Chapter 71: Of Names Remembered and Names Forgotten
Chapter 70: Of Names Remembered and Names Forgotten
Benedict had been making his way toward Baron Redwick to congratulate the Baron.
It was a simple enough intention.
He had watched the painting stop an entire courtyard cold and had thought, with the honest simplicity that governed most of his thinking, that the man deserved to hear it said plainly.
He had taken approximately four steps in that direction when Duke Thorncrest’s voice cut across his path.
"Earl Hawthorne."
The Earl stopped.
"Mm?"
Alistair gestured lightly toward the man standing before them.
"Do you happen to know this gentleman?"
The Earl gave the man a look with a frown on his face, tilting his head slightly.
The man was tall. Blonde hair, neatly tied. Gray eyes that were currently doing something complicated.
The Earl studied him for a moment with genuine effort.
He was not, he would freely admit, particularly good with faces. He had spent the better part of the morning watching fourteen men stand before easels and had retained approximately four of them with any clarity. The names had been called one by one, and he had listened to each with the attentiveness of a man who intended to remember them and had then promptly not done so.
He shook his head.
"I’m afraid I do not," he said simply.
The man’s eye twitched.
He cleared his throat.
"I am," he said, slowly, "Marquess Corvin Hale of Westreach."
He looked at Alistair specifically as he said it.
Alistair’s expression did not change in any way that suggested recognition had arrived.
"Right," he said pleasantly. "And I am Duke Alistair Thorncrest of Highmoor."
He paused.
"Though I suspect you knew that already."
The Marquess’s jaw tightened fractionally.
"I did," he said.
"Wonderful." Alistair smiled. "Then we are both introduced."
He gestured lightly toward Benedict.
"Though the Earl here may still require the same courtesy, since he appears to be in a similar situation to the one I was in a moment ago."
The Marquess looked at Benedict with something akin to disgust. He did not see it right to be introducing himself to an Earl.
"The Earl is an Earl," the Marquess said in disgust.
Alistair raised a brow at that. He wasn’t particularly pulled in by the Marquess with the way he spoke.
Benedict, however, seemed entirely unbothered.
"Oh," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Yes. I am. I am an Earl."
"But it is rather nice to finally put a face to the name," he continued, turning his full attention to Corvin now. "I must admit, I hardly pay attention when the candidates are announced."
The Marquess stared at him.
"A failing," he repeated.
"I retain perhaps three or four with any real clarity," Benedict said agreeably. "The rest tend to blur a bit. I am much better with people once I have actually spoken to them."
"Your painting was good, though," he said.
The Marquess’s expression shifted slightly.
"Though I understand it did not quite follow the instructions given," Benedict added, in the same even, conversational tone. "Which was a shame, because the technical work itself was quite accomplished."
"I might say the same of you," the Marquess replied smoothly. "You did not follow them either."
"Actually," Julian said, stepping forward slightly, "the Earl did follow the instructions."
He adjusted his spectacles.
"The competition asked for a representation of how each candidate perceived the Princess as the Moon of the Empire. It asked for interpretation, not a portrait." He looked at the Marquess as he spoke. "The Earl’s painting interpreted the Princess as the sky within which the moon itself exists. That is, by any reasonable reading of the instructions, a valid representation."
He paused.
"A portrait of the subject, while technically accomplished, was not what was asked for."
The Marquess held Julian’s gaze for a moment.
Then he smiled... tight.
"Well," the Earl said, clearly pleased, "that is very kind of you."
"But yours was the best," he added without hesitation. "Truly. I was not surprised at all that you won."
Julian adjusted his spectacles.
A faint colour rose briefly along his jaw—the same colour that had appeared when Evander called him the best artist present, contained quickly and efficiently behind the composure he wore as reliably as his coat.
"You are most generous, Lord Hawthorne," he said. "It is one of my many talents."
Alistair huffed a soft laugh.
"Of course it is," he said. "So, in addition to being a scholar, Baron Redwick is also an artist. How, exactly, are the rest of us meant to compete?"
Julian inclined his head slightly.
"The competition," he said, "remains... formidable."
Benedict nodded in agreement.
"Yes," he said. "Quite."
"We should get a drink together sometime," Benedict said, looking between Alistair and Julian. "The three of us."
Alistair’s expression brightened.
"Agreed," he said immediately.
"Perhaps invite the others too," Benedict added.
Alistair tilted his head.
"The others?"
"Duke Valenridge," Benedict said. "And Duke Aurelgrave."
Alistair considered this briefly.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Yes," he said. "I think that would be very interesting indeed."
Julian said nothing.
But he did not object.
And for Julian, Benedict was beginning to understand, the absence of objection was essentially enthusiasm.
The three of them turned, falling naturally into step with the easy companionship of people who had, over the course of a single afternoon, arrived somewhere unexpected and found it agreeable.
Behind them, the Marquess stood alone. He had been ignored throughout the conversation. The Duke had pretended like he didn’t exist. And why did the Baron win the competition? He was supposed to be the winner.
Jacinta was supposed to be his after all. Marrying her would be the best decision he had ever made, and given the fact that he was a Marquess, the Duke should have seen reason to speak with him and not the Earl and the Baron.
He watched as the three men walked away, anger forming in his features as he watched them. He would pay them back, though. This was just the beginning.
