“Scurvy is more common on longer trips?”

“Very much so. The Infinity generally keeps to European waters, and we almost never see it.”

She thought about that for a moment. “What sort of journey would qualify as exceptionally long?”

“India could take a good four months. Parts of South America the same.”

Poppy shuddered. “That sounds awful.”

“I agree.” Andrew frequently thanked his maker (or more often his king) that he’d never been asked to carry out a mission outside Europe. He loved the sea, but he adored the moment of stepping onto dry land. And while he regularly marveled over just how much of the world was covered with water, he was very much aware that he had never experienced the true infinity of the ocean.

Ironic, really, that that was the name of his vessel.

“Ships often make stops along the way,” he told Poppy, “but not always. I heard of one recent voyage to India that took twenty-three weeks.”

She gasped. “Without a single stop?”

“That’s what I’m told. At any rate, I insist upon fruit on every voyage, even short ones such as this.”

“Fruit?”

“It seems to keep the disease at bay.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I’m not sure anyone does, to be honest. But I’ll not argue with results.”

“Fruit,” she murmured. “How fascinating. I wonder how they figured it out.”

“Simple observation, I should think.”

She nodded absently, the way she did when she was lost in thought.

He enjoyed watching her; sometimes he would swear that he could almost see her thinking.

Andrew had never given much thought to the fact that women were not permitted a higher education, but it was a crime that Poppy Bridgerton had not been able to go to university. Her curiosity was endless. She asked questions about everything, and he had no doubt that she kept all the answers stored neatly away for later use.

Or for further examination. He often caught her just thinking . Poppy was as sharp a conversationalist as anyone, but she spent a great deal of time pondering great and deep questions.

Or at least he assumed they were great and deep questions. It was just as likely she’d been plotting his demise.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked suspiciously.

“Because I don’t have scurvy?” he quipped.

She elbowed him. She did that a lot too.

“If you must know, I was reflecting upon the fact that you seemed lost in thought, which led me to wonder just what it was you were thinking about. Which in turn led me to wonder if you were plotting my demise.”

“Oh, I haven’t done that for days,” she said blithely.

“I do improve upon association.”

She snorted.

“I’ll take that as an agreement,” he said. “But if I might ask, what were you thinking so deeply about?”

“Scurvy,” she said.

“Still?”

She shrugged. “There’s a lot to think about. Do any of your books mention it? I could read about it on the way back. It would be far more interesting than Ottoman engineering.”

Personally, Andrew found Ottoman engineering fascinating, but he was well aware that few shared this particular passion. “I don’t think so,” he said, “but now that you mention it, I probably should acquire a medical text.” There was no doctor on board the Infinity ; it was far too small a vessel for that. A guide to diseases would be helpful the next time someone fell ill.

“Can one buy English language books in Lisbon?” she asked.

“If so, I doubt you’d find something so specific.”

She made a gesture that seemed to say, It was worth a try , and then she was quiet, her thoughtful frown once again making twin furrows between her brows.

Thinking again. Or still. Andrew smiled. If he leaned toward her, would he hear the wheels and gears of her mind spinning away?

“I wonder . . .” she said slowly.

He waited. She did not finish the thought. “You wonder . . .” he finally urged.

She blinked, as if she’d forgotten that he might be listening to her. “I think the problem must be one of two kinds: either the body is lacking in some kind of nutrient—presumably something one doesn’t get on a long voyage but exists in fruit—or the disease is spread from one man to another, and there is something in fruit that acts as a cure.”

“Actually,” he told her, “the fruit seems to act as both a prevention and a cure.”

“Really?” She looked almost disappointed. “That’s too bad. I mean, of course it’s good that it does both, but from an investigative standpoint, it would be much easier to figure out why if it was just one or the other.”

“Not necessarily. If it’s a case of the body not getting a certain nutrient that is within the fruit, that would account for it being both the prevention and the cure.”

“Of course!” Her whole face lit up. “You’re brilliant!”

“Alas, I have finally convinced you.”

She didn’t even notice his quip. “I wonder what it is in the fruit, though. And is it all fruit? What about vegetables? Would a juice made of fruit do the trick?”

“I would think so. Some ships put lemons in the grog.”

That seemed to interest her. “Does it make it taste any better?”

“Not really.” He chuckled as he turned them onto the road. Up ahead he could see several hackneys, and he mentioned that he planned to hire one.

“We cannot walk?” Poppy inquired. “It is such a fine day, and I am so happy to be out of doors.”

“It’s not too far to walk,” he admitted, “but some of the areas on the way are somewhat unsavory.”

Her eyes narrowed as she considered this. “Somewhat unsavory or”—she paused here—“unsavory?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Quite a bit, I would imagine.”

Trust her to split such hairs. “Very well,” he conceded, “it is only somewhat unsavory.” He’d thought to save time by hiring a carriage, but Poppy was right. It was far too fine a day to be confined in a dusty carriage, even if only for ten minutes.

They headed toward the Baixa, which he explained to her was what the Portuguese called the central neighborhood. There wasn’t a whole lot of interest along the way, but Poppy was fascinated by everything.

“Billy told me to try the food,” she said. “Especially the sweets. There was some sort of fried doughy treat he was especially fond of.”

“Malasadas ,” Andrew confirmed. “They’re divine.”

“Divine?” she teased. “I had not pegged you for a man to speak of food in such spiritual terms.”

“As it happens, malasadas are customary before Easter, although I’m not really sure why. Probably something to do with Catholic Lent. We should be able to find you one, though.”

Sure enough, on the next corner they saw a man standing before a vat of hot oil, a large bowl of dough on the table behind him.

“Your malasada awaits,” Andrew said, waving his arm in a courtly horizontal arc.

Poppy looked positively giddy as she approached the vendor, who immediately launched into a sales pitch in rapid Portuguese.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Poppy said helplessly. “I don’t speak—” She turned to Andrew with those widened eyes that said, Help me .

He stepped forward. “Dois malasadas, por favor .”

“Só dois? ” The vendor looked scandalized. He placed a theatrical hand over his heart and resumed his testimonial, this time indicating with his fingers the size of the malasadas .

“What’s he saying?” Poppy asked.

“He’s speaking too quickly for me,” Andrew admitted, “but I’m fairly certain he’s trying to convince us that the malasadas are too small for us to eat only one each.”

“Pequeno ,” the man said earnestly. “Muito pequeno .”

“Quatro ,” Andrew said, holding up four fingers.