The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

“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 in 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.

  Andrew’s hands had been on her hips. She had felt the heat of his body, the strength of it.

  But she hadn’t understood.

  So much. There was so much she hadn’t understood.

  And now . . . It was laughable, really. Here she was, lamenting her younger, innocent self as if she were such a lady of experience. She still knew nothing. Almost nothing.

  “Well, I’m going to go in,” Georgie said as she rose to her feet. “I want to have enough time to dress for dinner. Are you coming?”

  Poppy started to say no; dinner wasn’t for several more hours, and she felt no great need
to fuss over her appearance. But Georgie was right—it did look as if it might rain. And as hopeless and numb as she felt right then, she had no wish to catch her death in a downpour.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said.

  “Wonderful!” Georgie linked her arm through Poppy’s, and they began their stroll back to the house.

  Dinner with the neighbors was a good idea, Poppy decided. She didn’t want to go, but what she wanted lately hadn’t seemed to make her feel any better. She’d have to put on a good front, pretend she was happy and cheerful and the same Poppy she’d always been. Maybe if she tried hard enough, she’d start to believe it.

  She turned to Georgie as they walked past the gazebo. “Who did you say was coming to dinner?”

  Andrew was exhausted.

  It had taken almost two weeks for Robert Walpole to extricate him from the house on the hill. During that time he’d been mostly ignored, but he had not slept well. Nor had he been given much to eat.

  He did not know how long it would take for him to regain his full strength, but recuperation would have to wait.

  He needed to find Poppy.

  His original plan had been to bypass his home in Kent and head straight to Dorset, where he assumed she had returned to the home of Elizabeth Armitage. If Poppy had already gone home, it was an easy journey from there to Somerset.

  But the Infinity had been ordered back to England without him, and no one in Lisbon was sailing to Dorset. The quickest journey would be to Margate, which was close enough to Crake House that it would be foolish not to stop there first. He could reach Poppy much faster on a mount from the Rokesby stables than he could in a carriage hired at the port.

  And as eager as he was to find her, the notion of a bath and a fresh change of clothing had obvious appeal.

  It had started to rain by the time he was dropped off at the end of the drive to Crake, so he was somewhat damp and squishy when he let himself in through the front door. He had not a clue who might be home. His mother never stayed in London this far into summer, but she’d been known to gad about the countryside visiting friends. His older brothers were probably home—George lived at Crake with Billie and their three children, and Edward was just a few miles away with his brood.

  No one was in the entry when he walked in, so he set his wet hat on a table and took a moment to take in his surroundings. It seemed almost surreal to be here, in his home, after such a tumultuous few weeks. There had been several moments that he’d feared were his last, and even after his rescue, he’d not been able to enjoy any of life’s luxuries. The bandits had not, in fact, turned out to be politically motivated, but they were part of a larger syndicate, powerful enough that Robert Walpole had advised Andrew to keep his head down until he departed Lisbon.

  And never return. Walpole was clear about that. Captain Andrew James might be an important courier for the crown, but he could no longer count on aid and protection on the Iberian Peninsula.

  It was time to go home, but more than that, it was time to stay home.

  “Andrew!”

  He grinned. He’d know that voice anywhere. “Billie,” he said warmly, enveloping his sister-in-law in a hug. She wouldn’t care if he got her wet. “How are you?”

  “How am I? How are you? We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of you in months.” She gave him a cautioning glance. “Your mother is displeased.”

  Andrew winced.

  “You should be afraid,” she said.

  “You don’t think the joy of my unexpected arrival will soften her temper?”

  “For an hour, perhaps. Then she’ll remember your lack of correspondence.”

  “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “I’m not the one you need to convince,” Billie said with a shake of her head. “I hope you’re not planning to leave anytime soon.”

  “I was going to go tonight—”

  “What?”

  “I’d already decided otherwise,” he told her. “I’ll wait until morning. I don’t relish riding in the rain.”

  “Would you like my advice?”

  “Is there any way I can prevent you from giving it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I would be delighted.”

  She rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. “Don’t tell your mother you were thinking of leaving this evening. In fact, I’d avoid mentioning your morning departure if at all possible.”

  “You know it will be the third thing she asks.”

  “After ‘How are you?’ and ‘Why haven’t you written?’”

  He nodded.

  She shrugged. “I wish you luck, then.”

  “You are a cruel woman, Billie Rokesby.”

  “You would never have escaped before dinner in any case. Nicholas is down from London. Everyone is coming to dine.”

  Everyone surely included the Bridgertons. Andrew supposed his delay wasn’t a complete loss. He might be able to get some information about Poppy. Her whereabouts, for example.

  Or if she’d been ensnared in a scandal.

  He’d have to figure out the best way to get them to talk about her. As far as anyone knew, he did not even know she existed.

  “Is everything all right, Andrew?”

  He blinked, startled by Billie’s query. She’d placed her hand on his arm and was watching him with an expression of curiosity. Or maybe concern.

  “Of course,” he said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You just seem different, that’s all.”

  “Thinner,” he confirmed.

  She did not look convinced, but she did not press him further. “Well,” she said briskly, “your mother is at the vicarage. She was up in London for a few days, but she returned yesterday.”

  “Is Nicholas home?” Andrew asked. It had been far too long since he’d seen his younger brother.

  “Not at this precise moment, no. He and George went off for a ride with your father. But they should all be back soon. Dinner is at seven, so they won’t be much longer.”

  Speaking of which . . .

  “I should clean up before dinner,” Andrew said.

  “Go on up to your room,” Billie said. “I’ll see about having a bath drawn.”

  “I am not certain I can adequately express how heavenly that sounds.”

  “Go,” Billie said with a smile. “I will see you at dinner.”

  A good meal, a good sleep, Andrew thought as he headed upstairs. It was exactly what he needed before heading out in the morning for a good woman.

  His good woman.

  His Poppy.

  “Darling, are you sure you’re feeling well enough for dinner?”

  Poppy turned to Lady Bridgerton, grateful that the dim lighting in the carriage prevented the older woman from seeing just how wan her smile was. “I’m well, Aunt,” she said. “Just tired.”

  “I cannot imagine why. We have done nothing requiring any great exertions recently, have we?”

  “Poppy took a walk today,” Georgie said. “A really, really long one.”

  Poppy looked at her cousin with surprise. Georgie knew quite well that Poppy had not taken a long walk that day. She’d barely made it to the far end of the garden.

  “I did not realize that,” Lady Bridgerton said. “I do hope you were not caught out in the rain.”

  “No, I was most fortunate,” Poppy said. It had begun to rain about an hour after she and Georgie returned to Aubrey Hall. Just a sprinkle at first, but it had been growing in intensity ever since. The smack of the drops against the carriage was almost too loud for conversation.

  “Helen will have footmen waiting with umbrellas,” Lady Bridgerton assured her. “We will not get very wet going from carriage to house.”

  “Will Edmund and Violet be there?” Georgie asked.

  “I’m not sure,” her mother replied. “Violet is getting very near to the end of her confinement. I imagine it depends on how she feels.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Georgie said. “She lov
es being pregnant.”

  “Have they thought of a name?” Poppy asked. Her cousin Edmund had married quite young—he was barely nineteen at his wedding. But he and his bride were wildly happy by all accounts and currently expecting their second child. They lived close to Aubrey Hall, in a charming manor house given to them as a wedding gift from Edmund’s parents.

  “Benedict if it’s a boy,” Lady Bridgerton said. “Beatrice for a girl.”

  “How very Shakespearean,” Poppy murmured. Benedick and Beatrice were the lovers from Much Ado About Nothing. She’d quoted Balthasar’s song from that very play when she and Andrew had had their battle of the Shakespearean quotes.

  It was ridiculous how much fun that had been.

  “Benedict,” Georgie said. “Not Benedick.”

  “Sigh no more,” Poppy murmured. “Sigh no more.”

  Georgie gave her a sideways glance. “Men were deceivers ever?”

  “Not all men,” came a grumble from the opposite corner.

  Poppy jerked with surprise. She’d quite forgotten Lord Bridgerton was there.

  “I thought you were sleeping,” Lady Bridgerton said, patting her husband on the knee.

  “I was,” he said with a hmmph. “I’d like to be still.”

  “Were we so very loud, Uncle?” Poppy inquired. “I’m sorry that we woke you.”

  “It’s just the rain,” he said, waving away her apology. “Makes my joints ache. Was that Shakespeare you were reciting?”

  “From Much Ado About Nothing,” Poppy said.

  “Well . . .” He rolled his hand in the air, urging her on. “Have at it.”

  “You want me to recite it?”

  He looked at Georgie. “Do you know it?”

  “Not in its entirety,” she admitted.

  “Then yes,” he said, turning back to Poppy. “I want you to recite it.”

  “Very well.” She swallowed, trying to melt the lump that had started to form in her throat.

  “Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea—” Her voice caught. Choked.

  What had happened to him? Would she ever know?

  “Poppy?” Her aunt leaned forward, concerned.

  Poppy stared into space.

  “Poppy?”