The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(54)

“He has business that’s not the ship’s business?”

He shrugged. “He has friends here. Has to. He’s been so many times.”

Poppy knew that Billy had been on the Infinity for only nine months; he’d told her that the second time he brought her breakfast. If he had been to Lisbon six times already, Poppy could only imagine how often Captain James had visited over the years. According to Billy (because just about everything she knew was according to Billy), he’d been captaining the ship since 1782.

It seemed like an awful lot of trips to Portugal, but then again, what did she know about privateering? Maybe it made sense to stick with a dependable, loyal network of traders.

And just like that, she was thinking like a criminal. Good heavens.

Poppy sipped her tea, which had finally cooled to an acceptable temperature. “Have a good time in town,” she said. “I assume you’re going.”

“Oh yes. Soon, actually. One of the men said he’d take me with him.” Billy looked at her with a sheepish expression. “The captain doesn’t let me go by myself either.”

The captain, Poppy was coming to realize, had a softer heart than he wanted others to realize. It was difficult to imagine another ship captain worrying over the welfare of a thirteen-year-old boy.

Not that she had experience with any other ship captains, but still.

“I’d best be going,” Billy said. “I’ve got to finish my duties before I can go ashore, an’ I don’t think Mr. Brown will wait if he’s ready before I am.”

Poppy nodded and bid him farewell. She made quick work of breakfast—there were only so many ways to bite a pattern into a toast triangle—then took her tea to the window to watch the show.

It was rather like going to the theater. Not any theater she’d had occasion to attend, but she was determined to enjoy it all the same. At first she tried to take in the entire panorama, but there was too much happening at once, so she decided to follow the path of just one man, watching as he went about his tasks.

“I shall call you José,” she announced. It was the name of a recent king, so surely it was appropriate to the region. “José Goodhope. You shall have three children, four dogs, and a rabbit.”

She frowned. He’d probably eat that rabbit. Best not get too attached to it.

“Are you married, Mr. Goodhope? Or widowed?” She watched her mystery man as he lifted a crate from a wagon and carried it toward a ship. “Widowed,” she said decisively. “Much more dramatic.”

Shakespeare would be proud. It was a play, after all.

“And your poor motherless children. You must work so hard to feed them. My goodness, they’re hungry.”

She thought about that.

“But not hungry enough to eat the rabbit,” she said firmly. This was her story, and she wanted to save the rabbit. It was white and fluffy and thoroughly nonexistent, but that was the beauty of writing one’s own tale. She could do whatever she wanted.

She’d always wanted to be an evil overlord.

Or a nice one. She had no real preference. Just so long as she was in charge.

José set down his crate and returned to the wagon, wiping his brow with his sleeve. He picked up another crate, this one heavier than the first if his posture was any indication. After he set that one down, he stood straight and rolled his neck a few times.

Poppy did the same. There was something about watching someone stretch that made her need to do it too.

When she was once again facing forward, she saw that José had twisted to call out to someone over his shoulder. Then he reached down to the hem of his shirt . . .

And took it off .

Poppy leaned forward. Now this was interesting.

Did dockworkers routinely perform their duties shirtless? Was this a Portuguese custom? It was certainly warmer here than it was in London, but then again, she’d never been to the London docks. Maybe the men ran around all the time with their chests bare as day.

And if that was the case, why had no one told her?

“Oh, José,” she murmured, setting down her teacup. “It’s a very hot day, isn’t it?”

This seemed reason enough to stand and move closer to the window. Maybe she needed to reengineer her plot. Did she really want José to be a widower? Wouldn’t it make more sense to make him a never-married bachelor?

With no children. Maybe a dog. And the rabbit could stay.

It was so lovely and fluffy. Who wouldn’t want to keep it in the story?

“Are you courting anyone, José?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she watched his muscles flex with exertion. First it was his arms, as he reached down to grip the crate, but then once he reached the ship she had a good view of his back.

She had no idea a man’s back could be so interesting. She’d seen her brothers shirtless, but not recently, and none of them had looked as sculpted as José.

“Sculpted,” she said aloud. Another word she thought sounded a bit like its meaning. But only if one was working in a soft medium. She squeezed her hands in the air as if molding clay. Sculpting . It sounded like the motion of scooping and mashing.

She shook her head. She was getting entirely off topic, and José was right there on the dock. What were those muscles called? The ones on a man’s chest that made it so . . .