Page 40 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Later that morning, Tristan was still unable to get any kind of sleep.

The journey back home from the edge of town should have, on normal occasions, thrown him into a deep sleep the instant he landed in the manor.

However, the reverse seemed to be the case.

He could not sleep because he could not stop thinking.

Not of Marcus. Not of the gathering. Not even of the ledger that had nearly shattered him. His mind circled the same truth: the maid, the child, the silence.

The silence hurt more than the scandal. His grandfather had chosen it, and in doing so had left shame to rot in the dark. Secrets instead of trust. Pride instead of honesty. And in that silence, the family had been wounded far worse than by any rival’s blade.

He stopped by a window. He couldn’t remember any time he had been up while dew still grazed the flowers. Of course, there was that moment he was leaving the inn with Eliza, and he needed to be up before the first light.

Eliza.

He thought of her, how often he had kept her at arm’s length. Had he been mirroring his grandfather without even meaning to? Holding people away, building walls, guarding wounds instead of sharing them.

His grandfather had done the same, brooding, resentful, never explaining. A cycle of distance passed from one man to the next, until it reached him.

And he was tired of it.

“Up before the sun, my lord?”

The voice drew him back. Gideon stood at the corridor’s bend, a cup in his hand, his expression calm as ever. He sipped, then walked toward him with the steady ease that had steadied him in darker days.

“You look like a ghost walking the halls,” Gideon said.

“Perhaps I am,” Tristan replied. His voice felt rough in his throat.

Gideon tilted his head. “Does she know?”

“She does,” Tristan said quietly. “I told her. Or rather, she learned it before I could decide. And still she stayed.”

“Then she is braver than most,” Gideon said. He leaned against the wall, his tone blunt but warm. “Listen, my lord. A name may be passed down, but it is only as good as what you make of it. The world remembers deeds, not pedigrees.”

Tristan let the words sink in. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple. You carry the Vale name, but what people will remember is whether Lord Vale fought for them or not. Titles vanish with the holder at the end of the day, but actions? They stay forever.”

Tristan almost smiled, though the weight in his chest remained.

At that moment, Clara came into view at the far end of the corridor. She carried a book pressed to her chest, her hair loose in the morning light. Gideon, calm as ever, tipped his head in polite greeting.

“Lady Clara,” he said.

She blinked, clearly startled, then dipped her chin and continued past, though not before a faint flush rose across her cheeks.

“I thought you did not exactly like Lady Clara. You told me that a few days back.”

“Yes, my lord. I remember.”

Tristan’s brow lifted. “And now you greet her as if she were a duchess. So tell me, what changed?”

Gideon shrugged. “People are not defined by one mistake, my lord. Not Lady Clara. Not me. Not even you.”

With that, he pushed away from the wall. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a household to see to. You, however, have a different matter to face.”

Tristan watched him walk away. The faint blush on Clara’s face lingered in his mind, and for the first time in days, something inside him eased. Perhaps the world was softer than he had always believed. Perhaps people were more than their shadows.

He turned toward the grand staircase, climbing slowly until he reached the duke’s study. The door was open. The old man sat behind the desk, his cane resting across his knees, his face drawn with fatigue.

Tristan stepped inside. “You wished to see me?”

The duke lifted his eyes. They were weary, but steady. “I thought perhaps you would come without summons.”

Tristan stood for a moment, then moved closer. “You knew this day would come. That silence would one day break.”

The duke’s hand tightened on the cane. “I thought I was sparing us shame. In truth, I spared myself. That cowardice stole something from your father, and from you.”

The words struck harder than any lecture could. For a moment, Tristan could only stare at the man he had both feared and resented all his life. “It is too late for apologies,” he said at last. His voice was quiet, but firm. “But it is not too late for honesty.”

The duke’s eyes glistened, though no tears fell. “Honesty, then. I failed you. I failed your father. I buried what should have been spoken, and the silence rotted until Marcus unearthed it. I cannot undo that.”

Tristan let out a slow breath, the air heavy in his lungs. “Do you know what I hated most? Your distance. I thought it was pride. But now I see it was the same chain you carried from him. The same silence I took into myself. A curse we have all worn.”

The duke lowered his head. “Then break it. Do not carry it further.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The room seemed to breathe around them, the dust floating in the morning light, the fire gone cold in the grate.

At last, the duke raised his head. His voice was steady, almost sharp again. “I cannot change the past. But I can protect your future. Marcus believes he has cornered you. He has not. Leave him to me. I have a plan.”

Tristan studied him. For once, the weight between them felt less like a wall and more like a scar.

He eventually nodded. “Very well. But I will not stand in silence again.”

The duke’s lips twitched, the faintest shadow of approval. “Nor should you.”

Tristan turned, his steps slower and steadier than when he had entered. The burden was not lifted or even healed. But something within him had shifted. He didn’t know what it was yet, but he knew what he had to do next.

It had never been clearer to him.

***

Tristan stood with Eliza in the long gallery, the light cutting through the tall windows, scattering reflections across the floor. The air was quiet, too quiet, until the heavy roll of wheels echoed from outside. He turned sharply toward the courtyard.

A dark carriage had just drawn up before the steps. His eyes narrowed as he watched the passenger step out.

What is he doing here?

Eliza’s hand tightened around the edge of her shawl. “Marcus,” she breathed.

Tristan felt the name like a spark against dry wood. “Stay close,” he said quietly.

They descended the staircase together, and the entrance doors opened before they reached the bottom. Marcus strode in as though the house already belonged to him. His usual smirk curled at the corners, and his eyes glinted with the usual devilry behind them.

“Lord Vale,” he said, voice smooth as polished glass. “And my dear sister.” His gaze flicked over Eliza with cold amusement. “You look well enough.”

Tristan stopped a few paces away. “What are you doing here, Mr. Harwood?”

Marcus spread his arms as though the answer were obvious. “I was invited.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Marcus responded, a shrug escaping his lips. “I suppose His Grace finally shows sense where you show none. No offense, of course, my lord.”

Tristan stepped forward, but Eliza snatched his arm just in time.

“No,” she muttered.

“I would listen to her if I were you, Lord Vale,” Marcus added.

Before Tristan could reply, a footman entered, bowing low. “His Grace requests your presence in the study. All three of you.”

Marcus gave a satisfied hum. “How timely.”

He led the way down the corridor without waiting. Tristan caught the wave of unease on Eliza’s face. He brushed his fingers against hers.

The duke was waiting when they entered, standing behind his desk, a folder lay open before him. The air felt charged, every tick of the clock sharp in Tristan’s ear.

Marcus stepped forward first, his tone already thick with practiced charm.

“Your Grace,” he began, bowing slightly. “I appreciate that you have allowed me the courtesy of a hearing. I came only to remind you of where true loyalty lies. Evermere’s legacy deserves vision, strength, not sentimental hesitation.”

The duke said nothing.

Marcus continued, confidence swelling. “My associates are prepared to fund the Berkeley Project fully. You need only sign, and your grandson’s resistance will no longer delay progress. I am sure you value prosperity over misplaced pride.”

When silence answered him, he pressed on. “The world is changing. Land must serve men of ambition, not cling to the past. I have merely offered Evermere a place in that future.”

“Have you finished?” the duke asked quietly.

Marcus blinked, momentarily thrown. “I believe I have said enough.”

The duke reached forward, opening the binder. Inside were letters, receipts, and at the top was a page bearing Flick Ashcombe’s signature.

Tristan exhaled as the truth of the situation began to dawn on him.

“What is going on?”

“This,” the duke said, his tone still mild, “this is a written confession. And these other documents are just records of the accounts you forged in my grandson’s name.”

Marcus froze, the color draining from his face. “You cannot—”

“Oh, but I can. You threatened me. You threatened Tristan. You did not possibly think you would get away with that, did you?”

Marcus swallowed. “Your Grace, I—”

Tristan stepped closer. “It is over, Mr. Harwood. Miss Ashcombe confessed everything. You used her, lied to your partners, and deceived this family.”

Marcus’s voice cracked as he tried to recover. “Confessions can be bought! None of this will matter. Society needs only to believe the scandal, not the truth.”

The duke’s tone sharpened. “You mistake my silence for weakness, Mr. Harwood. If you choose to press this any further, I will see you imprisoned, and believe me, this time, you will not talk your way out of it.”

Marcus faltered. The charm slipped away, revealing the desperate edge beneath. “You would destroy your own family’s name?”

Before Tristan could answer, Eliza stepped forward. Her voice, steady and cool, cut through the room. “Enough, Marcus.”

He turned to her, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“His Grace is giving you a choice here. Drop this whole thing and leave. If you had any sense, you would take it.”

Marcus stepped forward toward her. Tristan did the same as well, his protective instincts taking over.

“Oh. I see. You can no longer speak to me with respect now?”

“I will speak to you as you deserve.” Her gaze did not waver. “And God knows you deserve worse than this.”

“Eliza—”

“You will leave Evermere. I do not care where you go, but you will not return. You will not use my name, or this house’s, for gain or gossip. You are my brother by blood, but you are nothing to me now.”

Marcus blinked, momentarily lost for words. “You cannot mean—”

“I do,” she said simply. “And I mean it when I say you are finished here.”

Marcus looked from her to Tristan, then to the duke, searching for sympathy and finding none.

His jaw tightened. “You will regret this.”

“No,” Eliza said softly. “I doubt we will.”

He turned and strode from the room. The sound of his boots struck the floor hard, echoing until the door closed behind him.

Silence followed.

Tristan exhaled, the weight that had been pressing on his chest slowly easing. He looked at Eliza. She stood tall, her eyes bright but unshaken.

Eliza’s hand trembled slightly in his, but she didn’t let go.

“Is it truly over?” she asked.

Tristan met her gaze. “Yes, my dear. It is.”

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and steadily. Outside, the sound of carriage wheels faded down the gravel drive. Inside, the house felt lighter, the air clean again.