The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(2)

“Well, that’s certainly true,” Mary said, tilting her head slightly to the side. “When my brother’s wife had her boys, I never could get a sensible word out of her.”

“That’s it exactly!” Poppy exclaimed. “Elizabeth knows that I will be perfectly fine on my own. I’m no spring miss, after all. Hopelessly on the shelf, they say.”

As Mary attempted to assure her that that was most certainly not the case, Poppy added, “I’m only going for an easy little stroll by the shore. You know that. You came with me yesterday.”

“And the day before that,” Mary said with a sigh, clearly not relishing the prospect of another afternoon of exertion.

“And the day before that as well,” Poppy pointed out. “And what, all week before that?”

Mary nodded glumly.

Poppy didn’t smile. She was far too good for that. But success was clearly right around the corner.

Literally.

“Here,” she said, steering the maid toward a cozy tea shop, “why don’t you sit down and have a rest? Heaven knows you deserve it. I’ve quite run you ragged, haven’t I?”

“You’ve been nothing but kind, Miss Bridgerton,” Mary said quickly.

“Kind and exhausting,” Poppy said, patting Mary’s hand as she opened the tearoom door. “You work so hard. You deserve a few minutes for yourself.”

And so, once Poppy had paid for a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, she’d made her escape—two of the aforementioned biscuits in her pocket—and now she was wonderfully, blessedly on her own.

If only there were ladies’ shoes that were suitable for climbing across rocks. Her little boots were quite the most practical made for women, but they didn’t compare in durability with the sort that sat in her brothers’ wardrobes. She took great care to watch her steps, lest she turn an ankle. This area of the beach did not receive much foot traffic, so if she hurt herself, heaven only knew how long it would take for someone to come after her.

She whistled as she walked, enjoying the opportunity to engage in such uncouth behavior (wouldn’t her mama be horrified at the sound!), and then decided to compound the transgression by switching to a tune whose words were not suitable for female ears.

“Oh, the barmaid went down to the oh-oh-oh-ocean ,” she sang happily, “with an eye toward getting her — What’s this?”

She stopped, peering at a strange formation in the rocks off to her right. A cave. It had to be. And far enough from the water’s edge that it wouldn’t flood in high tide.

“Me secret hideaway, mateys,” she said, winking to herself as she switched direction. It did seem the perfect spot for a pirate, well off the beaten track, its opening obscured by three large boulders. Truly, it was a wonder she’d even spotted it.

Poppy squeezed between the boulders, idly noting that one of them wasn’t as large as she’d originally supposed, then made her way into the mouth of the cave. Should’ve brought a lantern, she thought, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, although Elizabeth certainly would have wanted to know the reason for that . Hard to explain why one might need a lantern while walking on a beach at half noon.

Poppy took a few baby steps in, nudging her shoes carefully across the ground, searching out rough spots with her feet since she couldn’t possibly see them with her eyes. It was difficult to tell for sure, but the cave seemed deep, stretching out far beyond the light at the opening. She moved forward, emboldened by the thrill of discovery, edging slowly toward the back . . . slowly . . . slowly . . . until . . .

“Ow!” she yelped, wincing as her hand connected with something quite hard and wooden.

“Ow,” she said again, rubbing the sore spot with her other hand. “Ow ow ow. That was . . .”

Her words trailed off. Whatever she’d smacked her hand into, it wasn’t a natural outcropping of the cave. In fact, it felt rather like the splintery corner of a rough wooden crate.

With tentative movements, she reached her hand back out until it connected—more gently this time—with a flat wooden panel. No doubt about it, it was definitely a crate.

Poppy let out a little giggle of glee. What had she found? Pirates’ booty? Smugglers’ loot? The cave smelled musty, and it felt unused, so whatever this was, it had probably been there for ages.

“Prepare for treasure.” She laughed, saluting herself in the darkness. A quick check confirmed that the crate was far too heavy for her to lift, so she ran her fingers along the edge, trying to determine how she might get it open. Drat. It was nailed shut. She’d have to come back, although she had no idea how she’d explain away her need for a lantern and a crowbar.

Although . . .

She cocked her head to the side. If there was a crate—two, actually, one stacked atop the other—in this section of the cave, who knew what might be farther back?

She edged into the gloom, her arms stretched gingerly in front of her. Nothing yet. Nothing . . . nothing . . .

“Careful there!”

Poppy froze.

“The captain’ll kill you if you drop it.”

Poppy stopped breathing, relief washing over her when she realized that the rough male voice was not directed toward her.

Relief that was instantly replaced with terror. Slowly, she brought her arms back to her body until she’d enveloped herself in a tight hug.