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The simplicity of those goals calmed him even as his urgency increased. Victor had spent a decade attempting to outrun the ghosts of his past, only to discover that the act of running had created new specters—Emma’s face when he had nearly lost control, Tristan’s confusion at his sudden withdrawal, and his own cowardice in abandoning them rather than confronting his fears.

He would not compound those failures tonight.

* * *

“Tristan!”

A small figure emerged from the shadows, moving with furtive haste. Victor slowed his horse, recognition dawning.

He had avoided the main entrance, directing his mount toward the rear gardens.

The boy started before recognition replaced fear. “Your Grace!” he gasped, relief evident in every line of his small body. “You came back!”

Victor dismounted in a fluid motion, dropping to one knee. “What has happened? Where is your mother?”

“Uncle Sidney,” Tristan choked out, his voice breaking, his shoulders trembling with the leaden weight of terror. “He has a pistol. He was… He was going to hit me when I said you would never approve of how he treats her. She told me to find Martha and wait in the carriage, but I came looking for help instead.”

A cold certainty settled in Victor’s chest. “Where did you last see them?”

“The rose garden. Near the summerhouse. Uncle Sidney was angry—angrier than I’ve ever seen him—and… and…” Tristan faltered.

Victor placed a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You have done well, Tristan. Now, go to the stables and wait for the Marquess of Knightley. He’ll be looking for you. When he arrives, tell him Lady Cuthbert is in danger.”

Tristan straightened, determination replacing fear. “I will find him. But you must help Mama.”

“I shall,” Victor vowed, the promise weighted with all the remorse and resolve that had accumulated during his absence. “Now, go.”

As Tristan darted away, Victor turned to Argus. “Find Emma,” he commanded.

Argus moved immediately toward the shadowed depths of the gardens with a single-minded purpose.

Victor followed, his every sense attuned to the night around them—the distant music, the rustle of leaves, the growing scent of roses.

The summerhouse loomed before them, barely visible in the moonlight. Victor would have passed it without pause had Argus not halted abruptly, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

It was then that Victor heard it—a strangled sound, neither fully voice nor breath but unmistakably Emma’s.

He moved without conscious thought, instinct and training propelling him forward as Argus lunged ahead with a snarl that shattered the garden’s stillness.

As they reached the threshold, the tableau within resolved itself—Emma, pressed against the far wall, her face contorted in a desperate struggle, and Sidney, his back to the entrance, one hand closed around her throat while the other pressed a pistol against her side.

* * *

“Unhand her this instant, or I swear to God, you will not live to see another dawn.”

The voice that pierced the darkness of the summerhouse struck Emma as a hallucination born of desperation—its deep, commanding cadence so familiar yet impossibly present.

Sidney’s grip loosened fractionally in surprise, affording her a precious gulp of air as he half-turned toward the entrance.

Only to find a massive figure silhouetted against the moonlight, a snarling beast at his side.

Victor.

With a speed that her oxygen-starved mind struggled to comprehend, Argus launched himself at Sidney, his powerful jaws clamping around the man’s wrist.

“Aaarghh! Get off me, you foul beast!” Sidney released her throat with a howl of pain.

The pistol clattered to the ground as Victor surged forward.