Page 97 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Eliza narrowed her eyes.

Wait.

The man’s hat cast most of his face in shadow, but the way he tilted his shoulders, how solid his stance was, the way he shifted from one leg to the other. Her eyes widened.

Dear God.

Clara leaned closer. “Who is it?”

Eliza felt her throat grow tight. “It … It is Marcus.”

She couldn’t hear the words they exchanged. Not without straining her ears anyway, but she could feel the desperation in Flick’s voice and the anger in Marcus’s. Something about this scene tugged hard at her, and she decided to lean forward just a little to hear the conversation.

“I did this for you, Marcus. Do not tell me you have forgotten all my efforts toward this marriage already.”

“How could I forget when you keep mentioning it at every turn?”

“I made this marriage happen. Do you think any matchmaker in her right mind would connect an earl to someone like your sister?”

Eliza pressed a hand to her lips.

“Clara,” she whispered. “It is her. She is the matchmaker who arranged my marriage. And Marcus...”

Clara’s eyes widened. “You mean …”

“Yes.” Eliza’s whisper shook. “They are connected.”

Before Clara could respond, the conversation ahead grew louder, and she didn’t have to strain her ears to hear them anymore.

“You promised me more than this,” Eliza could hear Flick say, her voice cracking. “I have given you everything, Marcus. My reputation, my name …”

Marcus cut her off. “And you will have what you are owed. But you must hold your tongue. Speak of this again, and I do not think I will be so kind.”

Her voice broke, strained with tears. “If this is you being kind, I would hate to see what is on the other side. You have ruined me already.”

Marcus’s tone hardened. “Enough.”

He stepped back, straightened his coat, and strode away, his boots grinding against the stone path. Flick covered her face with her hands, shoulders trembling, before turning in the opposite direction.

Eliza and Clara stood still, their bodies pressed against the hedge, waiting until both figures had completely disappeared.

Clara let out a slow breath. “Good heavens.”

Eliza’s heart pounded so loud she feared it might give them away. “Did you hear what she said? What has he dragged her into?”

“Something foul,” Clara said bitterly. “And if she arranged your marriage under his command … Eliza, do you understand what this means?”

Eliza nodded faintly, though her hands shook. “It means Marcus set every piece in place. He used her, he used me, and he used Tristan.”

Clara gripped her arm. “We must be careful. If he discovers we overheard …”

“I know.” Eliza’s voice was tight. “We cannot let him know. Not yet.”

They slipped back the way they had come, their steps light and their breaths shallow. Neither spoke again until they reached the main garden path, where the laughter of children and the soft hum of voices filled the air once more.

But the secret pressed heavy against Eliza’s chest. The sight of Marcus with Flick Ashcombe burned in her memory, and the realization that Marcus had been behind everything from the beginning left her reeling.

As she walked beside Clara, her face calm for the sake of appearances, her heart whispered one truth only.