Page 101 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

As she approached, Tristan’s face brightened with visible relief. “Mama! Fred was just telling me about his pony. I was explaining that His Grace has been teaching me to ride his horse, who stands nearly seventeen hands high.”

The wistfulness in her son’s voice as he mentioned the Duke again sent a fresh pang through Emma’s heart.

“How delightful,” she managed, nodding politely to Fred. “Though perhaps you might wish to join Martha for some refreshment? I believe I saw her near the lemonade table.”

Tristan required no further encouragement, making his escape with barely concealed eagerness.

Emma watched him weave through the crowd before turning to scan the ballroom once more, seeking some momentary respite from her lecherous brother-in-law’s attention.

Her relief was short-lived. She had scarcely taken a step toward a group of Athena Society members when she found herself surrounded by Lady Harrington and her particular circle—women whose social currency depended primarily on their access to and dissemination of scandal.

“Lady Cuthbert, you simply must join us,” Lady Harrington insisted, her plump fingers closing around Emma’s wrist with surprising strength. “We were just discussing the most fascinating rumor about the Duke of Westmere. They say he left for London quite abruptly and under the most interesting circumstances.”

Emma’s heart stuttered painfully as she struggled to maintain her composure. “I cannot imagine what circumstances those might be, Lady Harrington. The Duke’s business is his own, surely.”

“Oh, but that’s precisely what makes it so intriguing,” Lady Pettiford interjected, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For a man of his… temperament, to depart so suddenly and immediately following that dreadful scene at the Swinton musicale, one can’t help but wonder if there might be a connection.”

“Perhaps he simply tired of country life,” Emma suggested, striving for a tone of casual disinterest. “London offers diversions more suited to a gentleman of his position.”

Lady Harrington’s eyes gleamed with the particular satisfaction of a gossip scenting vulnerability. “Diversions, indeed. Though one hears he found ample diversion right here, specifically at?—”

“Lady Cuthbert.” Martha’s voice cut through the conversation like a lifeline. “Forgive the interruption, but I believe Master Tristan requires your attention. He has gone out to the gardens alone.”

The ladies’ circle parted reluctantly, their disappointed expressions suggesting they had been denied a particularly choice morsel of gossip and even further harassment.

Emma seized the opportunity for escape with barely concealed desperation.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, already moving toward the terrace doors. “A mother’s duties must take precedence.”

Once outside the stifling confines of the ballroom, Emma inhaled the cool evening air, fighting to steady her racing heart. “Where is he, Martha?”

The maid’s expression was grave. “I saw him slip out after Lady Langley’s grandson said something… unkind about his father. And about you, My Lady.”

A fresh surge of protective fury cleared Emma’s mind of all other concerns. “Which way did he go?”

Martha gestured toward a path that wound through formal gardens barely visible in the light spilling from the ballroom windows. “Toward the rose garden, I believe. Shall I accompany you?”

“No,” Emma uttered, already gathering her skirts. “Remain here in case he takes another path. I shall find him.”

The gardens were shadowy and unfamiliar, the carefully manicured hedges creating a labyrinth that might have been designed to disorient visitors.

Emma moved as swiftly as her evening slippers allowed, calling Tristan’s name in a voice that grew increasingly urgent as she penetrated deeper into the grounds without seeing a sign of her son.

She had nearly reached the far end of the rose garden when a muffled sound caught her attention—something between a sob and a shout, quickly stifled. Her pace quickened, her heart hammering against her ribs as she rounded a tall hedge to discover a sight that froze the blood in her veins.

Tristan stood rigid with defiance, his small figure dwarfed by Sidney’s looming presence.

Sidney gripped the boy’s shoulder with one hand, the other holding what appeared to be a small pistol.

“I told you to be quiet, boy,” he was saying, his voice slurred with the effects of too much wine. “Your mother need never know you saw me. Just a quiet word between us gentlemen, that’s all.”

“You are not a gentleman,” Tristan retorted, his voice shaking but resolute. “You’re a coward who threatens my mama! The Duke says that a true gentleman protects those weaker than himself, not?—”

Sidney lifted his hand, ready to strike him.

Emma’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint of incandescent rage as she surged forward.

“Take your hands off my son,” she commanded, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears.

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