Page 1 of A Troublesome Circumstance

1

ENGLAND, 1814

Lady Josephine Tweedale forced her eyes open, though every part of her wished to sink back into the oblivion that called to her. A dull throb pulsed behind her temples, spreading down the back of her neck. When her vision cleared, the horror before her came into sharp, unforgiving focus.

The black coach lay on its side, one wheel spinning idly in the air. The horses were tangled in their harnesses, their frantic snorts slicing through the night. Clothing and trunks were strewn across the roadside, silks and linen muddied by the damp earth.

Her gaze drifted to the driver and footman. Both lay motionless a few yards away, eyes wide and unseeing, their faces slack in death.

A strangled cry caught in her throat. She pressed a trembling hand to her lips, trying to quell the rising panic. Do not fall apart now. Not yet.

She shut her eyes, desperate to will away the pounding in her skull. The last memory she had was of the carriage tilting perilously, the thunder of hooves, and her own desperate leap into the dark.

Then a single name clawed its way to the forefront of her thoughts.

Mr. Broderick.

Her heart seized.

Where was he?

She forced herself upright, though the world tilted dangerously. Her limbs felt like lead, her head screamed in protest. She scanned the wreckage but saw no sign of the man who had abducted her and dragged her towards Gretna Green.

The memory of his voice—slurred, triumphant—made bile rise in her throat.

Run.

The word echoed in her mind, sharp and clear. If Mr. Broderick lived, he could come for her again. And she could not, would not, let him find her.

Grim determination cut through her dizziness. She staggered to her feet, clutching her torn gown, and half-stumbled, half-ran towards the dark line of trees beyond the road.

Branches tore at her sleeves as she pushed into the woodlands. Roots caught her hem, sending her sprawling once, twice—but she refused to stop. She clawed her way forward, breath ragged, her lungs burning. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, a low mournful sound that only deepened her sense of isolation.

At one point, the ground vanished beneath her, and she tumbled down a small ravine, landing hard on her side. Pain flared along her ribs, but she gritted her teeth and rose again. Her vision swam, but she kept going, guided only by the cold gleam of moonlight filtering through the branches.

When at last she dared to glance over her shoulder, there was only darkness. No shouts. No pursuit. Yet she could not shake the feeling of being hunted.

Her chest ached, each breath sharp and shallow. But anything was preferable to being trapped in that carriage again—married off to a man she despised, bound forever to shame. She would rather die in these woods than face that fate.

After what felt like hours, she stumbled upon a small stream. She sank onto a smooth rock, her legs trembling, her hands shaking uncontrollably. The water glimmered faintly, catching the silver light. She wanted to cry, to scream, to sleep—but she could do none of it.

Tears filled her eyes anyway. She blinked them back fiercely. Crying will not save you, Josephine.

She had to be clever. She had to survive.

A flicker of light in the distance caught her attention. It was a faint golden glow among the trees. Hope surged through her weary limbs. A cottage, perhaps. Someone lived there.

Could she risk it? What if they were in league with Mr. Broderick? Or worse, what if the occupant was a man—alone?

She hesitated, then clenched her fists. She could not afford fear now. She needed warmth, direction, something. She would face whatever awaited her.

Gathering her torn skirts, she crept through the trees until she reached a small clearing. A modest stone cottage sat at its center, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. The faint light from the windows flickered like a beacon of safety.

She approached quietly and peered through one of the panes. A man sat before the hearth, his broad shoulders outlined by firelight. His hair was dark, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He wore no coat, only a loose shirt open at the throat.

Her pulse quickened. He looked neither old nor frail, and he was very much alone.

“This must be the gamekeeper’s cottage,” she whispered under her breath. Still, she searched for any hint of a woman’s presence—a shawl, a second chair, a bit of embroidery—but found none.