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“If his aim is anything like his attention to detail, we might all be dining on lead,” Annabelle whispered just loud enough for Emma to hear.

Emma stifled a smile as she finally managed to send her ball smoothly through the wicket. Maybe the morning’s distractions had helped—she had been overthinking her shots way too much.

“Well done, Lady Cuthbert,” Lady Pembrooke conceded. “Your skill seems to improve the further away the hunting party is. Perhaps we should keep the gentlemen out of sight permanently.”

“I have a feeling many marriages thrive on that very idea,” Annabelle remarked dryly, eliciting a few appreciative laughs from the other ladies.

Emma let a smile curve her lips, even as her thoughts remained beyond Pall-Mall, toward the hunting grounds where she could only pray that her son was safe.

CHAPTER9

“And where do you think you’re going, young man?”

The Duke’s deep voice made Tristan freeze mid-step, one foot hovering just above the woodland floor as if time itself had stopped.

Lady Cuthbert’s son had been sneaking forward in a half-crouch, his small frame partially hidden by a cluster of ferns while he chased after a hare that had darted across his path moments ago.

Victor watched as the boy slowly turned to face him, his expression shifting from surprise to dismay at being caught. He straightened up, reluctantly abandoning his predatory stance. Yet there was no fear in his eyes as he looked up at Victor.

How peculiar.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice a mix of respect and disappointment as the hare vanished into the underbrush. “I was just?—”

“Wandering away from Lord Griggs and the main hunting party,” Victor interjected as he studied the boy. “A rather reckless choice, wouldn’t you say?”

The boy’s gaze fell to his boots, now caked in mud from his adventure through the wetter parts of the woods. “I saw a hare,” he confessed. “A big one! I thought maybe I could catch it and show the gentlemen.”

Victor glanced in the direction the animal had fled and then back at the unruly boy. Despite the seriousness of his demeanor, he was not angry—he knew the child was growing up and curious.

“And how did you plan to catch this creature?” he asked, genuine curiosity brewing in his belly. “Hares aren’t exactly known for their willingness to be caught.”

Tristan’s mouth curved into a small smile that softened the lines of his face. “I thought if I was quiet enough, I could get close. Then I could…” He mimicked a lunging grab with his hands.

“I see,” Victor replied. Though he kept a stern expression, he felt the corners of his mouth twitching upward just a bit. “Your idea has some merit, but you need to refine your technique. You’re putting too much weight on your heels when you stalk. Try walking on the balls of your feet instead—less noise, more control.”

Tristan blinked, clearly taken aback by the calmness of Victor’s instruction instead of the scolding he had braced himself for. “You’re not angry, Your Grace?”

“My anger wouldn’t change the fact that you’ve distanced yourself from your guardians,” Victor shot back. “Come on. We need to get you back to Lord Griggs before anyone notices you’re gone.”

He turned, clearly expecting Tristan to follow, which the boy did eagerly, trotting to keep up with the Duke’s longer strides.

“Is Argus with you today, Your Grace?” Tristan asked after a brief silence, his natural enthusiasm bubbling back up now that it was clear he wasn’t in trouble.

“Argus is at Westmere Hall,” Victor replied. “I’d rather not put my dog through the chaos of the hunt. He’s a retired soldier, you know.”

“Oh,” Tristan said, disappointment creeping in, but a spark of excitement lit up his eyes at the mention of the dog being a retired soldier. “I was hoping to see him again. I’ve been thinking of new tricks to teach him—I read somewhere that dogs can learn to fetch specific items if you train them right, and your Argus is excellent at that, Your Grace! Does Argus fetch your slippers or your newspaper?”

Victor glanced down at the boy, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

“Argus has never shown much interest in fetching household items,” he replied. “Though he does have a rather annoying habit of moving my gloves to places only he knows.”

Tristan giggled, the sound bright and cheerful in the quiet of the woods. “That’s a kind of fetching,” he pointed out. “Just not the kind you want.”

“Well. That is… true enough,” Victor relented.

This time, there was a noticeable softening around his mouth—not quite a smile but definitely a hint that one might appear should the boy continue with his witty replies.

Victor was impressed by the child’s ability to hold a conversation with an adult so easily—a trait inherited from his mother. The thought was sarcastic, but the physical reaction that the mere thought of Lady Cuthbert provoked certainly was not.