Chapter 4
Josephine sat near the narrow window, her gaze fixed upon the empty trail that wound through the trees beyond.
The late afternoon light slanted in through the glass, soft and golden, painting the worn wooden floor in stripes of warmth.
It had been hours since Jude had left—at least, it felt that way.
Time moved differently in the quiet; the stillness made every creak of the cottage and every sigh of the wind sound louder, more significant.
The clock on the mantel offered no guidance.
Its hands, frozen at half past eleven, seemed to mock her impatience.
She lowered her eyes to the small, leather-bound book resting open in her lap.
Normally, she would lose herself gladly in the pages of a story, forgetting her duties for an hour or two.
But now there were no duties to shirk—no mother calling for her, no servants needing direction, no embroidery waiting to be finished.
Just her, the book, and the endless whisper of the woods.
The words on the page blurred together, unread.
Her thoughts betrayed her, knowing she was alone in a cottage, in the middle of the woods.
What if Mr. Broderick came looking for her?
The very thought made her throat tighten and her palms dampen.
She could still see his cold, determined eyes, hear his voice promising a future she had never wanted.
If he had survived the accident—and she feared he had—would he not try to find her?
To drag her back into that cursed carriage and force her northward to Gretna Green?
A shiver raced through her, though the small fire in the hearth still burned low and steady. She shook her head sharply, as if to drive out the thought. No. She would not go with him. She would never be forced again.
A sound pricked the hush—a pounding, distant at first, then nearer—the thunder of hooves on a path. Her hand closed around the muff pistol instinctively, then she peered through the glass. Relief threaded through her faster than sense: a rider leaning forward in the saddle. Jude.
She unbolted the door and slipped out, the cold of the threshold biting through her slippered feet. The horse slowed, nostrils flaring, and Jude reined in with a practiced hand. He smiled when he saw her—an easy, crooked thing that reached his eyes.
“I have come bearing good news,” he said, dismounting before she answered.
“Which is?”
His glance flicked to the pistol in her hand and his brow lifted. “Did something happen while I was away?”
“No,” she replied quickly. “Only that I like to be sensible. A lady must be practical, is that not so?”
“Fair enough.” He gestured towards a chestnut horse. “I brought a mare I think you should be able to handle.”
“How would you know my riding abilities?” She stepped closer, measuring the beast.
“I daresay a stubborn, yet fast mare will suit you. Was I wrong in my assumption?”
“No. I am an excellent rider.”
“I thought as much.” He bowed his head slightly. “Are you ready to depart?”
“Now?”
He merely smiled. “Unless you require another bowl of rabbit stew?” he teased. “The servants at Ashmoore Hall are expecting you and I should say their spread will be more to your liking.”
As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. “I suppose I am a little tired of rabbit stew.”
“Heaven forbid.” He made a face at the notion. “It is a staple of my diet.”
“I did not mean to offend.”
“Too late,” he said, but the edge of mockery melted into something gentler. He set his hands on the mare’s flank. “After you, my lady.”
She let him assist her onto the mare and took up the reins. Jude mounted his own horse and fell into place at a careful distance. “Follow me,” he said, and they threaded the path together.
The woods closed about them like a whispered secret: light falling in mottled patches, leaves hushing under hooves, a distant jay calling as if to mark their passage. Knots of anxiety in her chest stilled with each measured stride. The motion had a healing quality she could not name.
When they emerged into the clearing, the duke’s country home lifted from the land and the sight made her breath catch.
She urged the mare forward and couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
How she loved riding: the keen air, the way her skirts settled, the beautiful and simple competence of it.
It was a pleasure she did not take for granted.
They pulled into the gravel drive where a footman stepped forward to take the horses. She slid from the saddle without assistance.
The footman offered a bow. “My lady,” he said, then hesitated and added, “My… Jude.”
Jude returned the reins. “Thank you.” He inclined his head towards the main door. “Shall we?”
As they walked up the stairs, she asked in a low voice, “Did the footman call you ‘my Jude’?”
He chuckled. “He did. The servants here are very friendly.”
“Interesting,” she murmured.
The main door opened and a tall man with black hair and the look of someone who kept other people’s affairs in order met them. “My lady. Jude. You two are most welcome here.”
“Thank you,” she acknowledged.
“It is our pleasure. My name is Glover. I have been butler to the duke these many years.”
“I am Lady Josephine Tweedale,” she replied.
“Jude informed us of your arrival,” Glover said. “You should know that we have sent riders in all directions to locate your family. Furthermore, the coroner will wish to speak to you about the accident—the two who were killed—”
“Two.” The number landed like a stone. “Only two?”
Glover’s eyebrows climbed. “Is two not enough, my lady?”
A fog of shame rose in her at the selfish brightness of the thought that had been curling in her mind.
“No, no—” She flushed. “It is only that—I had thought—” She stopped, because the truth sounded monstrous: that a part of her, in the disordered hours after the crash, had constructed a hoped-for ending in which the villain at their center had been among the dead.
She hated herself for the clarity of that wish.
“Forgive me. It was a foolish thing to say.”
Jude placed a reassuring hand on her sleeve. “No need to apologize,” he assured her. “You are safe here. Mr. Broderick cannot reach you here. I promise.”
She lifted her face to him. “But what of when I leave? I cannot—”
“Focus on what you can control now.” He looked at her with a patience that was close to belief. “A bath, dry clothes, a hot meal. We can face everything else in time.”
At that moment, a blonde-haired maid stepped from a corridor with a modest smile. “A bath has been prepared for you, my lady,” she announced.
“A bath sounds heavenly,” she admitted.
“Good,” Jude said with exaggerated severity, letting his hand drop from her arm. “Because you require one.”
She feigned mock offense at his tone. “A gentleman would not comment on such needs.”
“I never claimed to be a gentleman,” he replied, softening his words with a grin. “Go. Enjoy your bath. I shall be here when you come down.”
“You promise?” The question slipped out before she could choose to be brave.
He cocked his head with that streak of roguish amusement in his expression. “Do not tell me you would miss me?”
“Heavens, no.” She heard the lie in the words and let it be. Instead, she added in a lighter voice, “But you did promise to teach me how to shoot. I hold you to it.”
His smile became something softer—an answer without words. “I give you my word.”
The maid stepped forward with a polite curtsy. “My lady, my name is Lucy. Please follow me, and I’ll show you to your bedchamber.”
Josephine hesitated. The offer of warm water and soap sounded heavenly, but as she stood there, she felt an unexpected tug inside her.
She did not wish to leave Jude’s side—not yet.
Over a short period of time, his presence had become her anchor, a quiet assurance that she was safe.
The idea of being alone again, even in a grand house, unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Jude must have noticed the flicker of hesitation in her eyes because he said softly, “I promise, you’re safe here, Josephine.”
Something in his tone—steady, certain—dissolved the knot between her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself until that moment. “Thank you,” she replied.
He winked, a playful gleam in his eyes that caught her entirely off guard. It was such a boyish, charming thing to do that her stomach fluttered despite herself. She felt warmth climb her cheeks and quickly looked away, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Turning to Lucy, Josephine managed a faint smile. “Lead the way.”
The maid bobbed her head and led her towards the grand staircase. Josephine’s slippers made no sound on the thick carpet as they ascended. The house smelled faintly of lavender, and the soft glow of the afternoon light filtered through tall windows.
Lucy stopped before a polished oak door and opened it. “This will be your bedchamber, at least for the time being.”
Josephine stepped inside, and her breath caught.
The room was exquisite—spacious, warm, and elegant.
A large four-poster bed dominated one wall, its canopy trimmed in gold braid.
A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting light across two tall windows draped in deep purple silk that rippled gently with the breeze.
“I hope this will do,” Lucy said, closing the door softly behind them.
“It will do quite nicely,” Josephine replied, offering a faint smile.
Lucy gestured towards the hearth where a wide copper basin had been set near the fire, steam curling above it. “If you’ll allow me, my lady, I can assist you out of that gown.” Her expression softened. “And with your permission, I’d like to have it burned.”
Josephine looked down at the torn, muddied muslin clinging to her frame. “Burned?” she echoed, smoothing the fabric with one hand.
“It’s too far gone to mend,” Lucy replied. “And best to be rid of anything that reminds you of that ordeal.”
“But what will I wear afterward?”