Page 57 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

“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.