Page 4 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
“Yes. It is.” Mrs. Andrews responded in a tone that seemed to say that was something they both knew already.
“He has summoned me to the castle.”
The woman’s brows furrowed. “Summoned?”
Tristan let out a nervous chuckle. “More like threatened, if I am being honest.”
Mrs. Andrews said nothing. Instead, she watched with interest as he rubbed the back of his head.
“Something has come up,” he revealed.
The woman took a step back in surprise.
“Is everything all right?”
Tristan squeezed the letter. “Oh, not yet. But it will be.”
“My lord, if you need help with anything—”
Tristan laughed again. “You have been quite the most help, Mrs. Andrews. I do not know how I can possibly repay you.”
Silence fell between them, and Tristan exhaled as loudly as he could.
“I am afraid I must leave for Evermere tonight.”
Mrs. Andrews sighed. “And what about the deer, my lord?”
“Think of it as a gift from me to you, Mrs. Andrews.”
He left her in the hall and went to his room. Evermere was only half a day’s ride. If he left now, he could arrive before it grew fully dark.
He pulled a few shirts and a coat from the chest, rolled them tightly, and stuffed them into a leather satchel. When he stepped back outside, the evening light had begun to fade. He walked to the stable and led his horse into the yard.
“Shall I prepare something for you to take along?” Mrs. Andrews called from the doorway.
“It is too late, Mrs. Andrews. But I am grateful for the sentiment,” Tristan said.
George appeared, trotting toward him. “I will help with the reins, my lord.”
Tristan handed him the leather straps. “Remember, Georgie, the lodge is under your control now. You must protect it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good.” Tristan mounted the horse. “Stay sharp.”
The boy nodded, and Tristan urged the horse forward, the steady rhythm of hooves carrying him onto the open road. His mind worked over the letter’s words. His grandfather never spoke idly of the inheritance. If he had put it in writing, he meant it.
The night air was cold by the time the towers of Evermere rose against the horizon. He rode through the gates, ignoring the curious glances of the two maids who stood near the front steps.
“Where is my grandfather?” he asked.
They exchanged glances before one spoke. “He is in his study, my lord.”
Tristan strode through the halls, the familiar smell of polished wood and parchment filling his lungs. He found the door open and the reflection of shaky candlelight bouncing off the walls.
“Tristan,” his grandfather said, leaning back in his chair. “I knew the letter would get you here.”
He closed the door behind him, letting his eyes briefly settle on the portraits that were hung all around the walls.
