Page 2 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“The constable?” Emma’s tone was sharp. “Surely that’s hardly necessary. My son is playing a game, that’s all.”

But even as she spoke, she knew the words rang hollow. Tristan was adventurous, yes, but he had never disappeared like this before, and never so late when he knew she would be worried to death.

“Best to be thorough, My Lady,” Mr. Frederick said gently but firmly; it was a testament to his concern that he did not try to feed her empty words this time around.

Emma nodded, a wave of nausea washing over her. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll join the search outside.”

“My Lady, your shawl—” Mrs. Peabody called after her, but Emma was already rushing toward the entrance hall, her skirts gathered in her fists.

The night air slammed into her with the force of a physical blow, cold and damp against her skin.

Lanterns bobbed in the darkness, illuminating fragments of the estate—the rose garden, the stone path leading to the stables, the ancient oak tree Tristan loved to climb.

Voices called her son’s name, and each unanswered shout increased her terror.

He ought to have answered one of the calls for him by now.

“My Lady!” A stable boy—Tommy, she thought his name was—came running toward her, his face pale in the glow of his lantern. “My Lady, I think—that is—I may have seen Master Tristan earlier.”

Emma seized the boy’s arm with way more force than she had intended, her heart thudding hard against her ribs. “Where? When?”

The boy, Tommy, flinched but didn’t pull away. “Just before sunset, My Lady. I was bringing in the last of the horses when I spotted him. He was… well, he was running toward the western boundary.”

“The western boundary?” Emma repeated, her blood turning to ice. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, My Lady.” Tommy shifted uncomfortably—it was rather clear he was not too enthusiastic about the words that were about to come out of his mouth.

Emma did not like that.

When he finally mustered up the courage to blurt out the words, “Toward Westmere Hall,” Emma liked it even less.

Mr. Frederick, who had followed Emma outside despite the absence of his coat, inhaled sharply beside her, unable to hide his alarm. However, he quickly recovered his wits because he immediately sought to assuage her fears.

“Surely not, My Lady. The boy wouldn’t dare,” he said, but Emma knew better.

Hadn’t Tristan been fascinated by the stories? The servants tried to shield him from the gossip, of course, but children had ways of discovering exactly what adults wished to hide from them.

The Duke of Westmere. TheBeastof Westmere, some called him. The man had been a recluse since returning from the Peninsula War, and the gossip vines of the ton had it that his face was half-destroyed by French shrapnel, and just like that, his temperament had turned as savage as his appearance.

And, as was the way of gossip, the stories had turned supernatural even, encouraging the local children to dare each other to approach the boundaries of his estate in order to catch a glimpse of the ‘monster’ rumored to roam his grounds at night, howling at the moon.

“Tristan spoke of him at breakfast two days prior,” Emma whispered, regretting not paying proper attention to his persistent curiosity until two days too late. “I told him the stories were nonsense and that he mustn’t repeat such vulgar gossip.”

Had she inadvertently challenged him? Tristan, being the curious and headstrong young boy that he was, would consider such a dismissal as a challenge.

“You cannot mean to…” Mr. Frederick started to say, but Emma was already walking away, gathering her skirts in her hands as she started to run.

“Get more lanterns!” she told him as she went, a curl of her hair coming loose from her pins. “And if you can, send word to the Duke’s residence. But do not just stand there—I need you to follow me as quickly as you can!”

She could hear the activity behind her—Mr. Frederick issuing instructions, the guards mounting their horses—but she didn’t decrease her speed.

It was pretty easy to find her way even in the dark, since the path was well known. The Westmere estate also bordered the grounds of Cuthbert Hall, although the common border had been left to grow wild in the last few years, which reflected the enmity that had existed between the last Earl of Cuthbert, her late husband, and the current Duke.

Emma’s breath came in sharp gasps as she walked, her corset restricting her lungs, her half boots ill-suited for the uneven ground. Twice she nearly fell, catching herself against tree trunks, the rough bark scraping her palms. But still, she pushed on, driven by a single thought that eclipsed all others: Tristan was alone in the domain of a man known for his cruelty, wickedness, and unpredictability.

It was foolish to go alone. Emma knew this even as she pushed through a gap in the hedgerow that marked the boundary between the estates. But waiting meant precious minutes lost, and every instinct screamed that her son needed her now.

In the distance, barely visible through the trees, loomed the silhouette of Westmere Hall, a gothic monstrosity that seemed to absorb what little light the stars provided.

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