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“ T ristan? Oh, where on earth is that blasted boy?” Emma Bickford—née Thornton—huffed, hands bunched in her skirts as she scurried along the corridors of the great house.

There were plenty of things the Dowager Countess of Cuthbert couldn’t do, and cursing a child was probably at the top of the list.

Yet, even Mr. Frederick, her ever-reliable butler, who always kept pace beside her, didn’t comment on her outburst as he caught up with her.

“We have the stable boys searching the grounds, My Lady,” Mr. Frederick assured her, his voice steady, though his eyebrows were furrowed in a tight pinch that belied his worry.

Emma turned to him again, her heart racing with a mother’s dread. Evening shadows sprawled across the marble floors of Cuthbert Hall, and with each passing minute without her son in her arms, it felt like she was sinking into quicksand.

She really did not like that feeling. Not one bit.

“Have you checked the library? The boy does love his adventure books.”

At first, she had hoped the books would soothe the boy’s overactive imagination, but it looked like all her hopes had been for naught.

“Yes, My Lady. Martha has checked twice now. We have also searched all of Master Tristan’s favorite hiding spots, but there’s still no sign of him.”

And so, they were growing even more desperate.

Emma pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

Eight years old. Just eight years old and already such a little rascal.

At this rate, she’d be gray before thirty—which, really, was a mere three years away, but she knew what kind of devilry her son could get up to.

If he continued exactly like this, she would probably die of a heart attack before she even turned twenty-nine.

Blasted boy , she thought, her affection for him slowly evaporating under the weight of the overwhelming fear that gripped her heart in a stone-cold hold.

“How can he be off gallivanting after such a hearty supper?” she murmured, more to herself than to Mr. Frederick, not minding if she came off as a bit loony—this was enough to drive any mother mad. “He should be in bed right now!”

As if to emphasize her words, the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight, each toll reverberating through her like the somber toll of funeral bells.

Outside, darkness had fully enveloped the grounds of Cuthbert Hall, cloaked in the eerie blackness that only a moonless night could bring.

Now, she was beginning to feel the familiar stirrings of anger. Of all the nights he could have pulled such a trick, it had to be on the one without the moon’s light!

What if he fell down in the darkness? What if he got lost?

“I am going to tan his hide. I swear I am!” She found herself holding on to the thought tighter and tighter with each second that passed.

“My Lady, perhaps we should—” the well-meaning butler began to speak, but his suggestion was unceremoniously cut short by the sound of hurried footsteps.

Emma swiveled with urgency, her eyes shaking in her skull as she sought the one who approached, hoping to the high heavens that it was her unruly son jumping out of the dark to reveal himself. But she hoped too soon.

Mrs. Peabody, the housekeeper—a buxom woman with a pitiless disposition—appeared at the end of the corridor, her normally severe expression even more pinched than usual.

Emma’s heart sank at once.

“We have searched everywhere, My Lady. Every nook and cranny. The boy isn’t in the house,” she said, her tone curt—the only tell of her mounting anxiety.

Well, that left only one other option: they were just going to have to search outside.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath, doing her best to keep her wits about her, even as fear threatened to unravel her.

Be calm. Be calm , she told herself.

“Then we must search the grounds more thoroughly.” She was ever so grateful about the fact that her voice did not waver. “Have the lanterns been lit?”

“Yes, My Lady. The footmen have taken them out. The gardener is checking the old well, though it’s been boarded over for years.

” Mrs. Peabody hesitated, her expression tight, but then she must have decided to hell with it, because she added, “And Mr. Jones has gone to fetch the constable from the village.”

“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. The Beast of 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.

“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.