The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(62)

What if Elizabeth’s maid promised Elizabeth she would keep quiet but then said something to her sister?

What if the maid didn’t have a sister? What if she was alone in the world except for her dearest childhood friend and frequent correspondent who happened to live in London and worked for the Duchess of Wyndham?

Poppy had only met the duchess once, and she did not think the great lady had liked her very much. Certainly not enough to keep that sort of news quiet.

But what if the Duchess of Wyndham had gambling debts that she didn’t want her husband to know about? Poppy had never heard rumors to this effect, but it was certainly possible . And if the duchess did have gambling debts, her thoughts might turn to blackmail over profit.

These were the questions that—well, no, they did not keep Poppy up at night. In truth, she was sleeping quite well; the ocean seemed to rock her like a cradle. But she stewed about these questions all day long. She stared at the ocean and stewed and stewed and stewed.

But she did not want to argue, not today at least, so she did her best not to sound combative when she said, “It is true that I do not know what awaits me. It could be that every single thing that could have gone right has gone right. And wouldn’t that be splendid? But that hasn’t stopped me from imagining every possible outcome, then trying to devise a plan to deal with each.”

He looked at her with a frank, penetrating stare. “Tell me,” he said.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tell me one of your plans.”

“Now?”

He shrugged, as if to say, Why not?

Her lips parted with surprise as she glanced around the shop. It seemed an unlikely spot for so delicate a conversation.

“No one can understand us,” he said. “And even if someone could, you don’t know anyone here.”

“Later,” she said. She was glad that he had asked, but she certainly wasn’t prepared to discuss her future in the middle of a Portuguese fabric shop. She was almost amused that he had suggested it. It was such a man thing to do.

“At supper,” he said. “I shall remind you.”

She nodded her agreement. “Will we be taking our supper back on the ship?”

“I would not do that to you,” he said gamely. “This is your one day in Lisbon. We will go to a tavern I like to frequent. I think you will like it. Now then”—he motioned to the bolt of fabric—“shall I buy this for you?”

Under normal circumstances Poppy would not consider accepting such a gift from a gentleman. But although these were not normal circumstances, she still had to refuse. “I can’t,” she said regretfully. “But I shall try to remember the details. I might be able to learn this type of stitching.”

“You embroider?” He sounded surprised. She didn’t know why; most women did some sort of needlework.

“Not this well,” she told him, lightly brushing her fingers over the elegant parade of stitches. “But I enjoy it. I find it soothing. It clears my mind.”

Now he looked surprised. “Forgive me if I have difficulty believing that your mind is ever clear.”

Well, if that wasn’t just the oddest statement. If it had been said in any other tone of voice, Poppy might have taken it as an insult. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re always thinking.”

“Isn’t that what it means to be human?”

“You’re different,” he said, and strangely, she rather liked that he felt that way.

“Do you have anything like that?” she asked. “Something you can do with your hands so that your mind can become quiet?”

He looked at her with a curiously intense stare, and she wasn’t sure if he understood what she’d meant.

“The sort of thing you can do and still carry on a conversation if necessary, but it . . . settles you.” She gave a helpless little shrug. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“No, I understand,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, or maybe he was simply choosing his words with care. But then he reached out and touched the drawn-thread embroidery she had just been admiring.

“I like to build houses out of playing cards,” he said.

She was momentarily struck speechless. “I beg your pardon?”

“Have you never made a house of cards? You use regular playing cards, and then you set the first two into a T -shape.” He demonstrated with his hands, as if he were holding actual cards. “Then you bring in a third, and make an H . There’s really no other way to start. Well, I suppose you could try building in triangles, but that’s very advanced. I would not recommend it.”

Poppy just stared at him. She wouldn’t have thought he would take such a thing so seriously.

She wouldn’t have thought that anyone would take such a thing so seriously. But she found it rather charming that he did.

“Once you have that stable,” he continued, “you can build to your heart’s content.” He paused. “Or until one of your brothers comes and knocks the whole thing down.”

Poppy chuckled; she could well imagine a similar scene in her own household. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that,” she said. “It never even occurred to me that one could build with playing cards.”

“You need more than one deck,” he said with authority. “If you wish to make things interesting.”