Page 38 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The carriage wheels hummed against the rough road. Tristan sat stiffly, arms folded across his chest, the weight of the ledger still burned into his mind. The firelight from last night seemed to follow him even now and every line of Marcus’s forgeries replayed in his head.

Even the lies sat heavily against his chest as he drew a slow breath.

This is no longer only about land. It is about the people who depend on me. And about her.

Across from him, Gideon watched him with a soldier’s sharp eyes. At length, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You are grinding your teeth again, my lord,” he said flatly.

Tristan blinked. “Am I?”

“You are,” Gideon said. “Your jaw is tight enough to crack a stone.”

“I should have said something against holding this meeting at night. I do not like the silence.”

Gideon’s eyes strayed out of the carriage and then back to Tristan’s face. “Yes, but that is not exactly the cause of your distress, is it? There is something else.”

Tristan shifted in his seat. He hated feeling this transparent.

“What are you thinking about?” Gideon eventually asked, his voice clear.

“Nothing. Just that I cannot afford a misstep. Not tomorrow, not tonight. If Marcus has already convinced half of those lords, then …”

“Then you will convince the other half,” Gideon cut in, his voice sleek and sharp against Tristan’s demeanor. “You know how to do that, convince people.”

Tristan gave a dry laugh. “You speak as if it is that simple.”

“It is not simple,” Gideon said. “But you are capable of it. I have seen you when men were ready to scatter and die. Do you remember the ridge outside Antwerp?”

Tristan looked up sharply. “How could I forget? And how come you always pick that one.”

“Because it fits,” Gideon said. His voice lowered, steady as stone.

“We had no food left. The supplies had been cut off for three days. Men twice your age were ready to desert, ready to throw down their arms as you stood there, hungry as the rest of us, and you told them if they abandoned the line, the entire flank would fall. You held them with nothing but your voice, my lord. You did not use your rank or any kind of medal. Only words.”

Tristan felt the memory tug at him. It all came rushing back like a smooth waterfall.

He could almost feel the cold in the air that gray dawn and the mud in his boots.

The smell of powder hanging thick filled his nostrils.

He remembered everything. Men hollow-eyed and trembling.

He had spoken without thinking, had told them to stay, to fight. And somehow they had.

“You made them believe,” Gideon continued. “And you saved us. That was not a battle of rifles. That was a battle of will. This is nothing but another battle of will. It is no different.”

Tristan shook his head slowly. “No different? This is politics, Gideon. Land, ledgers, signatures. There are no rifles to point, no charges to rally.”

“Do not let this situation dissuade you, my lord,” Gideon said.

His voice sharpened. “This is war. Only the weapons are different. What you have instead are pens instead of bullets and signatures instead of swords. Mr. Harwood is your enemy across the line. And just like before, you cannot let him break through.”

Tristan sat back, his hands tightening on his knees. “If I fail, Evermere falls. And so does my wife.”

Gideon’s tone softened. “Then you will not fail. You never have when it truly mattered.”

The carriage rattled over a rut, shaking both men. Outside, the countryside lay completely black and silent, broken only by the glow of the moon on the fields.

Tristan pressed his palm against the window, staring out into the night. “It is strange. I have faced bullets, cannon fire, the screams of men dying all around me. Yet my heart has never beaten like this.”

“Because this time it is not just your dignity on the line,” Gideon said. “It is hers, too.”

Tristan closed his eyes.

Eliza.

Always Eliza now.

The way she looked at him last night, her hand against his arm. The way she had whispered that they would face this battle with Marcus together. That vow rang louder than any battlefield oath.

“I will not let him use her again,” Tristan muttered, almost to himself.

Gideon’s gaze softened, though he said nothing.

For a long moment, the only sound was the wheels and the horses’ steady rhythm. Then, on the horizon, faint traces of light appeared. Lanterns rose with the landscape, glowing in the darkness.

“There it is,” Gideon said quietly.

Tristan leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

A house rose at the edge of town, its windows lit, the air around it faintly alive with voices that seemed to carry on in the wind.

The house was not exceptionally daunting in any way, yet the voices he heard coming from the house seemed to send waves of fear down his spine.

The battlefield.

The carriage slowed as they approached the house, and the horses stamped at the gravel. Gideon reached across and straightened Tristan’s coat with a firm tug.

“There,” he said. “At least look like a man who knows what he is doing.”

Tristan gave him a sharp look, but the corner of his mouth lifted despite the weight pressing on him. “I cannot tell because it feels like I am still sometimes treated like a boy.”

“Only when you forget who you are, my lord,” Gideon said.

The carriage eventually jolted to a complete stop, and silence fell between them. Tristan’s hand tightened once on the door handle.

“If I can face bullets, I can face words,” he said at last.

He pushed the door open and stepped down into the cool night. The lanterns threw long shadows across the gravel, and the low murmur of voices swelled from the house ahead. Every nerve in his body was taut, but his spine stayed straight.

The battle had begun.

The hall smelled of polished wood, tobacco, and way too much wine.

Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across velvet curtains and heavy oak tables, and laughter rang too loud.

Tristan recognized that kind of laughter as he stepped closer to the house.

It was the kind that tried to mask the unease underneath.

Marcus stood near the center, his wine glass in hand and the smile on his face broader than the surface of a babbling brook. His smooth voice carried effectively around the room as he spoke, but then he faltered as Tristan approached the door.

“Lord Vale,” he said as Tristan entered. “At last. I feared you might miss the toast.”

“I would not dream of it,” Tristan answered, his voice even.

You have no idea what you are about to step into, Mr. Harwood.

Several lords raised their glasses.

“To Evermere’s future!” one cried.

The others echoed, voices clinking against each other’s glasses.

Tristan accepted a glass but did not drink.

His eyes moved across the room as he studied the men even further.

They were all men of wealth, men of hunger, men who spoke of vision but looked only at maps and numbers.

He had always been blind to this, but now he saw rather clearly that their cheer was for the numbers and not for the people.

Good God.

Marcus spread his arms as if unveiling a stage.

“Gentlemen, we stand at the edge of history. Evermere is no longer a quiet estate. With the Berkeley Project, it shall be a hub. A gateway. Imagine mills humming, rails cutting across fields, warehouses filled with goods. The countryside will no longer be stagnant. It will be alive with industry.”

The room stirred with nods and hums of agreement.

One lord leaned forward, voice thick with drink. “And the trade routes, Mr. Harwood, you said they will link to the coast?”

“Precisely,” Marcus said, his smile deepening. “A central artery for commerce. We will compete with the largest estates in the kingdom.”

Another lord laughed. “And with competition comes profit.”

Tristan kept his face calm. “Tell me, Mr. Harwood,” he said lightly, “what of the farms? The orchards, the grazing lands … the soil that has fed families for generations. Where do they stand in this vision?”

Marcus waved his hand. “They will adapt. New work will come. Men who once plowed fields will find employment in the mills, and their sons will learn trades. My most sincere apologies, my lord, but you of all people should know that we cannot cling to the past forever.”

Tristan tilted his head. “Employment in mills, yes. But whose mills? Yours? Theirs?” He gestured to the gathered lords. “And when the farms are gone, will their sons truly find a place? Or will they be pushed out eventually when their land is gone and their names forgotten?”

The murmuring in the room shifted. Some eyes lowered. Marcus’s smile stiffened.

“Progress demands sacrifice,” he said. “Evermere cannot remain a backwater while the rest of the country surges ahead. These changes will elevate us all.”

“Or elevate you,” Tristan said softly.

The remark drew a ripple of uneasy laughter. Marcus bristled but recovered, raising his voice. “Do you think I speak only for myself? Gentlemen, do you not see? This is for Evermere’s greatness. For the future.”

The doors opened then, and silence fell. The duke stepped inside, his presence filling the room without effort. Lords rose instinctively, bowing.

“Your Grace,” Marcus said too quickly, his voice an attempt at charm. “You honor us.”

The duke gave him a cool glance before turning to Tristan. “I hear much about Evermere’s future tonight, so I decided to do the next best thing. I came to hear it for myself.”

Marcus’s shoulders tightened, but he lifted his chin. “Then you shall hear the vision, Your Grace. Real vision.”

Tristan’s lips curved faintly. “Yes. Let us hear it. From the beginning, if you please.”

So Marcus began again, laying out his dream with elaborate gestures. He drank deeply between points, mistaking the room’s silence for admiration.

Tristan noticed the slight withdrawal he had in his second explanation. For some reason, it was like he became even more timid. Like this was not something he planned, but had to go through anyway.

Of course, it was clear he never intended to do this before the duke but now he had to.

His eyes shifted to his grandfather, who listened with feigned rapt attention, but he knew there was only one thing on his grandfather’s mind, and that was to expose Marcus Harwood for the total fraud that he was.

Once in a while, the duke would ask a question or two, and Marcus would respond as aptly as he possibly could. Even Tristan was subtly impressed.

How could a man so selfish and evil drip with charm this severe?

When Marcus eventually finished, another wave of silence settled into the crowd until, at last, Tristan laughed.

“That was a wonderful presentation, Mr. Harwood. I could not have done it better.”

“Your words are well appreciated, Lord Vale,” Marcus responded, his voice clear.

Perhaps it had something to do with his grandfather’s presence or just the mere fact that he could properly see through the man’s deceit now, or even the lingering words of his valet about how this was no longer just about him but about Eliza now.

He didn’t know exactly what it was, but something gave him courage. The kind of courage he had been waiting for since he got into the gathering. He didn’t waste time.

He rose to his feet immediately, feeling Marcus’s eyes on him.

“You describe growth. But growth for whom? For the lords in this room, perhaps. But what of the tenant families who will lose their homes? What of the men who cannot buy their way into these ventures? Do they not belong to Evermere’s future?”

“They will benefit from the wealth created,” Marcus said, his tone clipped.

“Will they?” the duke asked suddenly. His voice cut across the room like steel. “Or will they starve while you sell their land?”

Marcus faltered. “That is unfair.”

“No,” Tristan said. His voice had grown steady, almost cold. “What is unfair is stripping men of the soil their fathers bled for. What is unfair is calling greed ‘progress.’”

A murmur swept the room. One lord shifted uncomfortably. Another whispered to his companion and slipped toward the door.

Marcus’s face darkened. “You twist my words, Lord Vale. These gentlemen know I speak the truth.”

The duke leaned forward, eyes like ice. “Truth? You speak of greatness, but every sentence begins and ends with you. Is it Evermere’s greatness you seek, or Marcus Harwood’s?”

A few lords chuckled nervously. More stood, muttering excuses. Chairs scraped against the floor. The room thinned.

Marcus’s voice rose, desperate now. “You are blind. You cling to an old world while the new one rises without you.”

“Better blind than deceived,” Tristan said.

The last straw came when one lord, red-faced with shame, muttered, “I will not be party to this,” and left with two others. Marcus stood surrounded by only a few loyal die-hards, his wine glass trembling in his hand.

It was time.

Tristan pulled out the ledger Miss Flick had given him and laid it on the table, ignoring the way the sound cracked through the room.

“This,” he said, his voice ringing, “this is proof of your fraud, Mr. Harwood. Forged sales in my name and in several other lords’ names as well. Documents that strip this land bare. And worst of all, your use of my wife as a pawn in your game.”

The last words burned his throat, but he spoke them clearly.

Marcus stared at the ledger. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he smiled.

“You think you’ve won,” he said softly. “But you know nothing.”

His gaze swept the room, then settled on Tristan. “Do you think I did not prepare for this? Do you think I have no leverage? I have something far greater than your ledger.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Face the facts, Mr. Harwood. You have lost.”

“Oh, but I have not. At least, not yet, my lord. There is still one more card.

“What are you insinuating?”

Marcus took a step closer, and his voice lowered dangerously. “I have proof, Lord Vale. Proof that your legitimacy is not what it seems.”

Tristan froze. “What did you say?”

Marcus’s smile widened. “Your name, your title, your claim to Evermere … I can unravel it. Unless, of course, you sign over what I ask. Give me what I want, and your secret stays buried.”

The room went dead silent. Tristan felt the air press against his chest.

He turned to the duke, waiting for his grandfather’s denial and for his booming voice to cut through the lie. But the duke said nothing. His face was carved stone, his silence louder than Marcus’s words.

For the first time that night, Tristan’s heart faltered.

What?