Chapter 9
Jude sat in the far corner of White’s, the low murmur of gentlemen’s conversation a distant hum to his thoughts.
The scent of tobacco and brandy clung to the air like a fog, and he stared into his glass, the amber liquid glinting in the lamplight.
He hadn’t wanted to go straight home—not yet.
Not to the life he had tried, and failed, to escape.
He took a slow sip, the warmth doing nothing to dull the unease that gnawed at him.
He wasn’t angry at his father. Not really.
The duke simply had demanded his heir return to Town, assume his responsibilities, face Society.
No, his anger was directed inward. Why couldn’t he simply be content?
He was an heir to one of the oldest dukedoms in England.
Men envied him, women schemed to marry him, and yet, he felt trapped.
A puppet held upright by strings woven from duty and expectation.
The only time those strings had loosened—the only time he had felt anything like peace—had been when he was with Josephine.
He could still see her face as he’d last seen it: pale but defiant, her chin lifted in quiet resolve.
Something in her had steadied him, made him feel as though his restless soul had finally found a safe harbor.
Foolish, of course. She thought him to be a lowly gamekeeper. And perhaps it was better that way.
He had once believed in love. Believed he might deserve happiness—a wife, children, laughter echoing through corridors. Then Lady Gwendolyn had proved just how na?ve he had been.
His grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles whitened. He had been such a fool. He’d fallen for her smiles, her feigned tenderness—all of it a performance for the title he carried. When the truth came out, it had gutted him. Since then, he had vowed never again to be anyone’s mark.
He looked up at a familiar sound of laughter. Across the room, Lord Rupert Milnes raised a glass in greeting, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. Jude gave the barest nod in return, but it was too late. Rupert pushed back his chair, murmured something to his companions, and started towards him.
“As I live and breathe,” Rupert said as he approached, “if it isn’t the long-lost prodigal son himself. I was beginning to think you’d forsaken us entirely. Last I heard, you were cloistered in some cottage in the wilderness, conversing with the deer.”
Jude exhaled slowly. “I was. Until my father decided it was time I remembered my place.”
Rupert gestured towards his table of laughing acquaintances. “Come, join us. You know most of those rogues well enough.”
“No,” Jude said, his tone curt. “I prefer solitude.”
Rupert ignored the warning, as usual, and pulled out the chair opposite him. “You and solitude have been far too acquainted of late. What is troubling you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Excellent,” Rupert said cheerfully, setting his own glass down. “I am a master at sitting still and not talking about things.”
Despite himself, Jude’s mouth twitched. “It’s nothing.”
“It seems like something.”
Jude huffed. “You are far too perceptive for your own good.”
Rupert’s grin widened. “It is merely an occupational hazard of being my charming self.”
There was a beat of silence before Jude admitted, almost grudgingly, “I met someone.”
“Ah,” Rupert said with relish. “A woman. The rise and fall of every decent man.”
Jude shot him a dry look. “May I finish before you start composing the tragedy?”
Rupert made a sweeping motion. “By all means. Enlighten me.”
“I found her in the woods,” Jude began. “She was injured and frightened. I took her to my father’s estate to recover.” He lowered his voice. “Do you know a Lady Josephine Tweedale?”
Rupert nodded slowly. “She is a pretty enough thing. Prefers books to balls, if gossip serves.”
“That sounds like her,” Jude responded. “Do you know a man named Mr. Broderick?”
All amusement vanished from Rupert’s expression. “Broderick?” His lip curled. “A cad. A weasel. He claims to deal in finance, but no one knows where his coin truly comes from. The younger son of an earl, but spends most of his nights in gambling hells.”
“That fits,” Jude said grimly. “He abducted Lady Josephine with the intent of forcing her into a marriage.”
Rupert froze, his jaw tightening. “Did he succeed?”
“No,” Jude said, his voice rough. “Only because she leapt from the carriage before it overturned.”
“The devil!” Rupert muttered. “That was reckless, but brave. It was fortunate you found her when you did.”
Jude stared into his drink. “Fortunate, yes. But now that she’s back in Town, I fear she’s vulnerable again. Broderick doesn’t seem the sort to accept defeat quietly.”
“You could marry her,” Rupert suggested.
Jude nearly choked. “Be serious.”
“I am,” Rupert insisted, though a grin tugged at his lips. “You want to protect her and that’s the surest way.”
“She doesn’t even know who I am,” Jude said, exasperated. “And her brother—Lord Redden—thinks she tried to elope with Mr. Broderick.”
Rupert arched a brow. “Truly? He blames her?”
“He does,” Jude replied. “I overheard him myself. He believes the worst of her.”
With a shake of his head, Rupert said, “That is strange, considering Mr. Broderick’s roguish reputation. I wonder what interest he has in silencing her version of events.”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Jude stated. “When the time is right.”
Rupert leaned back, studying him. “And how exactly, pray tell, did you just happen to come across Lady Josephine in the woods?”
Jude hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew that he could trust his friend with the truth. “I found her in the stable beside my cottage. She was bleeding and her forehead was gashed. I couldn’t leave her.”
“Did you invite her inside?”
“I carried her,” Jude admitted quietly.
Rupert gave a low whistle. “If Redden had any sense, he’d be forcing a wedding this very instant.”
“He doesn’t know,” Jude said. “As far as anyone’s aware, it was merely the gamekeeper who found her and brought her to Ashmoore Hall straightaway.”
“And Lady Josephine is going along with that tale?”
Jude’s jaw tensed. “She is, because she thinks I am the gamekeeper for the Duke of Ashmoore.”
Rupert laughed outright. “You? A gamekeeper? How in the blazes did you convince her of that?”
“I didn’t need to,” Jude replied. “It was dark. I was in a shirt and trousers. When she assumed, I didn’t correct her.”
“Then she’s either blind or astonishingly na?ve.”
Jude’s glare cut through the humor. “She is neither,” he said sharply. “She is intelligent. And kind. And she’d been through hell that night.”
Rupert raised his hands in surrender. “Calm yourself. I meant nothing by it. It is just astonishing to me that you could be mistaken for a gamekeeper. Your mannerisms alone should have betrayed you.”
Jude smirked faintly. “I can be convincing when I choose to be.”
“Convincing? You’re an earl, for heaven’s sake. You practically reek of privilege.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“No,” Rupert said with a grin. “I just enjoy irritating you.”
Jude looked heavenward. “Lovely.”
Leaning forward, Rupert’s tone grew inquisitive. “Tell me something. Why is it so important to you to keep her safe? Did… anything happen between you?”
Jude’s reply was swift. “No. I was a perfect gentleman.”
“Then you simply care for her,” Rupert retorted.
Jude swirled his drink slowly, delaying his response. “I can’t explain it,” he finally admitted. “She… unsettles me. Challenges me. When she looks at me, I’m not the duke’s heir, or a disappointment, or a duty-bound puppet. I’m simply—me.”
Rupert’s smirk faded into something almost sympathetic. “Then perhaps that’s what frightens you most.”
Jude glanced up, meeting his friend’s gaze. “Perhaps it is.”
“Well, do you intend to go to Lady Penning’s masquerade ball this evening?” Rupert asked, rising and straightening his waistcoat. “It is to be the event of the Season. And there is a fair chance that Lady Josephine Tweedale will be there with her family.”
“I have no desire to go to a ball. Least of all a masquerade.”
“Pity,” Rupert responded. “It would be the perfect opportunity for a certain gamekeeper to keep watch over a certain beautiful lady—all under the guise of a mask.”
Jude shot him a flat look. “What do you propose I do at midnight when everyone removes their masks?”
Rupert’s grin was insufferably smug. “Simple. You slip out just before the unveiling. Your secret identity remains intact, and the lady never need know you were there.”
Jude’s fingers drummed against the table. “I am not entirely sure that is a good idea.”
“Probably not, but you would be ensuring her safety,” Rupert said. “Besides, it would make your father immensely happy if you attended.”
“That it would,” he said grudgingly.
Rupert grinned. “Then my work here is done, my friend. Go, be dutiful, and perhaps even enjoy yourself. Stranger things have happened.”
“Not to me,” Jude muttered.
When Rupert was gone, he tossed back the remainder of his drink and rose.
Outside, the evening air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. His horse was brought round, and he mounted in one smooth motion. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the cobblestones filled the silence as he rode through the lamplit streets towards his townhouse in Grosvenor Square.
By the time he reached home, he was almost reluctant to dismount. The townhouse loomed before him, grand and unwelcoming, the kind of house that whispered of lineage and expectation. A groom hurried forward to take his reins.
“Welcome home, my lord.”
Jude acknowledged the man with a nod of his head and ascended the steps two at a time, pushing open the front door. He barely had time to remove his gloves before his father’s voice bellowed from the corridor.
“There you are.”
Jude turned to see the Duke of Ashmoore striding towards him, imposing as ever in his dark coat and starched cravat.
“Here I am,” Jude responded.
“I expected you hours ago,” the duke said. “Were there difficulties on the road?”