Page 70 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

“Yes,” she answered, her tone calm but firm. “You have meetings with half the aristocracy of London today. I doubt they would want my presence even if I insisted. Better I stay out here.”

He studied her a moment longer. “Very well,” he said at last, releasing a slow breath.

She gave a warm smile and made her way across the square. Tristan watched her kneel beside the children, her dress settling around her. She laughed as the little ones thrust flowers into her hands and touched her hair. Then, with a reluctant turn, he moved deeper into the festival where the men waited.

Marcus had gathered them in a side room off the square. The tables in the room were littered with maps and papers. Tristan took his seat calmly and watched Marcus sit at the head, his voice steady and confident.

“Gentlemen,” Marcus began, “as you all know, this project is not simply an expansion. It is an opportunity to tie our fortunes together, to strengthen trade routes, and to build something greater than the sum of our lands.”

Tristan scanned the faces around him. Some were familiar; most of the others were not. He spotted one he knew. It was the baron from the garden party days ago.

“My lord,” Tristan greeted him with a nod.

“Lord Vale,” the baron said, leaning forward with a grin. “I am glad you are here. This will be of interest to you.”

“We shall see,” Tristan responded, his voice almost a whisper.

The baron cleared his throat before continuing, “We wait for a few more, but it seems Mr. Harwood does not intend to wait.”

Marcus cleared his throat and carried on. “The idea is simple. We build new mills. We cut a broader road through the forest and direct trade through our lands. In time, wealth flows not only to us, but to every house allied in this effort.”

The men murmured in approval, but Tristan folded his hands, his gaze steady.

“And the villagers?” he asked at last.

Marcus paused, then smiled as though expecting the question. “They will be fine.”

“Fine?” Tristan pressed. “If I follow this correctly, the project will cut into their farmland and limit their trade. What will happen to those who cannot invest? What becomes of them?”

One of the lords shifted uncomfortably as Marcus’s smile thinned. “There will be mechanisms in place to ensure they are not left behind.”

“What mechanisms?” Tristan asked. His voice was calm, but his eyes narrowed.

“We are still refining those,” Marcus admitted. “But the principle stands. Progress demands adaptation. Once the returns begin, everyone will benefit.”

Tristan leaned forward. “Should that not be the first priority? The lords may be powerful partners, but we all know very well that their interests do not always align with those of the people. If this truly is for growth, then the villagers must see that growth as well.”

Marcus waved a hand, his tone sharp. “We will make it align. Do not worry yourself with every detail, Lord Vale. That is why you have me.”

Something in his voice felt jarring, almost insensitive. Like the villagers were completely an afterthought. Tristan sat back, the discomfort sharp in his chest.

“Perhaps we should pause,” he said finally. “We are still waiting for others to arrive, and the festival outside deserves our attention. Let us take a break.”

The men looked at one another, then nodded. At last, Marcus exhaled, forced to agree. “Very well.”

They all rose and stepped out into the sunlight once more.

The first sound Tristan heard was a boy’s laughter. A child ran toward him, his small legs pumping hard. Tristan recognized the mop of brown hair and the scar on the knee.

“Matthew,” he said with a subtle smile. “How is your leg?”

The boy grinned. “It has been fine, my lord, ever since you wrapped it that day.”

“Good,” Tristan said. He crouched so they were level. “As long as you do not trouble your mother again, it will not give you pain.”

Matthew laughed, bobbed his head, and ran off toward his friends.

Tristan straightened and turned. Across the square, Eliza was still with the children. She had a daisy crown in her lap, and the little girls were weaving flowers into her hair. Something softened in Tristan’s chest, and he took a step toward her.