Page 43 of A Troublesome Circumstance

Luca clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Charlotte and I leave for London tomorrow. Ride with us?”

“Ride with you?” Jude snorted. “Trapped in a coach with a newlywed couple? I’d rather brave the highwaymen.”

Luca looked amused. “Father will have my hide if I let you travel alone. These roads are dangerous.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jude said.

Luca regarded him for a long moment, then his tone softened. “Life doesn’t stay dark forever, you know. It gets better—if you let it.”

“And you speak from experience?”

“Yes,” Luca responded. “There was a time I felt exactly as you do now. Before The London Gazette, before Charlotte. I was the spare. The man who existed only if something happened to you.”

Jude’s chest tightened. “That was never true.”

“I know,” Luca said. “But it took me time to see it. You’ll find your path. Just… make sure it’s truly yours.”

Jude stared into the fire, the flickering light reflecting in his glass. “My path was decided the day I was born.”

“Then change it. Rewrite it. Make it something worth walking.”

When his brother left, the room fell silent save for the crackle of the fire. Jude sank into the armchair, the letter still crushed in his palm. He looked down at it, then towards the window—the same direction Josephine’s coach had gone.

He told himself again that this was for the best.

But the ache in his chest refused to fade.

Jude tossed back the rest of his drink. Enough wallowing. Enough self-pity. He had spent weeks burying himself in solitude, convincing himself that isolation was peace. But it wasn’t peace—it was cowardice.

Luca had been right, curse him. It was time to return to Town.

But not for her.

He set the glass down with a sharp clink and rose. He would go back because duty demanded it, because accounts waited, because his father expected it. Not because of Josephine and the way her laughter still echoed through his mind, unbidden and unwanted.

His boots struck the marble floor as he strode through the corridor. Luca’s words gnawed at him. Make your own path, on your own terms.

Could he?

Was it even possible for a man like him to step outside the shadow of his birthright?

He reached his bedchamber and pushed open the door. The familiar scent of sandalwood and starch greeted him, and so did Stevenson—efficient, precise, and far too perceptive for Jude’s liking—bent over a trunk, folding shirts with precision.

Stevenson straightened immediately. “I take it we are departing for Town, my lord?”

“And how in the blazes did you know that?”

A grin appeared on the valet’s face. “The messenger your father sent was my brother. His instructions were quite clear—he’s not to return to London until you do.”

Jude muttered a curse under his breath. “Botheration.” He raked a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. “Very well. Inform your brother we’ll depart at first light.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Stevenson hesitated before adding, “Shall I prepare the traveling coach?”

“No.” Jude’s tone brooked no argument. “I’ll ride.”

“Are you sure that is wise? The journey is long, and the roads⁠—”