The Other Miss Bridgerton

She didn’t really wish to go out to dinner, even if it would be nice to see Billie. Supper on a tray in her room sounded delightful. And besides—

“I haven’t anything to wear,” she told Georgie.

Georgie’s blue eyes narrowed. Poppy had woven a compelling tale (if she did say so herself) to explain her lack of luggage upon her arrival, but she had a feeling Georgie found the whole story most suspicious.

Georgiana Bridgerton was a lot shrewder than her family seemed to give her credit for. Poppy could easily imagine her sitting in her room, throwing mental darts at Poppy’s story, just to find the holes.

It wasn’t that Georgie was malicious. She was just curious.

A malady with which Poppy was well-acquainted.

“Don’t you think your trunk should have arrived by now?” Georgie asked.

“I do,” Poppy said with wide-eyed earnestness. “I’m shocked, in fact, that it hasn’t.”

“Maybe you should have taken the other lady’s trunk.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. I don’t think she took mine on purpose. And anyway”—Poppy leaned in with a bit of a smirk—“her taste in clothing was abysmal.”

Georgie eyed her skeptically.

“It’s better this way,” Poppy said blithely. “The coaching company said they would find her and make the switch.”

She had no idea if the coaching company would behave with such largesse; likely they would tell her it was her own fault for not noticing that someone had taken her trunk. But Poppy didn’t have to convince the coaching company, just her cousins.

“Lucky for me we’re of a size,” she said to Georgie. In actuality Poppy was an inch taller, but as long as they did not socialize, she could get away without adding lace to the hems of Georgie’s gowns.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Poppy asked.

“Of course not. I just think it’s strange.”

“Oh, it is. It absolutely is.”

Georgie’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “You don’t feel somewhat . . . rootless?”

“Rootless?” It was probably an innocent question, but Poppy was so tired, so just plain exhausted of trying to keep her stories straight. And it wasn’t like Georgie to wax philosophical, at least not with Poppy.

“I don’t know,” Georgie mused. “Not that things should be the measure of a person, but I can’t help but think it must be disorienting to be separated from one’s belongings.”

“Yes,” Poppy said slowly. “It is.” And yet, what she wouldn’t give to be back aboard the Infinity , where she’d had nothing but the clothes on her back.

And Andrew. For a brief moment, she’d had him too.

“Poppy?” Georgie asked with some alarm. “Are you crying?”

“Of course not,” Poppy sniffled.

“It’s all right if you are.”

“I know.” Poppy turned to brush away something on her cheek that was not moisture. “But it doesn’t matter because I’m not.”

“Ehrm . . .” Georgie seemed not to know what to do when confronted with a crying female. And why would she, Poppy thought. Her only sister was the indomitable Billie Rokesby, who once rode a horse backward for heaven’s sake. Poppy was fairly certain Billie had never cried a day in her life.

As for Poppy, she wasn’t sure when she’d shed a tear. She had been so proud of herself for not crying when she’d been hauled aboard the Infinity . At first, she supposed it was just because she was so bloody angry—the rage had blotted out everything else. After that, it was more because she refused to make such a show of weakness in front of Andrew.

She’d wagged her finger and told him he should thank his lucky stars that she wasn’t a crying sort of female. Now she almost laughed at that. Because all she wanted to do was cry.

And yet somehow the tears never came.

She felt as if everything inside her had been scooped out and left somewhere far, far behind. Maybe Portugal, maybe the Atlantic, thrown overboard on the miserable journey home. All she knew was that here, in England, she was numb.

“Hollow,” she whispered.

Beside her, Georgie turned. “Did you say something?”

“No,” Poppy said, because how could she explain it? If she told Georgie what she was feeling, she’d have to tell her why .

Georgie didn’t believe her; that was easy enough to see. But Georgie didn’t press, and instead she said, “Well, if you ever decide that you are crying, I am happy to . . . do . . . whatever it is you need.”

Poppy smiled at her cousin’s awkward attempt at solace. She reached out and squeezed Georgie’s hand. “Thank you.”

Georgie nodded, recognizing that Poppy didn’t wish to talk about it, at least not yet. She glanced up at the sky, shading her eyes even though the sun was mostly obscured by clouds. “You should probably come in soon. I think it’s going to rain.”

“I like the fresh air,” Poppy said. She’d been stuck in her cabin on the way back to England too. Mr. Walpole had been in too much of a rush to find her an English-speaking chaperone, so she had traveled with the same Portuguese housemaid who had picked out her dress. And her sister, since the housemaid couldn’t very well travel back to Lisbon on her own.

Regardless, both girls refused to step foot outside their cabin. Which meant Poppy was shut in too. Mr. Walpole had assured her that the captain could be trusted with her safety and virtue, but after all that had happened, she hadn’t wanted to risk it.

The food hadn’t been as good as on the Infinity either.

And she didn’t know what had happened to Andrew. Mr. Walpole had told her she wouldn’t know either. “You will be well on your way back to England, Miss Bridgerton. He will not follow for some time, I imagine.”

If ever. He did not include that in the sentence, but it had hung heavily on the air.

“But even then,” she’d pressed, “for my peace of mind. Will you send word? James is a very common surname. It would be impossible for me to find out on my own . . .”

She’d trailed off at his look of disdain.

“Miss Bridgerton. Do you really think that his surname is truly James?” At her blank look, he’d continued, “This is in service to your king. You have already been told never to breathe a word of this. For you to go searching for a man who does not exist would draw what I am sure is unwanted attention to these weeks that will undoubtedly be questionable in your calendar.”

As set-downs went, it was blistering, but when he’d delivered his next sentence, all energy for retort washed out of her.

“It is unlikely you will ever see Captain James again.”

“But—”

Mr. Walpole silenced her with a mere gesture. “Whether we extricate him or not, it will be in the interest of national security that he not go looking for you. And whether you are inept at following orders is irrelevant, Miss Bridgerton, because I assure you he is not.”

She had not believed it. No, she had not wanted to believe it. Andrew had said he would escape. He said he would find her.

But she wasn’t that hard to find. So either he was dead—which she could hardly bear to contemplate—or everything Mr. Walpole had said was true, and she would never see him again.

He followed orders. She knew that he did—it was why he’d taken her to Portugal instead of clearing out the cave and leaving her in Charmouth. It was why he did not read the messages he carried.

It was why he would not come for her even if he wanted to.

And why she had no idea whom she was so angry with—him, for sending her away even though she knew it was the right thing to do; Mr. Walpole, for making it so painfully clear that she would never see Andrew again; or herself.

Because she felt so damn helpless.

“Were you outside last night?” Georgie asked.

Poppy turned lethargically toward her cousin. “Just looking at the stars.”

“I thought I saw someone from my window. I had not realized you were a student of astronomy.”

“I’m not. I just like looking at the stars.” They hadn’t been as brilliant as out at sea, though. Or maybe it was just that the sky seemed to hold more power and sway when one stood on the deck of a ship, face tipped to the heavens.