While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(18)

Strange, yes, but she did not resent it. She admired her sister’s beauty. Much like a parent, she even took pride in it. Not that it was achieved through any great accomplishment. It was a twist of fate, a blessing of birth, but she was still proud of Bryony nonetheless.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’ve been keeping such a momentous thing from me! The way you moped around after Edmond ended things, I feared there would be no one for you and you would die an old maid!”

Poppy closed her eyes in a pained blink. Her sister was never one for tact. Hopefully that would come with age and maturity.

Bryony started hopping on her toes again. She had the energy of a toddler. Heaven knew staying cooped up all day in this house wasn’t good for her, but there was no way Poppy could unleash her pretty sister into the wilds of London. It was a recipe for disaster. This city would gobble her up. She had wrought enough havoc in their tiny village. The vicar’s two sons had engaged in fisticuffs merely to see who would be allowed to walk her home after church. She could not be let loose in this city.

Thankfully the proprietress of the house was willing to keep an eye on her. Poppy knew Mrs. Gibbons and Bryony spent a good portion of the day doing needlework in front of the fire, and that was hardly the most riveting way for a young girl to pass her days, but there was naught Poppy could do.

Once a week the harpist that also let rooms from Mrs. Gibbons gave Bryony a lesson in exchange for Poppy giving her day-old flowers. The woman claimed they made her dreary little room feel like a home. Poppy wasn’t certain it was a fair exchange, but she gladly accepted the arrangement. She wanted to provide an education and culture for her sister, as Papa would have wanted. And yet education and culture were no easy feat when they lived on a mere pittance.

Mrs. Gibbons was also kind enough to take Bryony with her when she went to market, so her sister did step out often for fresh air. Things could be worse. This was what Poppy told herself when she found herself grieving for Papa and feeling sorry for herself and bemoaning her old life when they had a roof over their heads. Food. A garden to tend. Countryside to roam.

Bryony was fifteen. Poppy would have to do something to start readying her for the future. With any luck, Poppy could find Bryony an apprenticeship or position as a nanny or governess. Perhaps a lady’s companion. Any number of situations Poppy herself could have found if she didn’t have a younger sister to bring up in the world.

She winced as she gazed at Bryony, who was now curling a lock of her hair around her index finger. She hardly seemed ready for the world. Her sister might possess the face and body of a full-grown woman, but she was very much still a little girl.

“I’m not being courted by anyone. Rest easy, Bry. Nothing as exciting as that.” Stepping forward, she pressed a quick kiss to her sister’s cheek. She smelled of rose talcum. It was Mrs. Gibbons’s scent and proof that she had spent a good deal of her day in the widow’s rooms.

“Posh!” Bryony crossed her arms and stomped her foot. “Nothing exciting ever happens. If I worked in Mayfair, I would have a score of exciting things to report. You should let me take a position. We could use the funds.”

The notion of her too-pretty sister in Mayfair made her wince. Even if she wasn’t so dewy-fresh, the shrill volume of her voice alone would draw attention. The purpose of any good employee was to discreetly serve their master without calling attention to oneself. Bryony would never manage that. At least not right now. Perhaps with more maturity, it could be accomplished. One day. That was Poppy’s hope.

“Did you eat already?” Poppy rubbed again at the center of her forehead where the beginning of a headache was taking root.

“Yes, with Mrs. Gibbons. She made a stew. Do you want me to fetch you something from the kitchen? While you eat you can regale me with all the details of your day.” She jiggled her eyebrows up and down. “If you’re not being courting by Struan Mackenzie, then who is the man?”

“I will go downstairs later. For now, I merely want to rest.” She plopped backward on the bed they shared.

Once upon a time Poppy had a bed all to herself—in her very own bedchamber with a gabled ceiling and window that overlooked a garden. Before Papa died. Granted the chamber had been small, but it had been all hers.

She hadn’t known that was such a unique thing at the time. It was all she had ever known. As a little girl, she would play with her dolls and look out the window to spy on her mother happily toiling in the garden. She could still hear Papa reciting Latin to his pupils in the library below.

Now that she realized she might never have that again, she pulled those memories out every day, stroking them and turning them over and loving them so that they would never be lost to her.

How her life had changed. Now she slept with Bryony, who kicked like a mule and talked in her sleep.

Her sister dropped beside her on the bed. “Very well. Then tell me . . . who was that man? He was dressed very finely. I’ve never seen a gentleman dressed so well even in Toadston-on-Mersey. Not even Mr. Heppleton or his son and they were the richest family in the village. The lighting was poor, but he looked handsome. And tall. He looked handsome and tall. Is he handsome, Poppy? Tell me! Is he? Is he?” Before Poppy could even answer, Bryony plunged ahead. “Papa was handsome. Maybe the most handsome man in Toadston-on-Mersey. Mama was a beauty, of course. Everyone said so. Even Mrs. Heppleton. Remember when she said that? But then like goes with like. Is that not the saying?” Bryony took a breath.