Page 12 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
“He is expecting you.”
Tristan walked into the room and caught the solicitor on one side of the wooden table. What he didn’t expect, however, was someone else. A woman already sat opposite Sedgwick, her hands folded neatly in a pair of dove-gray gloves and her posture upright. She looked as composed as a portrait.
“I will wait outside. Forgive me if—”
“No. Please, come in,” the solicitor said, a laugh lifting his dark moustache. He pushed his glasses closer to his face and gestured to the other empty chair in the room.
“Lord Vale,” Sedgwick said, watching Tristan settle into the other chair. “I thank you for attending so promptly. Please, allow me to present Mrs. Flick Ashcombe.”
Tristan bowed slightly at the woman, his eyes assessing her. She returned the gesture with a sly smile that seemed both polite and unreadable at the same time.
“Mrs. Ashcombe is a lady of particular reputation,” Sedgwick continued. “In discreet circles, her discernment and judgment are sought most highly. Given the significance of the matter, I thought it prudent that you meet her directly.”
Tristan turned to her once again, his eyes narrowed. “A matchmaker then.”
Mrs. Ashcombe’s eyes glinted with the smallest hint of amusement. “A term too lightly used in society, my lord. I am merely an intermediary who values precision, propriety, and discretion. The word ‘matchmaker’ suggests folly and chance, and I deal in neither.”
Her voice was steady and clear. She had all the confidence in the world, yet something about the woman’s choice of words made Tristan feel uneasy. Like she had rehearsed this.
Was this her way of pleasing him? Was this what she did with all her clients?
“Is that right?” he eventually asked, turning to the solicitor.
Sedgwick nodded approvingly. “Indeed. It is through her hand that the most respectable unions of the last five Seasons were secured. I trust her judgment in these matters more than any registry or ledger.”
Mrs. Ashcombe reached into the satchel beside her and withdrew a slim folder. She pulled out a sheet of paper from the folder and slid it across the table toward Tristan.
“This,” she said, her gaze steady, “is Miss Eliza Harwood.”
Tristan picked up the paper, and his eyes moved across the neat script that described a young woman of modest background but refined education, the daughter of the late Baron Harwood. A dowry noted as being held in trust. References to her composure, her gentility, and her adaptability in a household of stature.
“She is well-bred,” Mrs. Ashcombe said, her gloved hands folding once more. “Moreso, she has been prepared for the responsibilities that accompany a title of weight. You must trust, my lord, that I will not recommend her otherwise.”
Tristan lowered the page and studied her. “You speak with certainty.”
“I speak with care,” Mrs. Ashcombe responded. “In these matters, words are not given idly. A household such as Evermere requires harmony and a wife who will not fracture beneath expectation. Miss Harwood has the composure to endure and is intelligent enough to adapt to life there.”
The phrasing was elegant and precise. Yet Tristan continued to feel like he was being guided. The woman spoke with such grace that it felt almost too good to be true.
“You present her as a paragon,” he said, his mouth curving faintly. “Is there no fault to her name? Not a single blemish in the slightest?”
Mrs. Ashcombe did not flinch. “I do not deal in perfection, Lord Vale. I deal in suitability. Of course, a man like you is smart enough to know no one is perfect. Miss Harwood is not without fault. Just like you are not. But I can say, with all confidence, that Miss Harwood is suitable.”
Sedgwick leaned forward, his hands clasped. “There is also the consideration of timeliness. His Grace was clear that matters must not linger, and Mrs. Ashcombe has been kind enough to move Miss Harwood’s name to the forefront of her recommendations.”
Tristan’s brow lifted slightly. “To the forefront.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Ashcombe said, her tone still smooth. “It is in everyone’s interest that a resolution is reached promptly because a delay would invite uncertainty. I suppose I must also inform you, my lord, that you are not the only one in line for her hand in marriage.”
The words carried the faintest tug, as though a hook had been placed delicately in the water. He was no stranger to persuasion. He had lived amidst orders, bargains, and threats for years. Yet this did not feel like a threat. It was softer for some reason and more refined.
He returned his gaze to the page, scanning once more the careful summary. There was no glaring fault or any obstacle to pinpoint. On paper, she was perfect.
Tristan set the paper down, his decision swift. Since this woman seemed as fitting a choice as any, he might as well do this and get it over with.
“She appears suitable,” he said at last, his tone clipped but final.
Mrs. Ashcombe smiled. “She does, my lord.”
