Chapter 6 #3
Silence fell. The only sound was the faint rustle of leaves in the wind.
Luca stepped forward and placed a hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Then let her remain in your past. Do not let her poison your future.”
“That is easy for you to say,” Jude muttered, brushing his brother’s hand off his shoulder. “Excuse me. I’ve had quite enough of your pity for one morning.”
Luca’s voice followed him. “I am not pitying you.”
Jude gave a humorless laugh. “Your actions betray your words.”
“The only one pitying you is yourself.”
The words hit their mark, though Jude refused to let it show as he walked away. He did not pity himself. He refused to. If anything, he was furious—with himself, with Lady Gwendolyn, with the absurdity of it all.
How had he been such a fool?
He had believed in her sweet smiles, her soft words, her promises.
He had thought himself in love, but it had all been an illusion.
He had fallen for a woman who never truly existed.
And in doing so, he had revealed far too much of himself to someone utterly undeserving. His hands curled into fists. Fool.
Perhaps Luca was right. He should return to his cottage and forget about Josephine altogether. It would be the prudent thing to do. He had no intention of pursuing her, but he could not deny how he enjoyed her company. Her laughter, her quick wit, her unfeigned curiosity.
And that was precisely what made her dangerous.
When he’d been with Josephine, he had not thought of Lady Gwendolyn—not once. The old bitterness dulled, replaced by something quieter, something perilously close to hope.
He stopped walking, standing in the wide clearing that looked back towards Ashmoore Hall. Sunlight broke through the trees, falling across the estate’s pale stone facade. It would be so very easy to walk back inside, to see her one last time—perhaps under the pretense of civility, to wish her well.
But he knew himself too well. If he looked upon her again, if he saw her eyes soften when she smiled, he might never find the strength to walk away.
He was still debating when a voice cut through his thoughts.
“You there.”
Jude turned, instincts sharpening.
A man was approaching from the road—a tall figure with dark hair, a long, narrow face, and a straight nose. His coat, a deep green superfine, fit his frame perfectly, his waistcoat and buff trousers equally fine. Everything about him screamed wealth and self-importance.
The stranger’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you work there?” he asked, nodding towards Ashmoore Hall.
Jude studied him warily. “What is it to you?”
The man straightened, his tone shifting from casual to clipped. “I am looking for someone. A young woman who was in a terrible accident. I was informed she might be residing here.”
A prickle of unease slid down Jude’s spine. “I know not what you speak of.”
The man withdrew a coin from his pocket and held it out as if tossing scraps to a beggar. “I think you might. A little coin often jogs a man’s memory.”
Jude did not move. “You’d do well to move along.”
The man’s expression hardened. “And you’d do well to take the coin and tell me what I need to know.”
“I don’t think I will,” Jude responded.
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“No. Nor do I care.”
The stranger stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You would be wise to answer my questions. I could make your life very difficult.”
Jude met his gaze without flinching. “I do believe I will take my chances.”
The man’s jaw clenched. “You’re a worthless servant, nothing more. Remember your place.”
Jude’s pride prickled. If this insolent fool knew who he truly was—the Earl of Pendryn, heir to the Duke of Ashmoore—he would be bowing instead of sneering.
Keeping his tone measured, Jude responded, “Perhaps if you told me your name, I might inform the household staff that you are seeking information.”
The man’s nostrils flared. “My name is not important. I’ll ask you once more—Is Lady Josephine Tweedale residing at Ashmoore Hall?”
Jude’s suspicion sharpened. Was this Mr. Broderick or an associate working for him? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t take the chance of revealing the truth. “She is not,” he lied.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you wish,” Jude replied curtly. “But you are trespassing on the Duke of Ashmoore’s land. If you set foot here again, I shall have you arrested for it.”
The man’s eyes burned with silent fury. For a long, tense moment, neither of them moved. Then with a derisive snarl, he said, “Thank you for your time. Good day to you.”
Jude didn’t answer, merely watched as the man turned and strode back towards the road. A black coach waited there, the lacquered panels gleaming. As the man climbed inside, Jude’s unease deepened. Whoever he was—Broderick or otherwise—he most likely would not give up easily.
When the coach rolled away, Jude exhaled slowly, his mind already racing ahead. He spun on his heel and strode towards the house. Whatever fragile peace Josephine had found here was now in danger.
He needed to warn Luca—and her—before it was too late.