The Other Miss Bridgerton Page 7

  She rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Good heavens, her morning mouth was appalling.

  She cleaned her teeth, deciding that she enjoyed the minty flavor of the captain’s powder, then plopped down in a chair by the window with the book she’d started the night before. It was a treatise on navigation, and truth be told, she didn’t understand half of it, but it was clear that it had not been written for novices.

  She’d managed a few more pages when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Billy,” she said, because it must be he. She stood as he let himself in.

  He was as red-faced as ever, carrying a tray with her breakfast.

  “Good morning,” she said, determined to get him to speak to her. “Oh, is that tea?”

  “Yes, miss,” he stammered.

  “How heavenly. I hadn’t thought—well, in truth I hadn’t thought.”

  Billy turned to her with a perplexed expression. Well, not exactly. He still looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but in her company, but now he also looked confused about his chances for escape.

  “I had not given any thought to whether there would be tea,” she explained. “But if I had considered it, I’m not sure I would have thought I’d be so lucky.”

  Billy seemed not to know what to make of her meandering statement, and he put the tray down and got to work setting her a place at the table. “The captain insists on it. Says it keeps us civilized. That an’ brandy.”

  “How fortunate for us all.”

  Billy made a noise that could have been a chuckle if he would allow himself to relax. “He doesn’t share the brandy. But he’s free with the tea.”

  Poppy blinked at the sheer number of words that had just emerged from the boy’s mouth. “Well, it’s still fortunate,” she said. “I am very fond of tea.”

  Billy nodded. “You’re a proper lady.”

  Poppy smiled wistfully. He really was a sweet boy. “How old are you, Billy?”

  He looked up with surprise. “Thirteen, miss.”

  “Oh. I’d thought you younger.” Then she could have kicked herself; boys of his age never liked to be mistaken for little children.

  But Billy just shrugged. “I know. Everyone thinks I’m not even twelve. M’dad says he didn’t grow until he was almost sixteen.”

  “Well then, I’m sure you shall have a spurt soon,” Poppy said encouragingly. “I’m not likely to see you again after this voyage, but if I did, I would expect you to grow as tall as the captain.”

  He smiled at this. “You’re not so bad, miss.”

  “Thank you.” It was a bit ridiculous how pleased she felt by his compliment.

  “Never met a proper lady before.” He shuffled from foot to foot. “Didn’t think you’d be so nice t’me.”

  “I try to be nice to everyone.” She frowned. “Except perhaps the captain.”

  Billy’s mouth fell open, and he looked as if he didn’t know if he should laugh or gasp.

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I jest.”

  Well, a little.

  “The captain is the best of men,” Billy said fervently. “I promise you. You’ll not meet finer. I know I said he doesn’t share his brandy, but he’s right good in all other ways, an’ I don’t like brandy, anyway.”

  “I’m sure you’re correct,” she said with what she called her drawing room smile. It was the one she used when she did not mean to be insincere . . . but she was not quite being honest either. “I’m just a bit vexed that I’m here.”

  “You’re not the only one.” Billy clapped a hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry, miss!”

  But Poppy was already laughing. “No, don’t apologize. It was very amusing. And from what I’ve heard, true.”

  Billy scrunched up his face in sympathy. “It’s not normal to have a lady on board, Miss Poppy. I’ve heard fearsome tales of disaster.”

  “Disaster brought about by the presence of a woman?”

  Billy nodded, perhaps a little too vigorously. “But I don’t believe it. Not anymore. The captain told me it weren’t true. An’ he doesn’t lie.”

  “Ever?”

  “Never.” Billy said this so firmly Poppy thought he might salute.

  “Well,” Poppy said briskly, “thank you for bringing breakfast. I am quite hungry.”

  “Yes, miss. If y’want, just leave the tray outside the door. Then I won’t have to bother you when I collect it.”

  Poppy couldn’t bring herself to tell him that their conversations were likely to be the high point of her day, so instead she said, “It won’t be a bother. And besides, I don’t think I’m permitted to open the door.”

  Billy frowned. “Not even open it?”

  Poppy shrugged and held her hands out as if to say, Who knows? “The captain and I did not discuss the particulars of my confinement.”

  “Seems a bit unreasonable,” Billy said, scratching his head. “The captain’s not usually like that.”

  Poppy shrugged again, this time tipping her head to the side in an I-don’t-know-what-to-tell-you expression.

  “Well,” Billy said with a little bow, “I hope you enjoy your breakfast. I think Cook gave you bacon.”

  “Thank you again, Billy. I—” She cut herself off when he opened the door. “Oh, one thing!”

  He paused. “Yes, miss?”

  “Can I peek out?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  It was ludicrous that she even had to ask. “Can I peek outside the door? I haven’t even seen the corridor.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “I was in a sack.”

  Billy’s face went slack. “But you’re a proper lady!”

  “Not all the time, apparently,” she muttered, and she dashed over to the open door to stick out her head.

  “Not much to see,” Billy said regretfully.

  But she still found it interesting. It was obviously the nicest part of the ship, or at least Poppy assumed it was. The hallway was not lit, but a small patch of sunlight shone down the stairwell, and she could see that the wooden walls were oiled and polished. There were three other doors, all on the other side of the corridor, and each had a well-made brass handle. “Who sleeps in the other cabins?” she asked.

  “That one’s for the navigator,” Billy said with a jerk of his head. “His name is Mr. Carroway. He doesn’t say much, ’cept when he’s navigating.”

  “And the others?”

  “That one’s for Mr. Jenkins. He’s second in command. And the other one”—Billy pointed to the door farthest away—“Brown an’ Green share it.”

  “Really?” Poppy would have thought they’d be down below with the rest of the sailors.

  Billy nodded. “They’ve been with the captain the longest. He said he likes to reward loyalty.”

  “My goodness,” Poppy said, craning her neck even though there wasn’t much of anything to see. “How positively revolutionary of him.”

  “He’s a good man,” Billy said. “The best.”

  Poppy supposed it spoke well of Captain James that he inspired such devotion, but honestly, the gushing was getting to be a bit much.

  “I’ll come back for the tray in an hour, miss,” Billy said, and with a nod he dashed away and up the stairs.

  To freedom.

  Poppy gazed longingly at the patch of sunlight. If the light reached the stairwell, didn’t that mean one could see the sky from the bottom of the stairs? Surely it wouldn’t hurt if she took a quick peek. No one would know. According to Billy, only five men had any business in this area of the ship, and they were all presumably at their stations.

  Gingerly, she pulled the door almost closed so that it was resting carefully against its frame. She tiptoed her way to the staircase, feeling foolish but well aware that this was probably the most excitement she’d have all day. When she reached the end of the corridor, she pressed her back against the wall, mostly because it felt like some subterfuge was in order. And then she looked up and angled her body toward
the stairs, deciding that even a stripe of blue sky would be a victory.

  Just a little farther, and then—

  The ship pitched to the side, sending her tumbling to the floor. Poppy rubbed her hip as she hauled herself back upright, muttering, “Of all the—”

  She froze.

  The door . . .

  The door she’d so carefully rested in place against the frame . . .

  The lurch of the ship had pulled it shut.

  Poppy gasped and ran back to the cabin, but when she pressed down on the door handle, it moved barely a quarter inch before informing her that she was locked out.

  No no no. This couldn’t be happening. She leaned against the door and sank down until she was on her haunches. Billy had said he’d be back in an hour for the tray. She’d just wait here, and no one would be the wiser.

  Then she thought about the tea. It would be stone cold and black as death by the time she got to it.

  Somehow that seemed the worst tragedy of all.

  Chapter 7

  It was a strange combination of exhaustion, irritation, and guilt that prompted Andrew to hand the wheel to Mr. Jenkins and head below to check on Miss Bridgerton. The exhaustion was obvious; he couldn’t have got more than three hours’ sleep the night before. The irritation was with himself. He’d been in a foul mood all morning, barking orders and snapping at his men, none of whom deserved his temper.

  The guilt . . . well, that was what had put him in a bad mood in the first place. He knew it was in Miss Bridgerton’s best interest to remain sequestered in the cabin, but he kept seeing her pained face when she pleaded with him to allow her on deck the night before. She had been honestly distressed, and it ate at his gut because he knew that if he were in her position, he would feel the exact same way.

  This unexpected sympathy left him incensed. He had no cause to feel remorse over locking her in the cabin; it wasn’t his fault she’d gone into the damn cave. And maybe it wasn’t her fault that the foreign secretary had ordered him to take a diplomatic pouch to Lisbon, but that was beside the point. She would be safest in his cabin. His decision was right and sensible, and as captain, his command must be unquestioned.

  But every time he tried to get on with the work of the day, Poppy Bridgerton’s sad, trembling face filtered through his mind. He started to write an entry in the ship’s log, but his quill hovered over the paper for so long that a fat drop of ink slid from the nib and stained the page. Thinking that good, hard manual labor might be what he needed, he decided he might as well go aloft, and so he left the bridge and headed on deck to climb the rigging.

  Once there, however, he seemed to forget why he’d come. He just stood there, hand on the ratline, his thoughts alternating between Miss Bridgerton and his cursed inability to stop thinking about Miss Bridgerton. Finally, he let out a stream of invective so vulgar that one of his men actually went bug-eyed and backed carefully away.

  He’d managed to offend the sensibilities of a hardened sailor. Under any other circumstances, he’d have taken pride in that.

  Eventually he gave in to the guilt and decided to see how she was getting on. Bored out of her skull, he imagined. He’d seen the book she was reading the night before. Advanced Methods of Maritime Navigation. He himself read it occasionally—whenever he was having difficulty falling asleep. It never failed to knock him out in under ten minutes.

  He’d found something much better—a novel he’d read a few months earlier and lent to Mr. Jenkins. His sister had liked it. She’d been the one to give it to him, actually, so he thought it might be to Miss Bridgerton’s taste.

  Down the stairs he went, imagining how grateful she’d be.

  Instead—

  “What the devil?”

  Miss Bridgerton was sitting on the floor with her legs outstretched, her back against the door to his cabin. In the corridor, very clearly not where she was supposed to be.

  “It was an accident,” she said immediately.

  “Get up,” he snapped.

  She did, moving quickly out of his way as he jammed his key into the lock.

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” she protested, yelping when he grabbed her wrist and hauled her into the cabin. “I just took a peek into the hall when Billy left and—”

  “Oh, so now you’ve dragged him into this?”

  “No! I would never.” Her manner suddenly shifted to something more contemplative. “He’s really quite sweet.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. My point was, I would never take advantage of his good nature. He’s just a boy.”

  He didn’t know why he believed her, but he did. This did not, however, make him one jot less furious.

  “I just wanted to see what it looked like outside the door,” she said. “I arrived in a sack, if you recall. And then the ship moved—well, it was more of a lurch, really, quite violent, and I was thrown against the opposite wall.”

  “And the door closed,” he said dubiously.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, obviously not comprehending his tone. “That’s exactly what happened. And I didn’t even get to drink my tea!”

  He stared at her. Tea? Really?

  “I almost cried,” she confessed. “I haven’t yet, you know, despite everything, and you have no idea how lucky you are that I’m not a crying sort of female. But when I was out there, and I realized my tea was going cold, I almost cried.”

  She was so earnest that it was difficult to sustain an appropriate level of anger, but Andrew was determined to try. “You disobeyed me,” he said in a curt voice. “I specifically told you not to leave the room.”

  “But the ship moved!”

  “As they do,” he ground out. “Perhaps you’ve noticed the ocean?”

  Her lips pressed together at his sarcasm. “I am unfamiliar with ships,” she said through clenched teeth. “I did not expect such a jolt.”

  He leaned in menacingly and spoke with the same frosty tone. “You shouldn’t have been hanging out the door.”

  “Well, then I’m sorry for that,” she ground out, in what had to be the least gracious apology he’d ever heard.

  But strangely, he thought it was sincere.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” he said sharply. But he spared her the indignity of having to respond by turning away and moving to his desk. He shoved the novel onto his shelf, not wanting her to think that he’d come down because he was trying to make her detention more pleasant. This was a ship, and bad behavior could not be rewarded. She had disobeyed his explicit instructions; if one of his men had done the same, he’d have been put on rat-catching duty for a week. Or been flogged, depending on the severity of the transgression.

  He wasn’t sure Miss Bridgerton had learned her lesson—probably not, knowing her—but he rather thought he’d said all there was to say on the matter. So instead he pretended to look for something on his desk. He could only keep up such a ruse for so long, though, and she was just standing there staring at him, so he said, perhaps a bit more harshly than was necessary, “Eat your breakfast.”

  And then—God above, he would swear it was like his mother was in that very cabin, yanking on his ear and telling him to mind his manners—he heard himself clear his throat, and he added, “Please.”

  Poppy’s jaw dropped. Captain James changed topics with enough speed to make her dizzy. “I—all right.”

  She watched him for a moment, then walked carefully—why, she did not know; it just seemed like she ought to be extra quiet—back to the table. She lifted the lid to the dish after she sat down. Eggs, bacon, and toast. Stone cold, all of it.

  But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and technically it was her fault that she’d been locked out, so she ate quietly and without complaint. The eggs were less than appetizing, but the toast and bacon held up reasonably well at their lower temperatures.

  She supposed she should be glad she hadn’t been served porridge.

  The captain’s desk was on the far side of the cabin, so she had a per
fect view of his back as he rummaged about. “Where is that navigation book?” he finally asked.

  She took a moment to chew and swallow. “The one I was reading last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s still on the bed. Do you need it?”

  “For Mr. Carroway,” he said brusquely. “The navigator.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said as she rose to her feet and walked over to the bed. “Billy told me about him. Your second in command is Mr. Jenkins, is that correct?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I suppose it is beneficial to know the names of the officers even if I am unlikely ever to interact with them.”

  His jaw stiffened. “You do like to make that point, don’t you?”

  “It is one of my few pleasures,” she murmured.

  He rolled his eyes but didn’t otherwise reply, so she retrieved the navigation guide from the bed and handed it to him. “One would hope Mr. Carroway already possesses the skills outlined within.”

  The captain made no sign of amusement. “I can assure you he possesses all the necessary skills.”

  And then there it was again. That phenomenally foolish little devil on her shoulder, urging her to prove that she was every bit as clever as he. She curved her lips and murmured, “Do you possess the necessary skills?”

  Her regret was instant.

  He, on the other hand, seemed to relish the question. His smile was languid and vaguely patronizing, and the air between them grew hot.

  He leaned forward, and for a moment she thought he was going to reach out and touch her. Instead she found herself awkwardly tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, as if her raised arm could even pretend to offer protection from him.

  “Oh, Miss Bridgerton,” he purred, “do you really want to pursue that line of questioning?”

  Stupid, stupid girl. What had she been thinking? This was not a game she was qualified to play, especially not with him. Captain James was not like anyone of her acquaintance. He had the comportment and speech of a gentleman, and in so many ways he was a gentleman, but he took such obvious pleasure in poking at the boundaries of polite behavior. Granted, she had found herself in a situation for which there were no rules of polite behavior, but somehow she thought that if she met him in a ballroom, he’d behave in almost exactly the same manner.