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“Tristan!” Emma called, her voice low but urgent, just loud enough that she didn’t disturb the entire estate. “Tristan, darling, where are you?”

The only response was the rustling of leaves, stirred by a breeze that brought with it the scent of impending rain.

She regretted not bringing a lantern.

That thought hit her too late, as she tripped over a protruding root, nearly losing her footing. Without any light, she could easily walk right past her son without even realizing it.

Then, a flicker of movement caught her attention—too quick and small to be an adult yet too intentional to be just an animal.

It was a child, all right, darting between the trees ahead.

Herchild, to be precise.

That little goblin!

“Tristan!” she hissed, abandoning caution as she lurched forward. “Tristan Bickford, you come here this instant!”

The small figure paused, turning slightly, and even in the poor light, Emma recognized her son’s profile and the unruly curls that no amount of combing could tame. Relief flooded her, so potent she nearly collapsed.

But the boy didn’t come to her. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, he continued on, moving with purpose toward a structure Emma hadn’t noticed before—a small cottage set apart from the main mansion, its windows glowing with warm light.

Where does he…

Fear returned like a lance straight through her heart.

“Tristan, no!” she called, louder now, no longer caring who might hear. “Return here this instant!”

Her son disappeared around the side of the cottage.

Emma gathered the last of her strength and sprinted the remaining distance, her mind conjuring horrific scenarios with each step—the Duke finding her son trespassing, the punishment he might inflict.

The stories of his temper were legion, and if even half were true…

As she rounded the corner of the cottage, a sharp, booming bark froze her in place.

A dog. A large one, by the sound of it.

“Tristan!” she screamed, terror lending her voice a strength she didn’t know she possessed.

She burst into a small, enclosed garden at the rear of the cottage, illuminated by lanterns hung from hooks along the walls.

In the center of the garden knelt her son, his back to her. Before him stood—no, not stood, butsat—an enormous dog, an English Setter with a coat that gleamed silver and black in the lantern light.

Emma rushed forward, prepared to throw herself between the beast and her child, but as she approached, she realized with bewilderment that Tristan wasn’t cowering in fear. He was holding out something to the dog, who accepted it with a gentleness that seemed incongruous with its size.

“Tristan Bickford!” she gasped, skidding to a halt beside him, her chest heaving and her eyes blazing. “What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”

But Tristan looked up at her with a face alight with pleasure rather than fear, his eyes twinkling as though this were merely another day spent playing hide and seek in Cuthbert Hall.

“Mama! You found me!” He beamed up at her then, and Emma wondered if she’d been too lax with the boy.

Surely, this was completely unacceptable, and he ought to know better. In fact, she was rather certain that he did know better.

She went to reprimand him again, but he continued to speak with an innocence that was far younger than his age. Which meant that the little imp knew he was in trouble and was doing it on purpose.

“Look at this magnificent dog! His name is Argus, and he’s ever so friendly.”

Emma arched an eyebrow. Indeed, the dog didn’t seem the least bit threatening now. It wagged its tail enthusiastically, looking between Tristan and Emma with intelligent eyes.