The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  Chapter 3

  “Bridgerton,” Andrew ground out as he strode furiously across the Infinity’s foredeck. “Bridgerton!” Of all the women in all the world, the one who stumbled into his cave—which, he might add, had gone undetected for a full three years—had to be a Bridgerton.

  It would have only been worse if she’d been a bloody Rokesby.

  Thank God he’d never used his family surname aboard the ship; his entire crew knew him only as Andrew James. Which wasn’t technically untrue; his full given name was Andrew James Edwin Rokesby. It had seemed prudent not to advertise his aristocratic identity when he took command of the Infinity, and he’d never been so glad of it before now. If the girl in his cabin was a Bridgerton, she’d know who the Rokesbys were, and that would cause a cascade of misery all around.

  “Bridgerton,” he practically groaned, earning him a curious look from one of his deckhands. It was impossible to overstate just how well Andrew knew the Bridgertons, at least the portion of the family that resided in Aubrey Hall, in Kent, just a short distance from his own ancestral home. Lord and Lady Bridgerton were practically a second set of parents to him, and they had become family in truth seven years earlier when their eldest daughter, Billie, had married Andrew’s older brother George.

  Frankly, Andrew was surprised that he and Poppy Bridgerton had never met. Lord Bridgerton had several younger brothers, and as far as Andrew knew, they’d all had children. There had to be dozens of Bridgerton cousins scattered about the English countryside. He vaguely recalled Billie telling him about family in Somerset, but if they’d ever visited, it had not been when Andrew was home to meet them.

  And now one of them was on his ship.

  Andrew swore under his breath. If Poppy Bridgerton discovered his true identity, there would be hell to pay. Only thirteen people knew that Andrew James was actually Andrew Rokesby, third son of the Earl of Manston. Of those thirteen, nine were members of his immediate family.

  And of those nine, zero knew the real reason for the deception.

  It had all started seven years earlier, when Andrew had been sent home from the navy to recuperate after he’d fractured his arm. He had been eager to return to his post aboard the HMS Titania—he’d worked hard for his recent promotion to first lieutenant, damn it—but the king’s Privy Council had had other ideas.

  In their infinite wisdom, the members of the council had decided that the best place for a naval officer was a tiny landlocked principality in central Europe. Andrew was told—and this was a direct quote—to be “charming.” And to make sure that Wachtenberg-Molstein’s Princess Amalia Augusta Maria Theresa Josephine was delivered to London in one virginal piece as a potential bride for the Prince of Wales.

  That she’d fallen overboard during the channel crossing was not Andrew’s fault. That she’d been rescued, however, was, and when she had then declared that she’d marry none but the man who’d saved her, Andrew had found himself at the center of a diplomatic disaster. The final leg of the trip had involved nothing less than a runaway coach, the disgruntled resignation of two sub-members of the council, and an overturned chamber pot. (On Andrew, not the princess, although you’d think it had been the latter from the way she’d carried on.)

  It had been his sister-in-law’s favorite story to tell at dinner parties for years. And Andrew had never even told her about the ferret.

  In the end, the princess didn’t marry Andrew or the Prince of Wales, but the Privy Council had been so impressed with Andrew’s unflappable demeanor that they decided he could serve his country better out of uniform than in. But not officially. Never officially. When the secretaries of state summoned him for a joint interview, they clarified that when they said diplomatic they had meant conversational. They didn’t want Andrew to negotiate treaties, they wanted him to talk to people. He was young, he was handsome, he was charming.

  People loved him.

  Andrew knew this, of course. He’d always made friends easily, and he had that rare gift of being able to talk almost anyone into almost anything. But it had felt strange to be ordered to do something so intangible. And so secret.

  He had to resign his naval commission, of course. His parents were dumbfounded. Three years later, when he took command of a ship and began the life of a privateer, they had been disappointed in the extreme.

  Privateering was not a noble profession. If an aristocratic gentleman wished to take to the seas, he wore a uniform and swore allegiance to King and Country. He did not command a ship of potentially disreputable sailors and smuggle goods for his own financial gain.

  Andrew told his parents that this was why he sailed under an assumed name. He knew that they disapproved of his choices, and he did not want to bring dishonor to the family. What his parents didn’t know—since he wasn’t allowed to tell them—was that he wasn’t just a merchant ship captain. In fact, he’d never been just a merchant ship captain. He’d assumed command of the Infinity at His Majesty’s explicit request.

  This had happened in 1782, when the government was reorganized, and the Northern and Southern Departments were transformed into the Home and Foreign Offices. With foreign affairs finally consolidated into one department, the new foreign secretary had begun to look for innovative ways to pursue diplomacy and protect British interests. He had summoned Andrew to London almost immediately upon assuming his office.

  When Charles James Fox—the first foreign secretary and former leader of the House of Commons—asked a man to serve his country, that man did not say no. Even if it meant deceiving his own family.

  Andrew did not perform the crown’s bidding on every voyage—there simply weren’t enough tasks for that, and it would have looked odd if he sat in port twiddling his thumbs until someone at the Foreign Office asked him to courier some papers to Spain or collect a diplomat in Brussels. Most of the time he was exactly what his crew thought he was—an ordinary sea captain, with mostly legal cargo.

  But not this time. The current foreign secretary had entrusted a packet of papers to his care, and he’d been tasked with delivering them to the British envoy in Portugal. Andrew wasn’t sure what it was all about; he was rarely told the contents of the documents he carried. He suspected it had something to do with the ongoing negotiations with Spain over the settlements on the Mosquito Coast. It didn’t matter, really. All that mattered was that he’d been told to get the papers to Lisbon as soon as possible, and that meant he had to leave now, when the winds and tides were favorable. He certainly did not have time to clear out the cave that Poppy Bridgerton had discovered. Nor did he have the manpower to leave three people behind—the number it would take to distribute the goods and guard the girl until the job was done.

  If it had just been about profits, he would have abandoned the cargo and taken the financial loss. But the cave was also used as a drop point, and hidden in one of the crates was a letter to the prime minister that Andrew had just brought back from an envoy in Spain. Someone from London was due to pick it up in two days’ time. It was vital that the cave remained undisturbed, at least until then.

  So he was stuck with Poppy Bridgerton.

  “Sir!”

  Andrew turned to see Brown heading his way.

  “I delivered the letter, sir,” the seaman said.

  “Good,” Andrew grunted. “Did anyone see you?”

  Brown shook his head. “I had Pinsley hand it to a housemaid. No one knows him hereabouts. And I made him wear that black wig you keep aboard.”

  “Good.”

  “Didn’t want to leave it on the steps,” Brown added. “Didn’t think you’d want to chance it not getting read.”

  “No, of course not,” Andrew said. “You did the right thing.”

  Brown nodded his thanks. “Pinsley says the maid says she’ll give it to the lady of the house straightaway.”

  Andrew nodded sharply. He could only hope that all went according to plan. There would still be hell to pay when Miss Bridgerton was returned in two weeks’ time,
but he might be able to retain at least a semblance of control over the situation if her friend kept quiet. And if her friend did keep her mouth shut, and no one ever learned that Poppy had gone missing, Andrew just might avoid having to marry the chit.

  Oh yes. He was well aware that this was a very real possibility. He was a gentleman, and he’d compromised a lady, however inadvertently. But he was also pragmatic. And as there was at least a remote chance that she’d emerge from her ordeal with her reputation intact, it seemed best that she not be apprised of his true identity.

  At least this was what he was telling himself.

  It was time to depart, so Andrew found his place at the wheel, his body stiffening with a rush of excitement as they lifted anchor and the Infinity’s wind-filled sails propelled them forward. One would think the sensation would grow old, that so many voyages at sea would have left him immune to the thrill of the wind and the speed and the spray of the sea as they raced across the waves.

  But it was still exhilarating, every time. His blood surged, and his lungs filled with the tangy salt air, and he knew that at this moment in time, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

  Which was ironic, he supposed, as he wasn’t in an actual place, but rather moving swiftly across the water. Did that mean he was meant to be in motion? Would he live his days on the water? Should he live his days on the water?

  Or was it time to go home?

  Andrew gave his head a shake. This was no time to grow maudlin. Philosophy was for the idle, and he had work to do.

  He scanned the sky as he steered the Infinity past the town of Lyme Regis and into the English Channel. It was a perfect day for sailing, crisp and clear and with a hearty wind. If the weather held as such, they could reach Portugal in five days.

  “Please, God,” Andrew said, with the sheepish expression of one who didn’t often make divine entreaties. But if ever there was a time for prayer, this was most definitely it. He was confident that he could manage Poppy Bridgerton, but still, he’d rather have her off his hands as soon as possible. As it was, her presence meant the eventual end of his career. At some point she would learn his true name; given how close he was to her cousins, it seemed impossible that she wouldn’t.

  “Sir?”

  Andrew nodded, acknowledging Billy Suggs, at thirteen the youngest hand on the ship.

  “Sir, Pinsley says there’s a woman on the ship,” Billy said. “Is that the truth?”

  “It is.”

  There was a pause, and then Billy said, “Sir? Isn’t that devilish bad luck, sir? To have a woman aboard, sir?”

  Andrew fought the urge to close his eyes and sigh. This was exactly what he was worried about. Sailors were a notoriously superstitious lot. “Nothing but foolish talk, Billy,” he said. “You won’t even know she’s here.”

  Billy looked dubious, but he headed back to the galley.

  “Hell,” Andrew said, despite the fact that there was no one close enough to hear, “if I’m lucky, I won’t even know she’s here.”

  Chapter 4

  By the time Poppy heard the door to the captain’s cabin open, she was in a ferociously bad mood.

  One to which she rather thought she was entitled. Being bound hand and foot tended to lower the spirits. Well, one hand and two feet. She supposed Captain James had shown some degree of kindness when he’d left her right hand free. Not that it had served her any use. He had not exaggerated when he’d boasted about the quality of sailors’ knots. It had taken but a minute for her to conclude that she had no hope of wriggling the rope loose. She supposed a feistier female might have persisted, but Poppy was not fond of raw skin or broken nails, and it was quite clear that that was all she’d achieve if she kept working at the knot.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, without bothering to look and see who had entered the cabin.

  “Thought you might be,” came the captain’s voice. A warm, crusty roll landed on the bed next to her shoulder. It smelled heavenly.

  “Brought you butter too,” the captain said.

  Poppy thought about turning to face him, but she’d long since realized that any change in position involved a rather undignified amount of grunting and twisting. So she just said, “Shall I fill your bed with crumbs?”

  “There are so many interesting rejoinders to such a statement,” he said, and she could hear the lazy smile in his voice, “but I will refrain.”

  Score one for him, again. Damn it.

  “If you’d like,” he said mildly, “I’ll free you from your bindings.”

  That was enough to make her twist her head. “We’re well out to sea, then?”

  He stepped forward, holding a knife. “Far enough that one would have to be far less clever than you to attempt an escape.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Compliment?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, his smile positively lethal.

  “I assume you plan to use that knife on my bindings.”

  He nodded, slicing her free. “Not that the alternatives aren’t tempting.”

  Her eyes flew to his face.

  “I jest,” he said, almost rotely.

  Poppy was not amused.

  The captain just shrugged, tugging the rope out from under her ankles. “My life would be far simpler if you were not here, Miss Bridgerton.”

  “You could have left me in Charmouth,” she reminded him.

  “No,” he said, “I couldn’t have done.”

  She picked up the roll and took a bite of unladylike proportions.

  “You are hungry,” he murmured.

  She shot him a look that told him what she thought of his overly obvious statement.

  He tossed another roll in her direction. She caught it one-handed and managed not to smile.

  “Well done, Miss Bridgerton,” he said.

  “I have four brothers,” she said with a shrug.

  “Do you now?” he asked mildly.

  She glanced up briefly from her food. “We’re fiendishly competitive.”

  He pulled a chair out from his surprisingly elegant dining table, then sat, resting one ankle on the opposite knee with lazy grace. “All good at games?”

  She leveled her gaze onto his. She could be every bit as nonchalant as he. And if she couldn’t, she’d die trying. “Some better than others,” she said, then finished up the first roll.

  He laughed. “Meaning you’re the best?”

  She lifted a brow. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I like to win.”

  “Most people do.”

  She fully intended to respond with a cuttingly witty rejoinder, but he beat her to the punch with “You, I imagine, however, like to win more than most.”

  She pursed her lips. “Compliment?”

  He shook his head, his lips still curved into a vexing little smile. “Not this time.”

  “Because you’re afraid I’m going to best you?”

  “Because I’m afraid you’re going to make my life a living hell.”

  Poppy’s lips parted in surprise. That was not what she’d expected him to say. She regarded the second roll, then took a bite. “Some would say,” she said once she’d finished chewing, “that such language isn’t appropriate in the presence of a lady.”

  “We’re hardly in a drawing room,” he returned, “and besides, I thought you said you had four brothers. Surely they’ve managed to blister your ears once or twice.”

  They had, of course, and Poppy wasn’t so high in the instep that she would faint at the occasional curse. She’d scolded the captain mainly just to annoy him, and she rather suspected he knew that.

  Which annoyed her.

  She decided to change the subject. “I believe you said you’d brought butter.”

  He motioned gallantly to a small ramekin, resting atop the dining table. “Surely you don’t want me to toss this,” he said, “your superior catching skills notwithstanding.”

  Poppy rose and walked to the tabl
e. She was a bit wobbly, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the motion of the sea or the blood returning to her feet.

  “Sit,” he said, the word more of a request than an order.

  She hesitated, his politeness far more disconcerting than incivility might have been.

  “I won’t bite,” he added, leaning back.

  She pulled out the chair.

  “Unless, of course, you want me to,” he murmured.

  “Captain James!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miss Bridgerton, you’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

  “I don’t get your meaning,” she ground out.

  His lips quirked. Not that they’d ever really stopped quirking; the odious man always looked as if he was up to something. “If you were truly my match,” he said, his voice lightly taunting, “you’d not be the least put off by my wordplay.”

  She sat down and reached for the butter. “I don’t generally jest about matters relating to my life or virtue, Captain James.”

  “A wise rule,” he said, leaning back, “but I certainly need not feel constrained by it.”

  She picked up the butter knife and regarded it thoughtfully.

  “Not nearly sharp enough to do me damage,” the captain said with a smile.

  “No.” Poppy sighed, dipping it into the butter. “Pity that.” She slathered her roll and took a bite. “Do you plan to keep me on bread and water?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “I am not so ungentlemanly as that. Supper is due to arrive in”—he checked his pocket watch—“five minutes.”

  She watched him for a moment. He didn’t look like he was going anywhere. “Do you plan to eat here with me?” she asked.

  “I don’t plan to starve.”

  “You can’t go eat with . . . with . . .” She waved her hand about somewhat ineffectually, not really knowing what she was motioning to.

  “My men?” he finished for her. “No. We’re a more liberal ship than most, but it’s hardly a democracy. I am the captain. I eat here.”

  “Alone?”

  His smile was slow and wicked. “Unless I have company.”