Chapter 6
Josephine stirred, her lashes fluttering open to an unfamiliar canopy above her.
For a fleeting, breathless moment, panic seized her chest. Where was she?
The bed was too soft, the room too elegant, the morning light too gentle to belong to the small cottage she remembered.
Then, like a wave washing over her brain, her memory returned—the carriage accident, Mr. Broderick, the storm, and finally… Jude.
She exhaled slowly. She was safe. Here.
Rolling onto her side, she gazed towards the window, where pale morning sunlight filtered through the fine drapes.
Somewhere out there, she hoped, her family was searching for her.
Surely by now, a messenger had reached them.
The thought of returning home filled her with both relief and a surprising ache.
Because going home meant leaving Jude.
Her heart squeezed at the thought. He had saved her—protected her—treated her not as a burden or a scandal, but as a person deserving of care. A lady did not pine after a man beneath her station, yet she could not deny the flutter that came whenever she thought of him.
A soft knock broke through her thoughts.
The door creaked open and Lucy stepped inside carrying a slip of folded paper. “My lady,” she said, curtsying. “Jude asked that I deliver this to you.”
Josephine sat up. A note? From a man? Her pulse leapt. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking it. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the paper and read the note. Look out your window.
Her brows lifted in curiosity. Gathering the coverlet around her, she swung her legs from the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floorboards. She crossed to the window and unlatched it. The crisp morning air greeted her—along with Jude himself, standing below with a rakish grin.
“Good morning, my lady,” he called up. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to sleep the day away.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “Perhaps I had. I happen to be very fond of sleeping. It’s one of my more impressive talents.”
He chuckled. “Then I fear I’m about to ruin your morning leisure. I was hoping you’d join me for a lesson on the lawn.”
“A lesson?”
“In marksmanship,” he replied, gesturing towards a table not far off. Several pistols gleamed in the sunlight beside a row of targets. “You said you wished to learn. I thought today might be as fine a day as any.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “I did not think you took me seriously.”
“I rarely jest when it comes to teaching useful skills,” he said with mock solemnity.
“I shall need a moment to make myself presentable.”
He bowed low. “Take all the time you require. I shall be here—waiting… patiently.”
Josephine shut the window, smiling to herself as she turned back to Lucy, who stood holding a rose-pink gown draped across her arms.
“I took the liberty of laying this out, my lady,” Lucy said with a knowing look.
Josephine’s cheeks warmed. “Yes—well—let us be quick about it, then.”
Within minutes, her nightgown was exchanged for the delicate afternoon gown. The soft muslin fabric tightened against her skin as Lucy fastened the tiny pearl buttons up her back.
“I was thinking a simple chignon,” Lucy said, freeing Josephine’s hair from its cap. “Tied loosely at the nape, perhaps?”
“That would be lovely,” Josephine responded, watching the maid’s reflection in the mirror.
After a pause, she bit her lower lip. “Tell me, Lucy… is Jude always so”—she hesitated, searching for the right word—“flirtatious?”
Lucy smiled faintly. “No, my lady. In truth, you are the first woman I’ve seen him show the slightest interest in since I started working here.”
Josephine’s brow furrowed. “Truly?”
“Truly. He is a good man, but one who carries the weight of something unspoken. Serious, but not unkind.”
“As a gamekeeper?”
Lucy shrugged gently. “Every soul bears burdens, no matter their station.” She winced, realizing her impertinence. “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Josephine said. “I find honesty far preferable to false decorum.”
Lucy smiled in relief. “You are kind to say so. My family depends upon my position here. I cannot afford mistakes.”
“Then you have my word, anything you say stays within these walls,” Josephine assured her.
Lucy placed the final pin and stepped back. “There. Is that to your liking?”
Josephine turned her head slightly and studied her reflection. The simple chignon suited her. “It will do quite nicely.”
“Good. Then go,” Lucy urged, offering a pair of white gloves. “He’s waiting for you.”
Josephine slipped them on but stopped at the door. “Do you think me foolish?”
“Foolish, my lady?”
“I am a lady, and yet here I am—spending time with a gamekeeper. If Society knew—”
Lucy’s tone was gentle, but probing. “Do you care what Society thinks?”
Josephine stared at the floorboards. “I do… but—”
“But?”
Josephine lifted her gaze towards the window where sunlight streamed in. “But there is something about Jude I cannot explain. He is a gentleman in every way that matters. In different clothes, I believe he could hold his own in any ballroom in London.”
“Then perhaps you should trust your instincts.”
“You must think me utterly ridiculous.”
“Not in the least,” Lucy replied. “You are making perfect sense to me.”
With that, Josephine drew a steadying breath and opened the door. She made her way down the corridors and towards the back of the house.
When she stepped onto the veranda, her eyes found Jude at once.
He stood beside the practice table, the morning sun glinting off the dark strands of his hair.
Two footmen lingered nearby, awaiting instruction, and yet it was clear he commanded the space—not as a servant, but as a man accustomed to leadership.
Josephine paused, her heart tightening with a strange mixture of admiration and curiosity. Who was this man—truly? A gamekeeper, yes, but his bearing spoke of something far greater. Perhaps it was merely her imagination playing tricks on her.
Jude stepped forward and bowed. “Thank you for joining me.”
Josephine dropped into a curtsy, trying to appear composed despite the flutter in her chest. “But of course. I find that I am rather anxious for a shooting lesson.”
A smile touched his mouth, faint but warm. “Then let us begin.”
He turned towards the table where several pistols lay gleaming beside neat powder flasks and lead balls. Lifting one, he checked the priming, then raised it smoothly towards the row of targets some yards away.
“Thumb the hammer back gently,” he instructed. “Keep your wrist firm, your stance even. And breathe as you squeeze the trigger and not before.”
Crack!
The shot split the quiet morning air. Smoke curled around him like a gray ribbon before drifting away. Josephine startled at the suddenness of it—the smell of spent powder, the sharp sting in her ears.
When she glanced towards the target, she saw the mark almost perfectly centered.
Jude set the pistol down with calm precision. “Simple enough. Now, you try.”
Her heart gave an unsteady beat. Simple, he’d said. There was nothing simple about any of this. Still, she stepped forward. The pistol’s polished grip was cool and surprisingly heavy when she lifted it. Her fingers trembled slightly despite her best effort to appear at ease.
Thumb the hammer back, breathe, squeeze the trigger.
The click of the hammer echoed in her ears. She swallowed, held her breath, and—
Crack!
The recoil jolted violently through her arm. The smell of black powder bit at her nose, and wisps of smoke rose, lazily twisting into the sky. Her ears rang, her hand stung, but she couldn’t help the small, incredulous smile tugging at her lips.
She had done it. She had fired a pistol.
Jude’s expression softened. “Well done.”
With a short, incredulous laugh, she replied, “Clearly, you require spectacles. I missed the target entirely.”
“It was your first attempt,” he countered. “No one begins as an expert.”
She set the pistol carefully back upon the table as one of the footmen stepped forward to reload it. “The recoil was much more than I anticipated.”
“A muff pistol won’t have so much,” Jude said. “Do you still have my mother’s?”
“I do,” she replied. “It’s in my bedchamber. I shall see that it’s returned to you at once.”
He lifted a hand to stop her. “That won’t be necessary. I’d prefer you keep it.”
She lifted her brows. “Are you quite sure? It belonged to your mother.”
“It did,” he admitted, “but I’d rather you have something to remember me by.”
The words, simple as they were, landed in her heart with unexpected weight. She looked up at him, momentarily robbed of breath. “Then I shall treasure it always.”
He chuckled softly. “It’s merely a muff pistol, my lady, but I’ll rest easier knowing you’re able to protect yourself, especially from Mr. Broderick.”
The very name turned her blood cold. “He is a horrid man,” she asserted. “I never understood why my brother chose to do business with him.”
Jude’s gaze darkened slightly. “I’m sure your brother had his reasons, but I doubt he’ll continue now after what Mr. Broderick has done.”
“I can only hope.” She shivered despite the sunlight. “He always unsettled me by the way he stared, how close he’d stand when speaking, and his vile breath.”
The footman stepped back, the pistols reloaded. Jude picked one up with practiced ease. “Watch again.”
He aimed, fired—crack!—and the bullet struck the center of the target.
Josephine was rather impressed. “How did you learn to shoot so well?”
A wistful look crossed his face. “Mr. Conklin taught me. He was the Duke of Ashmoore’s gamekeeper for as long as I can remember. He also taught me how to make rabbit stew.”
“Ah,” she teased, “then he is the man I have to thank for that particular delicacy.”
That earned the smile she had been hoping for. “He was a good man—the best of them, truly,” he said.
“And now you are continuing his legacy.”
The smile faded from his lips, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable. “Yes,” he murmured. “In a way.” Then gesturing towards the table, he added, “Your turn again.”