Page 93 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
“What?” Tristan asked, his voice deep.
“Here,” she said suddenly, pointing at a name. “Lord Calthorne. I saw this in the parish records. He donated through a solicitor.”
Tristan frowned, scanning the writing. “What are you saying?”
“Calthorne is one of the lords you met with, and I believe he is funneling money into the church. What I do not believe is that the money is for donation purposes.”
“Which means he is pulling outside men into this.” Tristan’s tone hardened. “He is trying to create the illusion of wide support.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened, the weight of it sinking into him. “It is not progress. It is theft.”
The hours passed as papers piled across the table. Their hands brushed more than once as they shifted scrolls. Her sleeve brushed his arm when she leaned closer. At one point, his palm steadied her wrist as she rolled up a map.
The small things lingered. Steady. Natural.
Tristan caught himself staring at her. Not at her brother’s pawn. Not at the woman the matchmaker had passed to him on paper. No, he was staring at Eliza—the woman who stood with him when it mattered.
“Eliza,” he said softly, almost impulsively.
She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Yes?”
The words caught in his throat, and he shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind”
She tilted her head, a faint smile playing. “You really need to start learning how to use words, Tristan.”
A smile tugged at his lips, and he turned to look at her. As he opened his mouth to give a response, a sharp knock echoed into the brief moment, interrupting the silence.
Tristan rose and walked to the door. He opened it and watched a footman walk in, an apologetic look on his face. The footman bowed, holding out a sealed letter.
“A message for you, my lord. The courier delivered it just now.”
Tristan accepted it, the wax seal already familiar. Mr. Harwood.
“Thank you,” he eventually said, his voice curt as he dismissed the footman. After he left, Tristan returned to Eliza and began to break the seal. His eyes raced across the words, tightening as they went.
Eliza stepped close. “What is it?”
Tristan passed her the paper. “It is an invitation from your brother. He wants me to attend a private gathering outside town three days from now.”
Her eyes scanned the letter. “He wants to make a final pitch.”
“And I am expected to provide my answer by then,” Tristan responded, his voice rough.
Eliza looked up at him, the confusion settling on her face. “But is this not just a little too early?”
Tristan’s voice dropped low, heavy with anger. “It is. He must have found out that I met with the lords behind his back, and he means to corner me.”
Eliza folded the paper with steady hands and looked up, eyes clear. “Then we do not run. We face him.”
Tristan studied her. There was no fear now, no hesitation, and resolve. He realized in that moment that she was no longer just his wife. She was his ally as well, and for the first time, he allowed himself to feel the weight of that and the strength it gave him.
Her gaze lifted to his, but his voice was clear. “Yes. We face him.”
Chapter 24
Eliza closed the door to the atelier gently and made her way to Clara’s chambers. It was high time she brought her friend up to speed on everything that had been happening. Her mind burned with the events of the previous night as she made her way down the carpeted hallway.
She thought of how close she and Tristan had been when they were looking through the ledgers, just how many times their hands had brushed. He was her husband. She shouldn’t be feeling these things for him. And if she was, she shouldn’t be this giddy about these feelings.
