Page 3 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Tristan had always cherished the early hours of the morning. The fragile quietness that came with it and the way it often let him get his mind in order. It was also the time he managed to get the most sleep, at least when he was still at the hunting lodge.

He would find that the situation was no longer the same, and perhaps in a rather harsh manner at Evermere.

The knock on his door was firm and jarring enough to throw the remainder of his sleep from his eyes. He groaned and wiped his hands over his face.

“My Lord? It’s Stanley.”

Wonderful, he thought.

“Enter,” he said, his voice rough.

The door opened and Stanley, one of the manor’s footmen stepped in, his uniform neat, though his collar sat slightly slant. Perhaps it was still the sleep making him see things.

“My lord,” he said with a bow, “His Grace requests your presence after breakfast this morning.”

“Does he?” Tristan raised a brow as he swung his legs from the bed. His eyes then caught the faintest hesitation in the footman’s expression and gave a dry smile. “And by after breakfast, does my grandfather by any chance mean during breakfast?”

Stanley’s ears turned pink. “So it would seem, my lord.”

Tristan pushed to his feet and reached for his coat. “A clever little scheme to force me out of this chamber and into the dining room.” He shook his head, pulling his waistcoat into place. “My grandfather cannot abide anyone who eats alone. It has always been his campaign against me.”

Stanley said nothing, wisely keeping his gaze lowered.

Tristan dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Go on, then. Tell His Grace I shall be there soon.”

The door closed behind the footman, and Tristan gave a small sigh. His appetite was thin, but there was no avoiding the duke once he had summoned him. He dressed quickly, tugging his cravat into place, and stepped into the hallway, his eyes studying the clean carpet and bright walls.

The scent of toast and coffee filled his nostrils the instant he stepped into the dining hall. His gaze immediately found his grandfather seated at the head of the long table, rigid and commanding as always. But it was not the duke who caught Tristan’s attention next.

It was the figure to his left.

“Aunt Evelyn?” Tristan said, his eyes wide and his lips curving faintly. He leaned down to embrace the older woman, the perfume of lavender clinging to her gown.

“When did you arrive?”

Evelyn patted his cheek with gloved fingers. “Very late, my dear. I am certain the clock had already struck one.”

“That is quite late indeed.” Tristan settled himself across from her, his eyes still focused on her. Aunt Evelyn was his father’s immediate sister. She was also one of Tristan’s favorite family members because, well, there was never a dull moment with Aunt Evelyn around.

“Do not look at me as though I were guilty,” Evelyn said, lifting her chin. “Blame the carriage driver. His daughter had the influenza, so he delayed my journey for hours to take her to the physician.”

Tristan’s brows lifted. “Truly? That was his reason?”

“Yes,” she said, as though affronted. “That was quite insensitive, was it not? It was only influenza, not dropsy or anything of significance.”

A low chuckle escaped Tristan, and he shook his head. “You are merciless.”

“Honest,” Evelyn corrected, reaching for her napkin.

The duke cleared his throat, the sound commanding silence. He gestured, and the butler gave a nod to the footmen. Plates of eggs, fresh bread, and a steaming dish of ham began to appear upon the table.

Tristan accepted a plate, watching as Evelyn poured herself tea. “What brings you here, Aunt? You do not often come without Lord Howard at your side. How is he?”

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed slightly, though amusement lingered at the corner of her mouth. “Hamish is in America, on business. And if I had to spend one more hour alone thinking of him wandering about that strange land, I would burn a hole through my brain.”

Tristan arched a brow as he buttered his bread. “It is only America.”

“Yes,” Evelyn said sweetly, “and Dante’s Inferno is only a circle.”

Tristan chuckled again, and he could have sworn he saw the faintest hint of a smile on his grandfather’s face.

Evelyn, who seemed oblivious to the reactions, gave a satisfied nod, then lifted her teacup with poise. “So I decided to see your grandfather instead. Imagine my delight to find you lurking about as well.”

Tristan smirked faintly and glanced toward the duke. “I suppose it was inevitable, was it not?”

The duke ignored the jab and continued to speak to Evelyn anyway. “Tristan is set for London tomorrow to meet my solicitor, Mr. Sedgwick.”

Tristan paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Sedgwick? I thought Hayes was your solicitor?”

“He was,” his grandfather responded, setting down his knife with precision. “But unfortunately, I had to drop him after his scandal.”

Tristan’s interest piqued despite himself. “What scandal?”

The duke’s expression tightened. “He was discovered in bed with a married woman.”

“What?” Evelyn asked, her fork frozen beneath her palm.

“In broad daylight, no less,” the duke continued, his voice slightly raised. “The affair could not be contained. Therefore, it was the end of Hayes’ career as a solicitor.”

Evelyn tutted, shaking her head in mock sorrow. “Poor thing.”

“Do not waste your sympathy,” the duke said sharply. “That is the price one pays for such folly.”

“I was not referring to him,” Evelyn replied smoothly. “I was referring to the woman. Imagine the indignity of having Ronald Hayes above you in the afternoon, with no darkness to shield his face.”

Tristan coughed into his napkin, laughter breaking loose despite his efforts to restrain it.

“Evelyn,” the duke snapped, though his glare held little real heat.

“Sometimes, Aunt, you cannot explain away the people you develop feelings for,” Tristan said, once he had recovered enough to speak.

Evelyn waved her hand as if brushing away a fly. “Darling, I have seen vultures more pleasant-looking than your father’s former solicitor. No one should be required to explain such a misfortune in the first place.”

Tristan gave her a sidelong smile as he reached for the ham. “Your honesty is as unyielding as ever.”

“And it keeps me young,” Evelyn said, dabbing delicately at her lips with her napkin.

Breakfast continued, and so did the small talk.

The duke spoke of his meetings with other noblemen, and Tristan listened with half interest. Aunt Evelyn spoke as well, of her latest adventures, but none of their words dulled the ringing in his head.

The inevitable thought of what would happen tomorrow.

He sipped his coffee and let the thoughts continue to settle deeply in his mind. All he could think of could be summed up in three words. London. Sedgwick. And a marriage looming closer. A marriage he never wanted in the first place.

***

The next morning was colder, even though rays of the rising sun were already digging past the clouds.

Tristan stepped out of the manor and walked down the steps with nothing but determination in his face.

He tightened the black gloves that wrapped his hand and collected a polished cane from one of the footmen who stood beside him.

“Thank you, Henry,” he said, and the footman only gave a slight bow in response.

The carriage stood waiting at the edge of the gravel drive, two dark horses stamping and snorting as the footman soothed them with a firm hand. As Tristan approached the carriage, he noticed Evelyn was already there.

She stood beside the open door, her shawl wrapped elegantly around her shoulders, and her eyes bright with the satisfaction of a woman who had much to say and all the time in the world to say it.

“Aunt Evelyn, I did not know you would be out here,” Tristan called, tightening his grip around the cane in his hand.

“Oh well, you could not go off to London and the lions without at least having a word from me,” she said as Tristan reached her side.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Tristan responded.

She only gave a brief smile in response. Her eyes settled on him as he stood by the open door, the smile on his face completely vanishing. “I know you think your grandfather is being dreadfully imposing, demanding you marry with such haste and to a woman you scarcely know.”

“I suppose he is the duke. It is either this or a life with no inheritance.”

Evelyn narrowed her eyes before nodding briefly. “Well, if there is one thing to appreciate about London, it is its excellent matchmakers. Trust me, your grandfather only wants what is best for you.”

Tristan handed his small travel bag to the waiting footman and gave his aunt a steady look.

“I do understand, Aunt Evelyn. And I understand more than you think. I know that when one is born to Evermere, duty must always transcend desire. Just because I am aware of my obligations should not mean I am not allowed to dislike all of this, now, should it?”

Her eyes softened at that, and she lifted one hand to stroke his cheek. “Oh, you poor thing. You still have so very much to learn about life, do you not?”

He allowed himself the faintest smile before she suddenly gasped and grabbed his left sleeve. “Good heavens, what is this?”

Tristan looked down, puzzled, then saw the tiny crease upon the upper part of his coat. “It is a crease, Aunt Evelyn. I believe I shall live.”

She straightened, aghast. “Live? You cannot step into London society with such disorder upon your person. A crease speaks of carelessness. Carelessness speaks of negligence. Negligence leads to ruin, and ruin … well, you see where I am going.”

“Not quite,” Tristan said dryly.

“You know very well,” she retorted. “If you had a proper valet, this tragedy would never have occurred.”

“I do not need a valet,” Tristan said firmly, adjusting the sleeve himself.

Evelyn’s brows arched in disbelief. “You do not need a valet? Do not be ridiculous. I know you are accustomed to that terribly rustic life in your hunting lodge—”