Page 32 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

“Well, that is because most people avoid it,” Tristan said, raising his lantern higher. The glow revealed thick dust on the shelves and walls. “There are no guest rooms here or ballrooms. Only the bones of Evermere.”

“Bones of Evermere,” Eliza repeated. “You make it sound like a castle out of a Gothic novel.”

Tristan turned to look at her. “Perhaps it is.”

Her fingers brushed the wall as she walked, almost as if touching the past itself. “And you know the way well?”

“I know it enough.” He glanced back at her. Her gown moved lightly as she followed, her steps careful but curious. “My grandfather used to say the archives hold every secret we have ever buried.”

She gave a small, doubtful laugh. “And do you believe him?”

Tristan’s lips curved faintly, the expression brief. “We are about to find out.”

They resumed walking again, and at that exact moment, her slipper caught on a loose stone. A sharp gasp escaped her mouth as she pitched forward.

“Eliza!” Tristan caught her arm before she could fall. His grip was firm, the lantern shaking in his other hand.

Her balance returned, but her hand lingered in his, longer than necessary. She looked up at him, breathless.

“It seems you are always catching me.”

He released her, stepping back to give her space. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said with a laugh that softened the tension. “But I should probably fall less, should I not?”

A small smile escaped him despite himself. “It would save me the trouble.”

They moved on until the passage widened into a tall chamber. The air was cool, carrying the smell of old parchment. Dust covered the shelves. Parchments and scrolls filled the long tables, untouched for years.

“This is it,” Tristan said, setting the lantern on the desk. Its glow threw the room into a soft golden haze.

He pulled out a chair for her. “Sit. This may take hours.”

She sat, smoothing her gown, her eyes sweeping across the shelves. “Where do we begin?”

Tristan spread out a map across the desk.

His voice was calm, but the edge of determination cut through it.

“We begin with Mr. Harwood. As we already know, so far, his plan is not about prosperity. It is a power play. He wants to re-zone the land, strip tenant protections, and tie Evermere to investors who do not care for the people here. But to do that, he needs one thing.”

Eliza leaned forward, brows furrowing. “What is that?”

“The duke’s approval. It is why he needs me on board. It is quite essential for his plan.” Tristan tapped the parchment with one finger. “With it, Mr. Harwood has power. Without it, he has only ideas.”

She rose, moving closer, and brushed dust from a ledger. “Show me.”

Together, they sifted through the documents. She was even more helpful than he could have imagined. Once in a while, a name would pop up in one of the ledgers, and she would point at it.

“Lord Sinderby,” she had said one time, running her finger across the name on the paper. “I remember him.”

“You do?” Tristan had asked.

“Yes. He was one of my father’s business partners. I do not remember much, but I believe they were in the coal mine business together. Lord Sinderby had a lot of mines, and my father generated the workers to shell the mines of their coal.”

“I see,” Tristan responded, his voice solemn. “Eliza, in case you ever want to talk to me about your father—”

“I will come to you,” she responded, a laugh crossing her lips. “Even though you are not the best with words and emotion?”

“I will do my possible best,” he responded, his voice tame.

She nodded and returned her gaze to the ledgers. They continued to flick through, examining business dealings, taxes, transactions that went back decades, until all of a sudden, a sharp gasp escaped Eliza’s mouth.

“What?” Tristan asked, his voice deep.

“Here,” she said suddenly, pointing at a name. “Lord Calthorne. I saw this in the parish records. He donated through a solicitor.”

Tristan frowned, scanning the writing. “What are you saying?”

“Calthorne is one of the lords you met with, and I believe he is funneling money into the church. What I do not believe is that the money is for donation purposes.”

“Which means he is pulling outside men into this.” Tristan’s tone hardened. “He is trying to create the illusion of wide support.”

Tristan’s jaw tightened, the weight of it sinking into him. “It is not progress. It is theft.”

The hours passed as papers piled across the table. Their hands brushed more than once as they shifted scrolls. Her sleeve brushed his arm when she leaned closer. At one point, his palm steadied her wrist as she rolled up a map.

The small things lingered. Steady. Natural.

Tristan caught himself staring at her. Not at her brother’s pawn. Not at the woman the matchmaker had passed to him on paper. No, he was staring at Eliza—the woman who stood with him when it mattered.

“Eliza,” he said softly, almost impulsively.

She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Yes?”

The words caught in his throat, and he shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind”

She tilted her head, a faint smile playing. “You really need to start learning how to use words, Tristan.”

A smile tugged at his lips, and he turned to look at her. As he opened his mouth to give a response, a sharp knock echoed into the brief moment, interrupting the silence.

Tristan rose and walked to the door. He opened it and watched a footman walk in, an apologetic look on his face. The footman bowed, holding out a sealed letter.

“A message for you, my lord. The courier delivered it just now.”

Tristan accepted it, the wax seal already familiar. Mr. Harwood.

“Thank you,” he eventually said, his voice curt as he dismissed the footman. After he left, Tristan returned to Eliza and began to break the seal. His eyes raced across the words, tightening as they went.

Eliza stepped close. “What is it?”

Tristan passed her the paper. “It is an invitation from your brother. He wants me to attend a private gathering outside town three days from now.”

Her eyes scanned the letter. “He wants to make a final pitch.”

“And I am expected to provide my answer by then,” Tristan responded, his voice rough.

Eliza looked up at him, the confusion settling on her face. “But is this not just a little too early?”

Tristan’s voice dropped low, heavy with anger. “It is. He must have found out that I met with the lords behind his back, and he means to corner me.”

Eliza folded the paper with steady hands and looked up, eyes clear. “Then we do not run. We face him.”

Tristan studied her. There was no fear now, no hesitation, and resolve. He realized in that moment that she was no longer just his wife. She was his ally as well, and for the first time, he allowed himself to feel the weight of that and the strength it gave him.

Her gaze lifted to his, but his voice was clear. “Yes. We face him.”