The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(68)

She blinked several times, her lashes sweeping up and down over unfocused eyes. She seemed to be staring at a spot on the far wall, but it was clear that everything she saw was inside her own head. Finally, just when he was about to give her a verbal nudge, she straightened and brought her gaze to his.

“I know about you,” she said.

He did not point out that she had just said that she didn’t know him at all. He was far too curious to hear what she had to say.

But before he could ask, Senhor Farias arrived at the table with a plate of cod fritters.

“Bolinhos de bacalhau! ” he announced. “But you must wait. They are much too hot.”

Poppy peered at them. “Goodness, they are still sizzling.”

Senhor Farias was halfway back to the kitchen, and he didn’t even turn around as he snapped his fingers over his head and called out, “Too hot!”

Poppy grinned, and Andrew knew that he ought to allow their conversation to turn to the glorious meal ahead of them, but she had been about to say something important, and he could not let it go.

“You said you know me,” he reminded her.

“Hmm?” She reached out and gingerly touched a fritter.

“Too hot!” Senhor Farias yelled.

Poppy snapped to attention, her head whipping back and forth as she looked for the tavernkeeper. “How did he see that?” she marveled. “He’s not even here.”

“Poppy.”

“Do you think they’re ready?”

He said it again: “Poppy.”

She finally looked up, smiling pleasantly as she met his gaze.

“Before Senhor Farias arrived with the fritters,” he said. “You said you know me.”

“Oh yes, that’s right. I did.”

He made a rolling motion with his hand, his usual visualization of Well?

“Very well.” She straightened, almost as if she were a schoolteacher, preparing to deliver a lesson. “I know that you are not as hard-edged as you would like others to believe.”

“You think so?”

She gave him an arch look. “Billy told me that you will not permit him to go out and about in Lisbon by himself.”

“He’s a child .”

“Who has left home and is living on a ship ,” she retorted. “Do most boys in his position face similar restrictions?”

“No,” Andrew admitted, “but he doesn’t speak the language. And he’s very small for his age.”

Her smile was lopsided but triumphant. ”And you care about him.”

Andrew tugged at his cravat. It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed by such a thing. He was only protecting a small boy. Everyone should aspire to such behavior.

“You also treat your men very well,” she said.

“That’s just good business. We talked about that.”

She laughed. Right in his face. “Please. You said quite specifically that the main reason to feed one’s men well is not because it is good business, but rather because they are human.”

“You remember that, eh?” he muttered.

“I remember everything.”

This, he did not doubt for a second. But he was oddly uncomfortable with her praise—for this sort of thing, at least. Which was utter bollocks. He was only doing right by his crew. But men were taught to take pride in their strength and power, not in their good works, and he wasn’t quite sure how to simply say thank you.

“I think they’re ready,” he said, nodding toward the fritters.

Poppy, who had been so eager to try them she’d nearly burned her finger, just shrugged.

“You don’t want to eat?” He knew that she did. She was just was trying to make some convoluted, completely unimportant point.

He motioned again to the food on the table. “We’re wasting time.”

“Is that what you think?” she murmured, and her tone was so precisely the same as his had been when he’d uttered the same words a few minutes earlier, it could not have been coincidence. Not from her.

He reached out and stabbed a fritter with his fork.

“Are we not meant to use our fingers?”

“Just being careful in case they’re—”

“Not too hot!” Senhor Farias called out.

Andrew looked up and grinned. “Fingers it is.”

Poppy took one and bit into it, drawing back in surprise as she tasted it. “I thought it would be sweet!”

He laughed, only then realizing that neither he nor Senhor Farias had told her—in English—what they were. “Salted cod,” he told her. “It is a huge favorite here, and it is said that the Portuguese have as many recipes using it as days of the year. This is one of the most common preparations.”

“It’s a bit like—” Poppy smacked her lips a few times, half a fritter still pinched daintily between her fingers. “Never mind, I’m not exactly sure what it’s like. But—oh, look!” She waved her free hand toward the door. “There is Billy!”

She smiled and beckoned him over.

“Miss Poppy! The captain let you out!” Billy’s eyes went wide with horror when he realized he’d blurted this out in front of his employer. “Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t— That is to say . . .”