The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(69)

Billy swallowed, his small Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I’ve been telling her you’re not so bad, sir. In fact, I told her you’re the best of men. I promise.”

Andrew looked over at Poppy, raising one eyebrow and then the other in an exaggerated attempt to pretend that he was judging Billy’s statement. “What do you say, Miss Bridgerton? Is Master Suggs telling the truth?”

“Is that your surname?” Poppy asked the boy. “I don’t think I ever knew it.”

Billy nodded nervously, and Andrew decided to take pity on him. “There is no need to apologize, Billy. I did indeed ‘let her out.’”

Poppy leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. “And you can rest assured he’s going to ‘put me back in’ for the voyage home.”

Billy’s chin drew back, and his eyes went comically wide.

“It’s a joke, Billy,” Poppy said. “Well, it’s not a joke, I suppose, since it’s true, but I was joking about it.”

“Ehrm . . .” Billy looked to Andrew for help, but he only shrugged. Best that the boy learn early that women could be deuced hard to follow in conversation.

“Did you come here alone?” Poppy asked. “I was just praising Captain James for his requirement that you be accompanied by an adult.”

Billy shook his head with vehemence. “Brown brought me on his way into town. Said he’d come to collect me in a bit.”

Poppy looked perplexed. “You wished to spend time by yourself here ?”

“Senhor Farias lets me feed his cat,” Billy explained with a grin. “His name is Whiskers. Well, that’s what I call him. He’s got a name in Portuguese, but I can’t pronounce it. He’s awful friendly, though. Lets me rub his belly and everything.”

As Billy dashed out the side door, Andrew turned to Poppy and said, “He comes here every time we’re in Lisbon. Spends hours with that creature.”

“He really is a little boy at heart,” she murmured. “I forget sometimes—I suspect he’s had to grow up faster than I did.”

Andrew nodded in agreement. When he was Billy’s age, he was still running wild with his siblings and neighbors. His biggest concern was how cold the lake would be if his brother pushed him in.

“Don’t you have a cat on the ship?” Poppy asked.

He looked up, about to explain that the ship’s cat was a wretched, unpleasant beast, when a sudden movement to his left caught his attention. He glanced discreetly over his shoulder, but all he saw was Senhor Farias. Except . . .

That was odd.

The jovial tavernkeeper was standing still. Too still.

Senhor Farias never stood still. He greeted customers, he poured wine, but he never stood still. Certainly not as he now was: shoulders pressed stiffly against the wall, eyes twitching back and forth.

Something was not right.

“Poppy,” he said in a quiet voice, “we need to go.”

“What? No. I haven’t fin—”

He kicked her under the table. “Now .”

Her eyes went wide, and she gave a tiny nod.

Andrew made eye contact with Senhor Farias. Andrew then looked to the door, signaling his intention to leave. Senhor Farias flicked his eyes to a rough-looking trio of men by the far window, signaling the source of the problem.

Andrew stood, but not so quickly as to appear in a rush. “Obrigado ,” he said in a hearty voice, reaching out and grabbing Poppy firmly by the hand. “I will see you next time I am in Lisbon, yes?”

He hauled Poppy to her feet as Senhor Farias nodded and said, “Sim, sim ” with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm.

“Thank you, senhor,” Poppy said as she hurried to match Andrew’s pace.

Senhor Farias smiled tightly, and they almost made it. They really did. But when they were just a few feet from the door, Poppy suddenly jerked her hand free of Andrew’s and exclaimed, “Oh, but Billy!”

Andrew lunged forward to grab her hand again, but she was already hurrying toward the side door. “Poppy,” he called out, taking care not to sound panicked. “We can get him later.”

She shook her head, clearly unwilling to leave the young boy in a place of danger. She said something—probably about Billy being right outside; Andrew couldn’t hear clearly—and poked her head out the back.

Damn it all. Billy was far safer where he was. Whatever—or whomever—these men wanted, it wasn’t a thirteen-year-old boy from Portsmouth. But that didn’t mean he was safe. If Billy got in their way, they would cut him down without a moment’s thought.

Andrew stalked after Poppy. They could leave out the back. It would take longer to reach the relative safety of the busy street, but it would have to do.

“Oh!” he heard Poppy exclaim. “Pardon me.”

But her voice was off, and when Andrew he reached the door, his blood ran cold. Two more men stood in the alley. One had his hand on Billy’s shoulder.

The other had his hand on Poppy.

For the rest of his days, Andrew would remember that moment as if it had unfolded in quarter time. Yet even though every moment felt impossibly slowed down, he could not recall actually thinking . Words, language . . . they were gone, replaced by a world washed red with rage.

He lunged forward, and Poppy was knocked to the side as he wrapped his hands around the brigand’s throat. But within seconds, he was surrounded, and he only managed to get in two kicks before he found himself pinned against the tavern wall, each arm immobilized by members of the rough-looking gang he’d spotted inside the tavern.