The Other Miss Bridgerton

“You did kidnap me,” she pointed out, almost politely.

“That again,” he ground out.

Her eyes widened, and she made a sound that clearly translated to: You did not just say that .

He planted his hands on his hips. “We have already established that I had no choice.”

To that she responded with a one-shouldered shrug. “So you say.”

He supposed she had a point there, but it wasn’t as if he could explain himself to her. His own parents didn’t even know that he had spent the last seven years in secret service to the crown.

Still, he wasn’t going to rise to her bait and get into another argument about how and why she’d come to be on the Infinity . “Regardless,” he said, his tone pointedly firm, “you will not be left at the docks like some unwanted cargo. I’m not yet certain how we will see you home, but we will, you have my assurance.”

He stared her down, waiting for her response.

Which she gave.

“Technically,” she said, with the careful expression of one who is picking through needles, “I am unwanted cargo.”

It took him a moment to digest this. “That is the point you wish to argue?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to argue that you shouldn’t return me safely to Briar House. Although you might wish to be careful.” Her brows rose, calling to mind the many times Andrew’s sister—and his sister-in-law and his other sister-in-law—doled out unnecessary advice.

“Elizabeth is not so willing as I to bend rules,” Miss Bridgerton said. “She may very well have summoned the authorities.”

Not to mention the entire Bridgerton family, he thought grimly.

She walked back over to the table. “It would probably be unwise of you to approach the house.”

He almost smiled. “Are you worried I might be arrested?”

She snorted. “I have every faith you’ll escape the law.”

He wasn’t sure it was a compliment. But he also wasn’t sure that it wasn’t. And he definitely wasn’t sure which he would rather it be.

He cleared his throat. “I should be getting back. There is much that requires my attention.”

She nodded absently, inspecting several puzzle pieces. “I would imagine so. I’m surprised you have remained in the cabin as long as you have.”

Not as surprised as he was.

“You should know that I still intend to take my evening meal here,” he said with a nod to the table, “although it does appear that you’ve quite taken over with the puzzle.”

She smiled without regret. “I’m afraid I cannot apologize for that.”

“Nor would I expect you to.” He looked down, saw a piece that was clearly the Orkney Islands, and set it into place.

She swatted his hand. “Stop it! You’ve done this before!”

“I know, but I can’t help that I’m better at it than you are.”

Her scowl was so marvelous he had to do it again. “Did you open the window?” he asked innocently.

She twisted in her seat. “They open?”

He grabbed another piece and set it into place. “No.” He grinned when she turned back around to glare at him. “Sorry. Can’t help myself.”

“Obviously not,” she grumbled.

“It was Norway,” he said helpfully.

“I can see that.” And then, in what had to be an admission so grudging it deserved applause, she added, “Now .”

“I’ve never been,” he said in his most conversational tone. Which was to say, his usual timbre.

“To Norway?” She tried to fit a piece into the southernmost tip of Africa. “Nor I.”

He smiled at that, since they both knew she had never set foot outside England. At least not on dry land. “It won’t fit,” he said, all helpfulness. “You’ve got South America there.”

Miss Bridgerton frowned at the puzzle piece in her hand. It was shaped like a rhombus, with a green triangle of land jutting out from one of the short sides. The rest was pale blue water. “Are you sure?” she asked. She squinted at the tiny writing. “There’s an H and an O . I thought it must be the Cape of Good Hope.”

“Or Cape Horn,” he said.

“Well, that’s confusing,” she said with some irritation. She set it back down on the table with a snap. “You’d think they could have come up with names that didn’t sound exactly the same.”

He grinned at that. He had to.

She pressed the tip of her forefinger on one of the pieces, sliding it aimlessly in a figure eight. And then she shocked him utterly by saying, “I lied earlier.”

He turned. Softly, he said, “Tell me.”

It took her a moment to speak, and when she did, her voice was solemn in a way he’d not heard before. “I do miss my family. Not the way I think you do. I’m—I’m not away from them as frequently as you are, or for the same duration. But I miss my brother. The one who died. I miss him all the time.”

She allowed him to see her face for only a second before turning away, but even if he had not seen the grief in her eyes, he would have known it by the bleak stance of her shoulders, the way some of the life seemed to have leeched from her limbs.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said.

She nodded, her throat working as she looked down at the puzzle pieces, focusing on nothing. “He was my favorite.”

“What was his name?”

She looked at him, and in her eyes he saw a tiny flash of gratitude that he’d asked.

“Roger,” she said. “His name was Roger.”

Andrew thought about his own siblings. He didn’t have a favorite, or at least he didn’t think he did. But even though his were all living, Andrew could more keenly imagine her pain than one might think. His brother Edward used to be an army officer, and he had gone missing in America, during the war. Andrew had believed that he’d perished. He had not said as much to anyone; his mother in particular would have blistered his ears if he’d so much as hinted at the fact that he had lost hope.

In his heart, though, Andrew had begun to mourn.

He’d believed his brother dead for almost a year, and he would have liked to offer words of empathy to Poppy, but he could not. The story of Captain Edward Rokesby’s return from the dead was too well-known. And so Andrew just sat beside her and said again, “I’m sorry.”

She acknowledged this with a jerky nod. But then, after only a few moments, her mouth tightened resolutely. She tapped her fingers several times on the table, then reached out to grab the puzzle piece she’d recently had in her hand.

“I have to say,” she told him, in a voice that made it clear she was changing the subject, “it doesn’t much look like a horn.”

Andrew took the piece from her fingers with a smile. “I believe it is named for Hoorn.”

“For who?”

He chuckled. “Hoorn. It is a city in the Netherlands.”

This did not seem to impress her. “Hmmph. Well, I’ve not been there either.”

He leaned toward her, just enough for his shoulder to make a conspiratorial bump against hers. “Nor I.”

“That is surprising,” she said, glancing ever so slightly in his direction. “I’d assumed you’d been everywhere. Except Norway, apparently.”

“Alas, no. My business keeps me on familiar routes.” It was true. Most of Andrew’s time was spent ferrying documents to the same three or four countries. Spain and Portugal, most of all.

“How do you spell it?” she suddenly asked.

“Hoorn? H-O-O-R-N . Why?”

“Just wondering if there is a city of Good H-O-O-P-E out there somewhere.”

He laughed at that. “If so, I should like to visit.”

She was not, however, done with her queries. “Do you know which was named first?”

“Of the capes? I think it was Good Hope. If I recall correctly, the name was bestowed upon it by a Portuguese king.”

“Portuguese, you say? It’s settled then. We’ll stop in Good Hoope on the way back from Lisbon.” Her eyes lit with merriment. “Do you think Mr. Carroway knows the way?”