Page 21 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

One of the things Tristan could admit he enjoyed at the very least was a trip around the estate.

While it was partly because he could stay in the carriage for most of the occasion and not have to deal with the sun, it was also because it helped him oversee the estate properly and see what his people were up to.

He directed the driver to go into the village, and as they passed the front of the tavern, his eyes narrowed.

A rather familiar man was sitting by the window inside the tavern, his shoulders bent and a bottle pressed to his lips. Tristan narrowed his eyes as he grew closer.

It was Mr. Jones.

“Stop,” Tristan said.

The carriage slowed at once. Tristan climbed out of the carriage, his boots hard against the gravel on the ground as he moved. When he pushed open the tavern door and stepped in, the air around him completely changed.

The smell of sweat and beer filled his nostrils as he walked, and he tried his best to pay little to no attention to the continuous chatter that happened all around him.

Jones sat at a table near the wall, just as he had seen him. He was holding the bottle in his hand, and as Tristan approached, his head lifted. His eyes widened as if he had seen a ghost. He shoved the bottle behind him and straightened.

“My lord,” he rasped, clearing his throat, “what a … surprise.”

“Is it?” Tristan’s voice was quiet, but even. He took a step closer. “How are you faring?”

“Fine, my lord. Very fine indeed.”

Tristan let his gaze fall to the half-drained glass. “I see. Tell me, Mr. Jones, do you intend to stay behind and scrub the floors when you are done drinking? Since you cannot pay for the brandy in your hand?”

Jones froze, his mouth twitching before he forced a laugh. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know.” Tristan’s tone sharpened. “A man who has missed payments for three months now sitting here with a drink that costs more than his week’s work.”

At that moment, the serving woman passed by, carrying a tray of cups. She stopped when she saw Tristan, dipping into a quick curtsy. “My lord. Would you care for a drink?”

“No,” he replied curtly.

She smiled nervously. “We have fine brandy, the high-end kind. Like the one Mr. Jones enjoys.”

Tristan turned his head, his eyes pinning Jones. “High end?”

Jones shifted, tugging at his sleeve.

The woman bobbed again, sensing the tension. “I shall leave you to your talk, my lord.” She disappeared into the crowd.

“You should have returned to pay your taxes last week,” Tristan said, his voice low. “I let it pass because I believed you were still working hard. Tell me, is this what you call work? Sitting here with brandy?”

Jones swallowed. “Far from it, my lord. Not the entire time.”

“Then what do you call this?” Tristan leaned forward slightly, the weight of his stare leaving Jones with nowhere to hide.

The man exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand down his face. “This is only to take the edge off, my lord. You know how it is, do you not?”

Tristan said nothing, his jaw tight.

Jones continued, desperation creeping in. “I promise you, my lord, I will pay what I owe. One more week. That is all I need.”

“One week?”

“Yes,” Jones said quickly, nodding. “One more week, and you shall have it all.”

The tavern grew quieter around them, men shifting in their seats to listen without seeming to. Tristan glanced at them, then back at Jones.

“I will not embarrass you before these people,” he said at last, rising to his feet.

Relief flickered across the older man’s face. “That gesture is fully appreciated, my lord.”

“But, mark my words, Mr. Jones,” Tristan continued, his tone turning cold, “if anything should happen to delay your payment again, I will not be as gracious.”

Jones lowered his head. “I understand, my lord.”

Without another word, Tristan turned and strode out, immediately grateful for the fresh air outside the tavern. He climbed back into the carriage without turning once to look back at the tavern.

By the time he returned to the manor, dusk was fast approaching. He stepped out of the carriage and walked straight past the entrance, the day’s weight already pressing down on him. He just needed to get to his room and have a solid bath.

However, before he reached it, a sound caught his attention. It was a wave of high feminine laughter. One that practically made his heart skip. He hadn’t heard a sound like that in the manor for quite a long time.

Pure unadulterated laughter.

It was far from Evelyn’s sharp and knowing laugh. No, it was something much brighter.

He paused at the drawing room doorway, leaning slightly forward to see.

Inside, Eliza stood near the fireplace, a smile lighting her face as she turned toward him. “You are back,” she said, her voice carrying with it a note that almost startled him.

Beside her, another woman rose from her chair. She was younger than Evelyn, her face open and warm. She dipped into a neat curtsy.

“It is a pleasure to meet you properly at last, my lord. Lady Vale has spoken so much about you, I was beginning to wonder if you existed.”

Tristan allowed himself a brief laugh. “I assure you, I exist.”

“This is Clara,” Eliza said, her eyes shining as she made the introduction. “My dearest friend.”

Tristan lowered his head slightly. “Welcome to Evermere, Lady Clara. How was your journey?”

“Uneventful, thankfully. The roads were clear, though the driver complained of the dust.” Clara’s grin widened. “I ignored him.”

“That was wise,” Tristan said, his mouth twitching with amusement.

For the next few minutes, the three of them spoke about everything and almost nothing at the same time.

It wasn’t lost on Tristan, however, just how bright Eliza seemed to be in Clara’s presence.

He didn’t even know she was capable of emotions like that, and the knowledge for some reason stirred something in him.

Something he simply refused to acknowledge.

At length, he excused himself. “I shall leave you both to your reunion. If you need anything, the staff will see to it.”

Clara curtsied again. “Thank you, my lord.”

Eliza smiled softly, her gaze following him as he turned away.

Tristan left them in the drawing room and made his way to his chambers as initially intended. The image of Eliza laughing heartily crossed his mind again, and the feeling he had refused to acknowledge faintly resurfaced once again.

And once again, he paid it no mind.

***

Tristan stood before the mirror, fastening the buttons of his coat, and Gideon walked around behind him, adjusting his shoes and placing them appropriately in his wardrobe.

The morning sun filtered in through the tall windows in his chambers and settled on him. A part of him admired how the rays seemed to properly bring out the brown in his hair.

“Where will you be riding today, my lord?” Gideon asked, his voice low and almost casual, though his hands continued to work as fast as they could.

“Nowhere far,” Tristan responded, slipping a sleeve into his coat. “Just a few friends from London. They have not seen the estate, and the woods make for a decent escape.”

“So a derby?” Gideon asked.

Tristan laughed. “It is nothing like a derby, merely a ride to clear their heads.”

Gideon gave a short nod. “And you intend to return by noon?”

“That is the plan. A quick ride there and back. Nothing elaborate.”

He moved toward the mantelpiece, where his pocket watch lay gleaming, while Gideon crossed to the table and retrieved a small box of cufflinks. As he worked them through Tristan’s cuffs, his brow creased.

“Will you speak to these friends about the Berkeley Project?” he asked.

Tristan’s mouth tightened. “Not yet. I am still weighing my options. Mr. Harwood presented it well enough, and the folio he left does appear in order. But you know as well as I do that presentation and truth are not always the same thing.”

Gideon nodded gently. “Caution suits you, my lord.”

“Caution keeps men alive, we both know that,” Tristan said evenly. Then he leaned forward even more, his voice dropping. “Still, I may go along with it after I meet with Mr. Harwood again.”

Gideon made no remark as he adjusted the set of Tristan’s sleeves, but Tristan caught the flicker in his eyes. He did not press. Instead, he allowed the silence to hang until he himself broke it.

“It is pleasant, is it not?”

Gideon looked up. “What is, my lord?”

“The change of atmosphere.” Tristan exhaled through his nose and gave the faintest smile.

“Change of atmosphere?”

Tristan shot him a glare. “My wife’s friend. Lady Clara.”

“Ah,” Gideon said, his tone unreadable.

“She has breathed some kind of new life into the manor,” Tristan continued. “Even Grandfather tolerates her company, and that is no small feat.”

Gideon gave a mild grunt, which made Tristan glare even harder at him. “You have reservations.”

“My lord—”

“Do not deflect. Tell me what you think.”

Gideon hesitated, then straightened his shoulders. “If you insist, then yes. I find Lady Clara somewhat vain. She is a bit too bright for my liking.”

Tristan chuckled. “A bit too vain, you say?”

Gideon nodded.

“You, Gideon, need more time among the London elite. There you would see true vanity.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” Gideon responded, his voice dry, “that sounds like a nightmare.”

Tristan laughed. “That is because it is. The elite is a pageant of nothing but peacocks. Believe me, compared to them, Lady Clara is mild.”

Gideon said nothing, but Tristan continued anyway.

“She might be just a smidge too vibrant, yes. But being vibrant is not a fault, is it?”

Gideon pursed his lips, conceding with a nod. “Perhaps you are right.”

“I usually am,” Tristan muttered, half under his breath, though the edge of humor remained in his voice.

He crossed back to the mirror, inspecting the line of his coat, then looked back at Gideon again. “In fact, I have considered organizing a ball. A proper one to introduce Eliza into local society. What do you think? Tell me plainly if it is a terrible idea.”

Gideon narrowed his eyes. “The issue here, my lord, is not whether the idea is terrible or not.”

Tristan blinked. “What is the issue then?”

Gideon grabbed a linen from the floor, then began to fold it. “For as long as I have known you, you have always thought balls were unnecessary. I am only finding it a bit hard to believe that you suggested this.”

Tristan nodded. “Well, I did not come up with it on my own. Aunt Evelyn had suggested it this morning at breakfast and would not stop pestering my grandfather until he agreed to it.”

Gideon exhaled. “Oh.”

“It is a terrible idea, is it not? I knew it,” Tristan whispered.

Gideon blinked, then allowed the rare curve of a smile. “On the contrary, my lord. It is an excellent idea. It would benefit Lady Vale greatly. She deserves such a welcome.”

Tristan studied his own reflection, as though seeking confirmation there. “So this is not just you telling me what I do not want to hear?”

“No,” Gideon responded firmly. “Quite the opposite. Have you told her yet?”

Tristan shook his head. “Not yet.”

Gideon gave a soft laugh, surprising in its ease. “I think you should inform her, my lord.”

“That settles it,” Tristan replied. “I will tell her this evening.”

He pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. A mild gasp escaped his lips. “Goodness. Is that the time? I must hurry. They will be waiting for me already.”

Gideon stepped back, satisfied with his work, and gestured toward the boots. “Then you are ready, my lord.”

Tristan slid them on, the leather snug, and straightened once more. “Very well. If anything urgent arises while I am gone, you know where to find me.”

“Yes, my lord,” Gideon replied simply.

Tristan gave him a brief nod before striding toward the door. The morning ride awaited him, but already his thoughts had leapt forward to a ball that might reshape his wife’s place in the house, and perhaps, even though he was not ready to admit it aloud, reshape his own as well.