The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(72)

“Captain, I do not think they will agree to—”

“Basta! ” The leader of the gang whipped a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Billy’s head.

“No!” Poppy threw herself over the boy. She didn’t want to die—please God, please— she didn’t want to die. But she could not let them shoot Billy. He had wanted only to protect her. And he was so small.

He just wanted to play with the cat.

The leader snorted with disgust, spat a few words toward Senhor Farias, and stalked away.

“What did he say?” Poppy whispered.

Senhor Farias’s lips trembled, and he shook his head.

“Do you know them?” Poppy asked.

He nodded. “I must pay them every month. For protection.”

“From whom?”

A bitter sound choked its way out of the tavernkeeper’s throat. “From them. We all must do it. Everyone in my—how do you say it —the streets near my house.”

“Neighborhood?”

“Yes. Neighborhood. We all pay. But they never do this before. They have hurt people, but not people like you.”

Somehow Poppy did not find that reassuring. Then again, she didn’t think Senhor Farias had meant it to be.

“Senhor.”

They all turned to Andrew, still held immobile by the wall, his chin tipped into an awkward position by the man pinching his jaw.

But his voice was sure when he said, “What did he say?”

Senhor Farias looked to Poppy and then back to Andrew. “He says they take all three.” The tavernkeeper’s lips trembled. “You, the lady, and the boy.”

Poppy gasped. “What? No! Billy—”

“They take all three,” Senhor Farias said, cutting her off before she could finish her objection. “Or they shoot two. Two of you . . . and me.”

The world went silent. Maybe people were still talking, maybe the sounds of the nearby street continued as usual. But Poppy heard nothing. The space between her ears felt thick, as if she’d dunked herself underwater and people were speaking above.

Slowly, she rose to her feet. She looked to Andrew. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t think she needed to.

He gave a single grim nod. He understood.

Fear was a strange beast. When Poppy was a child, she and her brothers had often played What if? and How would you?

What if you were being chased by a boar?

How would you react if someone pointed a gun at your head?

Didn’t all children play these games? Didn’t all adults?

She remembered one time with all four of her brothers—somehow the game had metamorphosed into What if Poppy were being chased by a boar? and How would Poppy react if someone pointed a gun at her head?

She’d countered with a pert: Which one of you would come to my aid? , but she’d been swiftly informed that this was not within the parameters of the game. After settling on the gun conundrum, Richard and Reginald had both decided she’d scream. This wasn’t entirely unexpected; Poppy didn’t often scream, but it had to be said—when she did, she was damn good at it.

Ronald had said that he thought she’d faint. When she pointed out that she’d never fainted in her life, he pointed out that she’d never had a gun to her head.

Which Poppy had to concede was relevant, even if she did not agree with his conclusion.

The game had dissolved shortly thereafter; Richard sniffed the air, declared that he smelled Cook’s apple tarts, and that was that. Later, though, Poppy had asked Roger why he hadn’t offered an opinion.

“I don’t know, Pops,” he’d said with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “I hardly know how I would react in such a situation. I don’t think we really can know until it happens.”

It was happening now.

And fear was indeed a strange beast, because whatever Poppy had thought she might do, however she’d thought she might react when her life was in danger, it wasn’t this .

It was almost as if she wasn’t there.

She was numb.

Detached.

Her movements were slow and careful, but nothing felt deliberate. She was not thinking—I will move slowly, I don’t want to startle anyone.

She just did it. And she waited patiently for the bandits to do what they would.

Andrew was subdued first, his hands pulled roughly behind his body and bound with rope. “Do not hurt her,” he warned, just as a coarse burlap sack was lowered over his head.

As Poppy watched, dread slid through her body like a wraith. There was something about being blinded—about him being blinded—that was terrifying. If he couldn’t see her, he couldn’t help her, and, dear heaven, she did not want to face this on her own.

She opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say, and at any rate, she did not seem able to make a sound, at least not until one of the men grabbed her roughly by the wrist. His fingers pressed into her skin with enough bite that she let out a little yelp.

“Poppy?” Andrew struggled against his bindings. “What did they—”

His captor spat out a few words and slammed him into the wall.

“I’m fine!” Poppy yelled. “I’m fine. I promise. I was only surprised.”

She looked at the man holding Andrew. “Please don’t hurt him.”