Tristan ate some and looked at the artist with surprise when he said he had seen the inside of a goal from the other perspective. He really seemed to have had a rather wild youth. But Tristan supposed if you were an Earl, you'd get away with things he himself would never have gotten away with. His parents had held a tight reign, and it was probably a good thing, for one misstep could seriously endanger his career.

Speaking of endangering his career, Tristan opened the other bottle. "If you think you will be able to stay out of gaol tonight," he teased, "I'd say we try this one with the beef." He held out the bottle to fill the painter's glass if he let him. Then he filled his own.

"As for prison duty..." his face turned a little grim. "Not anymore, luckily. I did it because the asylum wasn't paying well, but I despised it. They didn't give me enough time to properly inspect or treat any inmate. The conditions the men were in was appalling. I didn't like contributing to such a system. Stopped when they roped me into supervising a flogging." He grimaced. "I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to heal, not contribute to injury." The turmoil it had caused in him, had kept him awake for a week and it could still make him shudder.