“This must be highly diverting for you,” Poppy said dryly.
“What do you mean?” Keane asked innocently. He seemed completely oblivious to the absurdity of his claim. Duke, indeed.
“I can’t fault you for having a bit of fun at my expense.” She stood and shook the sand from her skirts, cursing herself for lingering on the beach with the virile stranger, who looked even more disreputable with his day-old beard. She’d only meant to check on him, to be certain he hadn’t bled to death or blistered in the sun. She hadn’t intended to share anything personal, and she definitely hadn’t wanted him to think she required his charity.
But it had been nice to have someone besides the Belles to talk to. She adored chatting with Hazel and Kitty, but her conversation with Keane had an altogether different feel. He looked at her with a mixture of wonder and curiosity—as if he truly believed she was destined for more than a lifetime of repairing gill nets and drying fish.
For a few moments she’d felt lighter—free of the responsibilities that tied her to the cottage by the sea. But then he’d gone and spoiled the evening by claiming, once again, that he was a down-on-his-luck duke.
He tossed her a roguish half smile—the sort that had undoubtedly charmed barmaids in every port from Plymouth to Dover. “Do you want to know what I think?” he drawled.
“I feel certain you shall tell me, regardless of my answer.”
“I think you’re afraid that I am telling the truth.”
She scoffed. “Why would I be afraid to discover I’m harboring a duke?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders and searched her face. “An excellent question. Why don’t you tell me?”
Her spine prickled. He was only engaging in a bit of banter. He couldn’t possibly know that he’d touched a nerve.
“Very well. Against my better judgment, I shall play along.” She heaved an exasperated sigh and crossed her arms. “Pray tell, how do you intend to prove you are a duke? And please don’t insult me by producing some tarnished signet ring that you likely found in a pawn shop.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “I have something better than a ring: a witness. My valet.”
“A valet, you say?” Poppy craned her neck up and down the beach. “Is he polishing your boots behind the rocks? Organizing your cufflinks in the cove?”
“He’s in town. If you’re willing to help, I’ll send for him.”
“In case it wasn’t perfectly clear, I’m trying to rid the beach of strange men, not add to their numbers.”
“Diggs wouldn’t stay. I’d only let him know I’m safe and ask him to bring me a few things—including money to pay you.”
Poppy narrowed her eyes. “What, precisely, would you be paying me for?”
“Room and board while I recover,” he answered. “I don’t require much. Meals twice a day, a few blankets here on the beach, and, most important, your secrecy.”
“I don’t understand. If your valet is in town, surely he could arrange for more comfortable lodgings.”
“Yes,” Keane conceded, “but then everyone would know I’m alive.”
She blinked. “You want them to think you’re dead?”
“Not everyone,” he said. “Just the person who tried to kill me.”
“Why?”
“Because it will be easier to discover who wants me dead if they believe they’ve succeeded.”
“And do you have a long list of mortal enemies?” she quipped.
“Just two or three,” he said smugly, as if he should be congratulated on the low number.
“I had no idea that being a duke was such a hazardous business.” She sat beside him again, close enough to look into his eyes. “Let us suppose for a moment that I was stupid enough to agree to such a ridiculous plan. How much would you be willing to pay me?”
The sum he named exceeded an entire summer’s worth of fishing profits, and she gaped at him, stunned. She reminded herself that he’d suffered a terrible blow to the head. That he probably didn’t possess that much money. That he might not even know who he really was.
But she was tempted, nonetheless.
If not for the cod shortage or Papa’s illness or the bills piling up, she might have ordered him right off her beach. But if there was any chance that he could afford to pay the sum he’d quoted, she didn’t have the luxury of refusing him.
Apparently mistaking her silence for disinterest, he said, “Fine. I’ll double my offer.”
The cavalier manner in which he threw around such numbers made her wonder if he truly was a duke. “I would be exposing my family to potential danger,” she said.
“Have you told anyone that I’m here?”
“No.”
“Then there is no risk of discovery.”
“You want to involve your valet,” she countered.
“I trust him with my life,” Keane said solemnly.
“And you expect me to trust him with mine?”
His eyes flicked across her face, then stared straight into her soul. “Is it so difficult for you to trust?”
Blast. It just so happened he’d touched another nerve, and she felt her hackles rise. “Trust has to be earned.”
He held her gaze till heat crept up her neck. “I trust you—and I don’t even know your name,” he said, clearly baiting her.
She’d always had the devil of a time resisting a challenge.
“My name is Poppy Summers,” she said, matter of fact.
His mouth curled into a heart-stopping grin. “Consider this, Miss Summers. If you agree to help me, you stand to gain more than a few extra coins in your pocket. You’ll have a bit of adventure and intrigue. You might even make a friend.”
She stared at him, keeping her face impassive. “I have enough friends. But I will consider your offer and give you my decision when I return tomorrow.”
“Must you leave already?”
“You should rest.” She took a folded quilt out of her bag and set it next to him. “I have chores to do in the morning but will be back here by midday. Until then, do try to avoid further trouble or injury.”
He chuckled, tucked the blanket behind his head, and leaned back. “I know you still don’t believe me,” he said. “But I think you want to.”
She left the canteen next to him, slung her bag over her shoulder, and scooped up the lantern. “Good night, Keane.”
“Sleep well, Miss Summers.”
Poppy left him sitting at the base of the cliffs, wondering if that would be the last she saw of him. Only time would tell if his outlandish claims were true. He could be rich as a king or poor as a church mouse. He could be an esteemed member of the nobility or the chief cook in a ship’s galley. His silver tongue and rakish charm did not sway her—much.
But he had been correct about one thing: She did long for adventure and intrigue. She did wish to escape to a world free from salted eels, fish intestines, and blistered palms. Which was why, as usual, she did not go directly home.
Despite the late hour, she followed the well-worn trail to her private sanctuary. No one except Hazel and Kitty had ever been there—not even her father or brother. She’d needed a place that was just for her and her books. A place where she could spend an hour or two when her work for the day was done.
She’d built the rustic lean-to a couple of years ago in a clearing between two large trees. Using wooden floorboards from old boats, discarded scraps of canvas, and extra pieces of rope, she’d managed to create a surprisingly sturdy and comfortable shelter. Mother Nature had embellished her refuge with verdant moss, trailing vines, and colorful wildflowers, giving it the charm of an illustration straight out of Grimm’s fairy tales.
Poppy wound her way up the path till she reached the faded blue quilt hanging in the doorway of the shelter, then slipped off her shoes and went inside. She set her lantern on an upside-down crate next to a bottle filled with stems of fragrant lavender, sank onto a large pillow, and opened her book.
She might not have a closetful of ball gowns or invitations to soirees or box seats at the theater. But she had her refuge, a vivid imagination … and stories.
Poppy placed a kettle on the stove the next morning and began her routine, which included tidying the cottage and preparing breakfast. The alternating rumble and hiss of Papa’s snoring floated into the living area from his small, adjoining bedroom, so she was careful not to clatter the dishes as she made a tray for him.
Since he wasn’t fond of the taste of willow bark tea, she’d resorted to bribing him to drink it—promising a pastry from the tea shop if he finished every drop. The blueberry tarts were an extravagance they could ill afford, but what was the point of toiling day in and day out if she couldn’t spoil her dear Papa a little? Besides, if she didn’t spend the money on tarts, her brother was sure to squander it on brandy.
Dane had been spending an increasing amount of time in London of late, claiming he could make more money taking odd jobs on the docks than he could fishing with Poppy. But he sometimes disappeared for weeks on end, and when he did return to Bellehaven, he certainly didn’t come home with full pockets.
By all rights, she should be furious with him—but deep down he wasn’t the selfish rogue everyone assumed him to be. Indeed, there was a time not so long ago when she’d idolized him. He’d been hard-working, generous, and quick with a smile. He’d taught her to fish, declared himself her protector, and surprised her with a book on her eighth birthday.
But that was before Mama became sick. Before bitterness and resentment snuffed out the light inside him.
Poppy understood all too well how anger and grief could change a person.
“Poppy, my dear,” Papa called groggily.
She picked up his tray and swept aside the curtain that served as the door to his room. “You’re awake early,” she said with a smile.
He gestured toward the tiny open window above his bed. “There’s a storm coming. I feel it in my joints.” He sat up and winced as he flexed swollen, gnarled fingers.
She set the tray beside him and gazed out at the brilliant pink sky and the glass-like surface of the water. “You could be right.”
“Of course I’m right,” he said, mildly offended. “If you must take the boat out today, stay close to shore.”
“Don’t worry about me, Papa.” She fluffed a pillow behind his back and handed him a mug of tea. “This will help your aches.”
He took a sip, grimaced, and stared longingly out the window. “This is not how things are supposed to be. I should be casting my nets right now. You should be spending your days at that school in town. Your mother wanted that for you—clever friends, a fine education, a bright future.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, ignoring the pang she always felt at the mention of Mama. “I have everything I could possibly want: dear friends, diverting books, and a father whom I adore. I’ll see you at dinner.” She planted a perfunctory kiss on his cheek, walked to the doorway, then called over her shoulder, “Don’t touch that pastry until your tea is gone!”
He grumbled under his breath, but Poppy smiled to herself as she fastened a scarf around her head. She quickly gathered a few supplies before heading out the door.
There was no use dwelling on the dangerously handsome stranger on her beach or the exorbitant amount of money he’d offered for her help.
If she was going to keep Papa supplied in tarts, she had work to do.
After a few productive hours of fishing, Poppy hooked their sweet old mule, Calypso, to the cart, loaded the back with baskets of fresh cod, and drove into town. She made the rounds to her usual customers, selling or trading the fish for goods at each stop.
As Poppy was hoisting a bag of flour in her cart, her friend Hazel breezed out of the milliner’s shop, laden with packages. “I was hoping I’d see you again today,” she called. A couple of older ladies standing nearby arched their brows at the sight of the strikingly beautiful countess approaching Poppy and her fishing cart. They were the same women who thought nothing of spending a small fortune at the modiste but refused to let their servants pay market price for fresh fish. Hazel, dear friend that she was, seemed oblivious to their disapproving glances.
“A welcome surprise, seeing you two days in a row,” Poppy said sincerely. “But why aren’t you at the school?”
“Jane is teaching today’s lesson, and I didn’t want her to feel like I was peering over her shoulder. Besides, it seemed like a fine day to do some shopping.” She handed Poppy a small round box. “For you.”
Poppy opened her mouth to protest, but Hazel held up her palm. “It’s just a simple straw bonnet trimmed in bluebells—a nod to the Belles, of course. I bought matching ones for Kitty and myself. You know how Kitty adores secret society rituals. Perhaps the bonnets will prevent us from having to take a blood oath at our next meeting.”
Experience had taught Poppy that attempts to refuse the generous gift would be a waste of her breath. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Hazel said, beaming. “But that’s not the only reason I’d hoped to see you.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Yesterday you asked whether I’d heard rumors regarding prominent tourists.”
“Yes. I suppose it was a silly question.”
Hazel’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I overheard something in the tea shop this morning that might be of interest.”
Gooseflesh covered Poppy’s arms, but she managed a wry smile. “There’s never any shortage of gossip in Bellehaven, is there?”
“Lady Rufflebum was saying that the Duke of Hawking was in town two days ago … and that he hasn’t been seen since.”
Poppy swallowed. “How odd.”
“I thought so, too. Apparently, his valet made discreet inquiries with the countess’s staff.” Hazel pursed her lips, pensive. “Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.”
“Always good to be informed,” Poppy said briskly. “Thank you again for the bonnet. I should head home. Papa says a storm is on the way, and I feel it, too.”
“I’m glad I saw you.” Hazel smiled softly. “If only to remind you that if you should need anything—or find yourself caught up in any sort of trouble—you can come to me.”
Poppy nodded gratefully. Hazel was loyal and generous to a fault. Which was precisely why Poppy wouldn’t dream of involving her, Blade, and their sweet girls in a potential scandal. “I’m accustomed to taking care of myself. Don’t waste your worrying on me,” she said with a wink. “Save it for any man who dares to cross me.”