The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(42)

Poppy loved to ask him about the sailors on the Infinity , and he told her that they hailed from twelve different countries, including two from the Ethiopian Empire. (Which she could now locate easily on a map.) Captain James had tried to describe them to her, explaining that their features were quite different from the men he’d met from the western side of the continent, but Poppy was much more interested in their customs than how they looked.

She wanted to talk with these men who had grown up on a different continent, to ask them about their lives and their families, and how to pronounce their names (because she was fairly certain Captain James wasn’t doing it right). She was never going to have an opportunity like this again. London was a cosmopolitan city, and during her two Seasons in the capital, Poppy had seen many people of different races and cultures. But she had never been allowed to speak to any of them.

Then again, until this week, it had never occurred to her that she might wish to. Which made her feel . . . odd. Odd and uncomfortable.

It wasn’t the nicest of feelings, and it made her wonder what else she’d never noticed. She had always thought herself open-minded and curious, but she was coming to realize how impossibly small her world had been.

But instead of Ethiopia, she got to learn more about Kent. (Engineering Methods of the Ancient Ottomans turned out to be far more about engineering than it was about the Ottomans and was thus not only not exotic, but also completely indecipherable.)

And so Poppy was examining the illustrations of the Aubrey Hall orangery after dinner—for perhaps the dozenth time—when Captain James came in, alerting her as usual with one sharp rap before entering.

“Good evening,” she said, glancing up from the chair she’d dragged over to the windows. The view didn’t change, but it was beautiful, and she’d become devoted to it.

The captain didn’t look as tired as he had the last few nights. He’d said that all of the sailors had got over their putrid stomachs and were back on duty, so maybe that was it. She imagined everyone would have to work harder when three men were out sick.

“Good evening,” he said in polite return. He headed straight for the table, lifted the lid off one of the dishes, and inhaled deeply. “Beef stew. Thank you, Lord.”

Poppy couldn’t help but chuckle. “Your favorite?”

“It’s one of Monsieur LaBaker’s specialties,” the captain confirmed.

“Your cook’s name is LaBaker? Truly?”

Captain James sat down and dug into his meal, taking two very happy bites before saying, “I told you he was from Leeds. I think he just put a La in front of his name and called it French.”

“How very enterprising.”

The captain glanced at her over his shoulder. “He can call himself a potato if he wishes as long as he keeps cooking for me.”

Poppy being Poppy, she immediately began to wonder what Mr. LaBaker couldn’t call himself and still have a job cooking for him.

Captain , probably. It was difficult to imagine Captain James tolerating that .

“What are you grinning about?” he asked.

Poppy shook her head. It was just the sort of meandering thought there was no point in trying to explain.

He turned his chair so that he could see her without twisting in his seat. Then he sat back with that effortless masculine grace of his, long legs stretched out as a devilish smile played across his lips. “Are you plotting against me?”

“Always,” she confirmed.

This made him grin—truly, and Poppy had to remind herself she did not care if she made him smile.

“I’ve yet to meet with success, though,” she said with a sigh.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

She shrugged, watching as he went back to his supper. After three bites of stew, half a roll, and a sip of wine, she asked, “Do your men eat the same meals you do?”

“Of course.” He looked somewhat offended she’d asked. “It’s served more plainly, but I’ll not give them substandard fare.”

“A hungry man cannot work hard?” she murmured. She had heard it said, and she was sure it was true—she herself was worthless when she was hungry—but it did feel a somewhat self-serving statement, as if a man’s food was only worth the labor he might provide to his betters.

The captain’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment it felt as if he were judging her. And perhaps not favorably.

“A hungry man quickly loses his spirit,” he said in a quiet voice.

“I agree,” Poppy swiftly responded. She felt no need to impress this man—if anything, it ought to be the other way around—but it did not sit well to think that he thought badly of her.

Which was nonsense. She shouldn’t care.

But apparently she did, because she added, “I did not mean to say that I think a man’s potential for hard work is the only reason to feed him well.”

“No?” he murmured.

“No,” she said firmly, because his tone had been too mild, and she feared it meant he did not believe her. “I agree with you that a hungry man loses his spirit. But many men don’t care about the spirits of those they consider beneath them.”

His voice was sharp and perfectly enunciated when he said, “I am not one of those men.”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t think you were.”