Page 32 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)
CHAPTER 32
“H is Grace, the Duke of Westmere,” announced the butler with unmistakable relief as Victor strode through the entrance, Argus hot on his heels, the hound’s bearing suggesting he expected to find Tristan around each corner.
Victor’s arrival at Cuthbert Hall was met with a palpable air of disquiet. The staff moved with the nervous energy of those anticipating calamity, their usual disciplined efficiency giving way to evident unease.
“Where is Lady Cuthbert?” he demanded without preamble.
“Her Ladyship is not in residence this evening,” the butler replied, his composure belied by the anxious glance he cast at the housekeeper. “She and Master Tristan have gone to attend Lord Sidney’s ball at Thornfield Manor.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. “How long ago did they depart?”
“Not more than an hour, Your Grace. Martha accompanied them.”
“Fetch my horse,” he instructed. “Immediately.”
Victor ran outside and within moments, the stable boy appeared, leading Victor’s stallion.
The animal sensed his rider’s tension, dancing sideways as Victor swung himself up into the saddle with military precision.
“Thornfield Manor,” he directed tersely. “The quickest route.”
“Through there, Your Grace.” The lad pointed toward a narrow bridle path. “It’ll bring you to the south garden in less than a quarter-hour.”
Victor handed him a bag of coins. “Send word to the Marquess of Knightley. Tell him where I have gone, and tell him to come immediately.”
With these final instructions, Victor urged his mount forward, Argus racing ahead.
As they plunged into darkness, Victor found himself possessed by a cold, focused rage—the clarifying fury that preceded battle when all extraneous concerns fell away.
Find Emma. Protect Tristan. Ensure Sidney Bickford never threatened either of them ever again.
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.
Emma sagged against the wall, her legs threatening to give way beneath her as precious air rushed back into her lungs. Through the blur of involuntary tears, she witnessed Victor seize Sidney by his elaborate cravat and hurl him across the summerhouse with a strength born of cold fury.
“Victor,” she managed, her voice a broken whisper that nonetheless stopped him as effectively as a shout might have.
He turned toward her, his expression transforming from murderous rage to a look of anguish and concern in the space of a heartbeat.
“Emma.”
He took a half-step toward her, but then Sidney’s spiteful laughter interrupted the moment. He had regained his feet, blood seeping through the sleeve of his evening coat where Argus’s teeth had found purchase.
“How perfectly romantic,” Sidney sneered. “The beast returns to claim his beauty. Though I fear you are too late, Your Grace. The lady and I had already come to… a certain understanding.”
Victor’s posture shifted subtly, the movement familiar to Emma from her observations of Argus before a hunt—the deceptive stillness that preceded lethal action.
“The only understanding you shall come to, Bickford,” he replied, his voice terrifyingly quiet, “is with your maker.”
Before Sidney could formulate a response, Victor crossed the space between them in two swift strides. Sidney attempted to retreat, his confidence evaporating in the face of Victor’s controlled rage, but the wall of the summerhouse prevented his escape.
“For Tristan,” Victor said simply, his fist connecting with Sidney’s jaw in a single, precise blow that sent the man crumpling to the floor like a discarded marionette.
Emma watched with a curious detachment as Victor knelt beside Sidney’s supine form, one hand gripping the man’s throat with enough force to hold his attention.
“You will leave England,” he stated, each word enunciated with lethal precision. “Tonight. You will relinquish guardianship of Tristan Bickford to trustees of Lady Cuthbert’s choosing. You will never approach either of them by word, deed, or proxy. Should you fail to honor these terms, I shall ensure that your remaining days will be spent in abject misery. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Sidney’s eyes darted frantically between Victor’s implacable expression and the growling hound, who stood poised to resume his attack at his master’s command. Whatever calculation transpired behind his panicked gaze, self-preservation emerged triumphant.
“P-Perfectly,” he managed, the word emerging as a strangled whisper beneath the pressure of Victor’s grip.
“Excellent,” Victor replied, releasing him with a contempt that was somehow more devastating than any physical blow would have been. “Now, leave. And be assured, Bickford—I will be watching. Always .”
Sidney scrambled to his feet, all pretense at dignity abandoned as he stumbled toward the summerhouse entrance. At the threshold, he paused, his habitual malice reasserting itself one final time.
“She’ll never be more than Harold’s leftovers,” he spat, blood staining his usually immaculate cravat. “A soiled widow with a brat of a son.”
Victor moved with a speed that belied his size, closing the distance between them before Sidney could retreat.
“One more word,” he said quietly, “and I shall forget my decision to let you live.”
Sidney blanched, whatever vestigial courage had prompted his final barb evaporating in the face of Victor’s controlled fury.
Without another word, he turned and fled into the darkness of the gardens, his uneven footsteps fading into the night.