriage, and Eliza remained outside in silence, her head still bowed.