While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(19)

Poppy rubbed at her forehead, hoping her sister’s diatribe had finally come to an end. It was too much to hope for. Bryony continued, “Of course, your Edmond had a fine face. You were a worthy match. Not that it should matter, dreadful cad that he is.” Poppy closed her eyes, hoping that would somehow blot out the sound of her sister’s voice.

Still she chattered on like a magpie. “He’ll not find a future wife with eyes as fine as yours, I daresay. Poppy!” Her voice turned into a full-fledged whine at this point. “Are you sleeping? Why won’t you tell me anything about that man? I’ve a right to know!”

“Bryony!” Her eyes snapped open. “If you hold your tongue, I’ll tell you everything.”

Well, most everything. She’d leave out her fabrications. Merely thinking about her deceit made her head pound harder.

Bryony pressed her lush lips shut—a true challenge, to be sure.

Sighing, Poppy continued, “Today at Barclay’s, one of our very prominent customers, the Duke of Autenberry—”

“Gor, a duke! What’s he like? And why have you never told me about him before?”

Because he was something that Poppy had wanted to keep to herself. A secret dream that she alone knew about. Selfish of her, but there it was.

Bryony continued, “Was he dressed in gold brocade and dripping in jewels—”

At Poppy’s quelling look, Bryony fell silent again.

“Today, upon leaving the shop, he met with an unfortunate accident.”

“Oh!” Her sister clasped her hands together.

“He nearly perished before the wheels of a carriage.”

“No!” Bryony exclaimed, slapping her hands to her apple-round cheeks. Papa always said that Bryony looked like their mother. He never said that about Poppy. It wouldn’t have been true and they both knew it. Poppy wasn’t certain who she looked like. Herself, she supposed. Not that that had won her any prizes. It certainly hadn’t won her Edmond.

Bryony knotted her hands and bunched them in the folds of her skirts. “No fair.” She pouted. “You get to leave every day and have these adventures whilst I’m stuck with Mrs. Gibbons—”

“Oh, come now. You like Mrs. Gibbons—”

“I would like an adventure more.”

It was going to be difficult to keep her sister contained for much longer. Mrs. Gibbons couldn’t watch Bryony every hour of every day. Sooner or later, she would grow bold enough to sneak out from under Mrs. Gibbons’s care.

Then what would Poppy do? She couldn’t resign from her position to watch over her sister. They needed a roof over their heads. Food in their bellies. Her sense of helplessness gave way to longing. If she truly were the duke’s fiancée she would have the resources to see Bryony properly brought up. She wouldn’t be another lost soul who fell prey to the vices of London. And Poppy wouldn’t have failed her parents in seeing Bryony well situated in life.

Why couldn’t it be real? Why couldn’t she truly be the duke’s betrothed? Almost instantly she felt awful for wishing that. Her problems weren’t the duke’s responsibility. He was gravely ill. She only wished him whole again.

Poppy would be fine. Bryony would be fine. She sniffed and rubbed at the cold tip of her nose. Everything would be fine. They had each other. They were young and healthy and those were the important things. Her silly fantasies and longings were of no account.

Poppy held up her hand and pointed at a bundle of cracks in the plaster ceiling. “That looks like a basket with loaves of bread.” It was a game they had oft played. Either with clouds or twigs on the ground, Poppy had always turned the shapes of things into familiar objects.

Bryony giggled until the sound quickly cut off into a snort. Poppy remembered then that Bryony was trying to act more like a sophisticated woman these days. “Oh, Poppy, you are such an odd duck.”

“I’d rather be an odd duck than like everyone else,” she replied automatically. It was something Papa had always said. Better to be different than the same as everyone else.

Apparently her sister remembered that about him, too. “You sound so much like Papa when you say that.” For a moment, her baby sister sounded almost grown-up.

Poppy elbowed her in the side. “Go on. Your turn. What do you see?” She pointed at another intricate pattern of cracks.

“You know it’s a sad state of affairs when we can make a game out of our dreary living conditions.” Even following that remark, Bryony concentrated on the pattern before finally sighing. “I don’t know. A rabbit? Right there.” She pointed to where the cracks formed a shape that could be construed as a pair of rabbit ears. If one squinted. Evidently she interpreted Poppy’s hesitation to mean disagreement and sighed in defeat. “I don’t know. I’m never any good at these dumb games of yours. You know I’m not smart, Poppy. Not like you.”

“Stop it,” she chided. “Don’t say that. You are smart.”

“No. I was an atrocious student. Even Papa said so. But I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to marry a gentleman who won’t care about such things.” Her pert little nose shot up.

Any sympathy she felt for her sister died quickly at that reply. “You think so?” she asked tartly. “And where do you plan on meeting such gentlemen?”