The Other Miss Bridgerton

“Grand?” Poppy murmured. She took a careful sip of her tea. It was still a little too hot.

“Oh yes, and a real different sort of place. Nothing like home, not that there’s anything wrong with home. It’s just—it’s nice to see things that are different.”

“I’m sure,” Poppy murmured, bringing her teacup to her lips to mask whatever sarcastic tone she’d not been able to keep from her words.

“Everything looks different,” Billy continued. “Well, most everything, and the food isn’t the same. Takes some getting used to, but it’s good, the food. I’ve been here six times now, so I know my way around.”

Poppy managed a small smile.

Billy paused, finally noticing her expression. “I could, ah . . . Well, I could ask if we could bring you something. They make a nice rice pudding, though that’s not so easy to carry. An’ there’s these little bready things that sometimes come rolled in sugar.” His eyes actually rolled back in his head as he relived his culinary ecstasy. “I could bring you one of those, if you want.”

“From the looks of you,” Poppy said, “I think I might want more than one.”

Billy laughed. “They won’t be as good as when they’re fresh hot, but you’ll still like ’em. An’ the cook will be getting provisions, so he might make something that’s a little Portuguesey.”

“This is all very kind of you, Billy.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile. “The captain’s not a bad man for making you stay on board. It wouldn’t be safe for you to go out on your own. Wouldn’t be safe even if we were docked back in London. The ladies here near the water . . .” He blushed, powerfully, and his voice lowered as he said, “Not all of them are ladies, if you get what I mean.”

Poppy decided not to inquire further about that . “What do you think would happen if I went ashore with Captain James?” she asked. “Surely Lisbon is not such a dangerous city that he could not protect me.”

“Well . . .” Billy pondered this for a moment, his mouth pursing on one side as he thought. “I suppose he could just take you through the docks area and over to the nicer bits.”

Poppy’s mood brightened considerably. “Brilliant! I—”

“But he’s not here.”

Well, damn. “Not here?”

Billy shook his head. “Was the first one off the ship. Had some sort of business. He usually does.”

“Do you know when he will be back?”

“Hard to tell,” Billy said with a shrug. “It usually depends on what he’s carrying.”

“Carrying?” Poppy echoed.

“Sometimes it’s a package, sometimes just papers. And of course, sometimes nothing at all.”

Sometimes nothing at all? Poppy found this interesting, although she couldn’t say why. Probably just because she had nothing better to wonder about. She’d already been through just about every permutation of her return to England (ninety percent involved her ruin; the other ten percent required a spectacular and unlikely combination of good luck).

So, yes. She was going to wonder why the captain sometimes carried packages and sometimes carried papers. She was going to do her damnedest to think only about things of this sort until she got home and had to deal with far more serious issues.

“Does he often carry papers?” she asked.

Billy stood and pushed his chair back into place. “Sometimes. Don’t know, really. He doesn’t tell any of us what his business is that’s not the ship’s business.”

“He has business that’s not the ship’s business?”

He shrugged. “He has friends here. Has to. He’s been so many times.”

Poppy knew that Billy had been on the Infinity for only nine months; he’d told her that the second time he brought her breakfast. If he had been to Lisbon six times already, Poppy could only imagine how often Captain James had visited over the years. According to Billy (because just about everything she knew was according to Billy), he’d been captaining the ship since 1782.

It seemed like an awful lot of trips to Portugal, but then again, what did she know about privateering? Maybe it made sense to stick with a dependable, loyal network of traders.

And just like that, she was thinking like a criminal. Good heavens.

Poppy sipped her tea, which had finally cooled to an acceptable temperature. “Have a good time in town,” she said. “I assume you’re going.”

“Oh yes. Soon, actually. One of the men said he’d take me with him.” Billy looked at her with a sheepish expression. “The captain doesn’t let me go by myself either.”

The captain, Poppy was coming to realize, had a softer heart than he wanted others to realize. It was difficult to imagine another ship captain worrying over the welfare of a thirteen-year-old boy.

Not that she had experience with any other ship captains, but still.

“I’d best be going,” Billy said. “I’ve got to finish my duties before I can go ashore, an’ I don’t think Mr. Brown will wait if he’s ready before I am.”

Poppy nodded and bid him farewell. She made quick work of breakfast—there were only so many ways to bite a pattern into a toast triangle—then took her tea to the window to watch the show.

It was rather like going to the theater. Not any theater she’d had occasion to attend, but she was determined to enjoy it all the same. At first she tried to take in the entire panorama, but there was too much happening at once, so she decided to follow the path of just one man, watching as he went about his tasks.

“I shall call you José,” she announced. It was the name of a recent king, so surely it was appropriate to the region. “José Goodhope. You shall have three children, four dogs, and a rabbit.”

She frowned. He’d probably eat that rabbit. Best not get too attached to it.

“Are you married, Mr. Goodhope? Or widowed?” She watched her mystery man as he lifted a crate from a wagon and carried it toward a ship. “Widowed,” she said decisively. “Much more dramatic.”

Shakespeare would be proud. It was a play, after all.

“And your poor motherless children. You must work so hard to feed them. My goodness, they’re hungry.”

She thought about that.

“But not hungry enough to eat the rabbit,” she said firmly. This was her story, and she wanted to save the rabbit. It was white and fluffy and thoroughly nonexistent, but that was the beauty of writing one’s own tale. She could do whatever she wanted.

She’d always wanted to be an evil overlord.

Or a nice one. She had no real preference. Just so long as she was in charge.

José set down his crate and returned to the wagon, wiping his brow with his sleeve. He picked up another crate, this one heavier than the first if his posture was any indication. After he set that one down, he stood straight and rolled his neck a few times.

Poppy did the same. There was something about watching someone stretch that made her need to do it too.

When she was once again facing forward, she saw that José had twisted to call out to someone over his shoulder. Then he reached down to the hem of his shirt . . .

And took it off .

Poppy leaned forward. Now this was interesting.

Did dockworkers routinely perform their duties shirtless? Was this a Portuguese custom? It was certainly warmer here than it was in London, but then again, she’d never been to the London docks. Maybe the men ran around all the time with their chests bare as day.

And if that was the case, why had no one told her?

“Oh, José,” she murmured, setting down her teacup. “It’s a very hot day, isn’t it?”

This seemed reason enough to stand and move closer to the window. Maybe she needed to reengineer her plot. Did she really want José to be a widower? Wouldn’t it make more sense to make him a never-married bachelor?

With no children. Maybe a dog. And the rabbit could stay.

It was so lovely and fluffy. Who wouldn’t want to keep it in the story?

“Are you courting anyone, José?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she watched his muscles flex with exertion. First it was his arms, as he reached down to grip the crate, but then once he reached the ship she had a good view of his back.