Page 18 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

That earned a small smile from him. “At least you are honest.”

She gave a soft laugh, then looked out the window as the countryside continued to pass around them.

A little while later, they arrived at the party, and the last thing Evelyn felt was uncomfortable.

As soon as Tristan found a quiet corner to bury himself, he watched Eliza mingle among the people.

She talked like she had known them for a long time, and they listened to her like she was a dear friend of theirs.

“Is this another one of your talents, Eliza?” He murmured to himself as he watched her. “Easily finding your way among a large group of people?”

He watched her still, the disbelief not leaving his face for even a second. It was like she had transformed into a completely different person.

The garden swelled with laughter and polite chatter.

The men gathered near the corners under the shade, balancing their cups of tea or brandy as if the weight of both were too much to bear.

Tristan had hardly taken three steps when a cluster of lords broke away from the group and descended upon him.

“Lord Vale,” one of them said, his voice too loud for the rather quiet setting, “at last we see you among us. We were beginning to wonder if you were more shadow than man.”

Tristan allowed a small curve of his mouth. “I assure you, Lord Thompson, I am made of flesh and bone. Shadows do not have to endure garden parties.”

The men laughed politely, as if every word he spoke was meant to entertain. Another lord stepped forward, his eyes flicking past Tristan and toward the ladies gathered at the center lawn.

“Your wife seems quite lovely. She’s a bright creature, too, and manages to draw the ladies around her.”

Tristan followed his gaze, catching sight of Eliza with three women. She was smiling, speaking with her hands as if she was weaving her words into the air. The ladies leaned in, completely enraptured.

“She is lovely,” Tristan said simply. His voice held no hesitation, though his chest tightened a fraction as he spoke the truth aloud.

“Yes, yes,” another lord chimed in. “Tell me, Lord Vale, did you secure her through London’s circle of matchmakers?”

Tristan raised his chin once. “I did.”

“Fortunate,” a baron with a deep voice said.

“Quite fortunate. My matchmaker saddled me with a Jezebel of a woman. No sense of temperance, no kindness to the staff. She bled my accounts until she carted half away with her.” He chuckled bitterly and sipped his drink.

“Good thing fortune smiles on me elsewhere with the Berkeley Project.”

Tristan’s hand went still on his cup. The words had landed hard on him for some reason, and his gaze sharpened. “The Berkeley Project?”

The baron froze as though he’d let a secret slip. His lips parted, then closed, and he brought a hand quickly to his mouth. “Ah … I was not meant to say that out loud.”

Tristan said nothing. He only continued to fix him with a steady look.

The baron cleared his throat. “Well. Since I have already begun, I suppose I may as well tell you. It is…well, it is a venture of the most promising kind. A deep and emerging project, as we call it. Promises a return four times the capital.”

Tristan’s voice dropped low. “And you plan to invest?”

“Of course,” the baron said, almost too eagerly. “Land, trade, a bit of industry—all with proper backing. Men of standing, like yourself, will do handsomely.”

Tristan studied the man’s flushed face, the glint of greed behind his eyes.

The baron leaned closer, lowering his voice. “But keep it close. If too many learn of it in this first stage, profits may dwindle. Best to spread the word only after we have collected our due.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes as the baron gave a short and wheezy laugh. “Would you not agree, Lord Vale?”

Tristan held his gaze for a long moment, then answered evenly. “Yes. I would agree.”

The baron slapped his shoulder as though they were old comrades. “I knew we had much in common.”

Tristan only gave the barest of nods.

“Think on it,” the baron added before bowing himself away into the throng.

Left alone, Tristan let the smile slip from his face. His jaw tightened. He had no appetite for further conversation, not now. He turned away from the noise, walking down a quieter garden path.

Guests nodded to him as he passed, and he returned their greetings with few words, his mind already elsewhere. Eventually, he stopped near a bed of roses, their heads bobbing gently in the summer breeze. He took a sip of his tea and let his eyes rest on the colors.

“Lovely, are they not?”

The voice behind him was slow and deliberate. He swallowed before turning.

The dowager duchess stood there, her gown heavy with lace despite the heat of the garden. Her hands rested on a cane she did not seem to need.

“Yes,” Tristan replied. “They are … lovely.”

Her lips curved. “I had them brought all the way from Egypt.”

Tristan raised a brow. “I did not know roses were grown in Egypt.”

“They are not,” she said, with a dramatic pause. “Which makes them all the more special.” She took a pause before continuing. “How is Evelyn? I heard her husband is in America.’

He remembered Evelyn’s warning. Do not let Margaret trap you. It is how she lures men to their doom. Yet here he was, caught in that very snare.

“She is fine,” he eventually responded, his voice curt.

The duchess took a step closer. “The key to any true garden is arrangement. You must think of it as a symphony. Roses, lilies, lavender…they must all play in concert.”

“Indeed,” Tristan murmured, already feeling the weight of her words press down.

She continued without pause. “This bed alone took three weeks to plan. Each hue was considered, and each leaf was accounted for. That is what makes it art, Tristan. One cannot simply toss seeds into soil and expect harmony. It requires vision, patience, discipline…”

Tristan’s gaze flicked toward the house. There was no escape without appearing rude. He drew a breath and braced himself.

“And I have not even begun on the lilies,” she pressed on, her eyes bright with certainty. “They are the true stars of the garden. Their stems—”

“Forgive me, madam,” a new voice cut in, and Tristan turned at once.

Eliza was approaching from the other path, her steps quick but graceful. Her face was composed, though her eyes darted once toward him before settling on the dowager.

“I saw you talking to my husband and thought it would be shameful of me if I did not ask,” Eliza said, her tone bright, “how did you manage such command of the color yellow? It is striking.”

The dowager blinked, then softened at once. “My word. What a keen eye you have.”

“I could not see such an arrangement and resist asking,” Eliza said with a polite smile. “Will you tell me everything about it? Please, I must know.”

“Of course, child,” Margaret said, delighted. “Come, walk with me.”

The dowager turned, already beginning her explanation anew, and Eliza fell into step beside her.

As she passed him, Eliza glanced back. For the briefest instant, their eyes met, and Tristan mouthed a Thank you.

Her lips twitched before she returned her gaze forward, drawing the dowager duchess away with her questions.

Tristan exhaled, the tightness in his chest reducing, and turned back to the roses.