Page 84 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

He could see the confusion on Eliza’s face grow just a little. “Lord Blackmere?”

Tristan shifted in his seat. “He is one of the lords I met with for the Berkeley Project. He was with us yesterday at the harvest festival.”

“Why would he buy lands near the border?”

Tristan shrugged. “Apparently, he bought them under an alias, and Grandfather only found this out after doing research of his own.”

Eliza drew in a breath. “Oh. I see.”

“Grandfather has always been a stickler for numbers, you see. He reviews records intermittently. After our marriage, he began reviewing the records, as he often does, and that is when he found out about this.”

Eliza’s eyes widened. “All of this happened in just two days?”

“Yes. And I am beginning to think all of this is deliberate,” Marcus responded, walking around the room, unable to stand still in one spot anymore.

“I agree. The timing is quite convenient. Also, lands by the border? That is incredibly strategic.”

“I know,” Tristan responded. “And I think this somehow involves the Berkeley Project.”

“It has to,” Eliza replied, her voice gentle.

Tristan nodded, his jaw set. He folded the letter slowly, too slowly, his chest rising with each controlled breath. “I cannot believe it took me this long to realize just how much of a disaster this project was set out to be in the first place. This was never about prosperity or creating wealth. It is a land grab, plain and simple. A hostile reshaping of the countryside disguised as opportunity.”

“Tristan—” Eliza called, but he was too upset to stop talking.

“And you want to know what I personally think? Mr. Harwood is well aware of all of this. In fact, I think this was what he set out to do in the first place. It is not just a side effect of what opportunity may cost, no. This is the Berkeley Project. A plain old-fashioned con.”

Her brow furrowed. “Tristan—”

“And Mr. Harwood? He is the face of it,” Tristan said bitterly. “The charming front they use to lure men like me. Bringing all the lords in to soften our doubts and dress greed as progress.”

He moved to the fireplace, the letter trembling in his hand. Without a word, he fed it to the flames. The wax seal curled and melted.

“I cannot believe I let myself—” His voice broke, the anger growing in him as he watched the edges of the letter darken and eventually burn away.

“I cannot begin to imagine how you feel,” Eliza said, her voice a soft contrast to the simmering rage pounding in his chest.

He resumed pacing the length of the room, every step sharp against the wooden floor.

“I will not let this stand. I was trying to do this in a civilized manner before, but it is clear some drastic measures have to be taken. The people of Evermere will lose everything. Do not get me started on the orchards, the cottages, and the grazing fields that fed them for generations. And all the while, men like Lord Blackmere and Mr. Harwood would sit at tables, raising their glasses over the ruin.”

Eliza rose and crossed toward him. “You must calm yourself.”

“Calm?” Tristan’s voice was harsh. Then he stopped, caught himself, and lowered his tone. “No. You are right. Anger will not fix it. But I cannot stand idle.”

She reached out as if to touch his arm, then let her hand hover instead. “What will you do?”

“I must find a way to delay everything. No agreements. No signatures. Nothing formalized until I trace every detail. I will speak with the smaller landowners myself and gather their support. This cannot be swept under the rug.”

Eliza nodded slowly. “Then you must. But promise me something, Tristan.”

He turned to her. “What?”

“Do not let anger guide you. It solves nothing. Resolve will do more than rage ever can.”

Her words settled deep in his chest. He studied her, then gave a curt nod. “Yes. Certainly, that, too.”

Her lips curved faintly, though the worry in her eyes did not reduce one bit.