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“Has to be done on the hush. Very sensitive, as it is a part of an ongoing investigation. You’re known for your discretion.”
Discreet? Is that what they were calling assassins now? Would discretion reclaim the soul he’d forfeited to do the dirty but necessary jobs that other men refused?
Ah, but he was intrigued in spite of himself. And now he was sure the Foreign Office had a traitor. Why else would they need a man of his “talents”? “Is your leak here or in St. Claire?”
Eastman frowned and lowered his voice. “We don’t know. We need an outsider for this, and your name came up since you have holdings in St. Claire. Only natural that you’d want to visit and check on your investments, eh?”
Hunt sighed. “Tell me about this ‘little plum’ you want me to look into.”
“Pirates.”
The answer so surprised him that he coughed, drawing the attention of a few quiet occupants of the club library. He cleared his throat and whispered, “Easy? What the hell is easy about pirates?”
“The Caribbean is rife with them. These are a particularly ruthless and bloodthirsty lot and we need to put them down like the rabid vermin they are.”
And there it was. They wanted him to “put down” the rabid vermin. Need someone without a conscience? Bring Lockwood in. “I’m out of that business, Eastman.”
“We’re only asking you to gather intelligence, Lockwood. See if you can find out where the pirates are based and who is feeding them information and ship movements. Find our leak. And plug it.”
“They aren’t likely to be based at a single point. And you must know who their informants are by now.”
“Only that they are British.”
Hunt digested this information for a moment. “Why St. Claire and not Jamaica or Barbados?”
“We already have operatives there, but they are making no headway. We need someone with a perfect right and reason to be on St. Claire. Ask questions. Cozy up to the locals. The officials. Find out what they’re hiding. Only contact us if you have an emergency or urgent news, and go through me or my clerk, Langford.”
Hunt sat back in his chair and sighed. He hadn’t visited the plantation on St. Claire in ten years. Maybe it was time.
Eastman leaned forward. “It won’t inconvenience you too long, Lockwood. Present yourself to Governor Bascombe and his chargé, Mr. Doyle, for introductions. Poke around a fortnight. A month at most. If the opportunity presents itself, handle the problem. Then back to England and on with your life.”
Handle the problem? God, he wanted out. Out of the ugly underbelly of government intrigues and foreign machinations.
Apparently reading Hunt’s hesitation, Eastman tried a new appeal. “Every time a ship is taken or sunk, we hear the groans all over London. We wouldn’t ask if there weren’t so many underwriters losing their drawers over this and if prices for imported goods weren’t rising even as we speak.”
With a sinking feeling that he’d just been sucked into another vortex, Hunt nodded.
St. Claire Island, West Indies
October 9, 1820
Though the journey had been quick and uneventful, Hunt was glad to set foot on solid ground again. He had a full list of things to do today—buy a horse, call on Governor Bascombe, rent a room at the local inn and meet his contact—but first he needed to take the lay of the land.
He shrugged out of his woolen jacket and draped it over his arm. The first thing that struck him as he walked the streets of San Marco was how truly international the town had become. A mixture of languages and accents buzzed around him as he strolled the cobbled streets.
He found an inn, several taverns, chandlers, locksmiths, haberdashers and greengrocers. Midway down Broad Street, he spied a tidy stone building with a divided door—the top half open to admit the morning breeze—and a wide front window with Pâtisserie lettered in black script. At the bottom of the window, in smaller letters, was the information, Mrs. Hobbs, Proprietress. A baker’s rack stood in the window to display a stunning array of pastries and breads.
This would be a good place to start. Bakeries, as much as taverns, were often the hub of gossip and news. He’d once uncovered a pickpocket operation being run out of a bakery in Cheapside. He opened the lower half of the door and entered, setting the shop bell a-jingle. A mouthwatering smell wafted from the back and, along with the sound of feminine laughter, enticed him.
A woman, using a towel to protect her hands from burning, carried a tray of biscuits from the back room. The task had her complete attention as she slid the pan onto the counter, and Hunt used the moment to study her.
Mouthwatering. Yes. Exactly. Sleek brown hair that fell halfway down her back and glinted streaks of sun was tied at her nape with a green ribbon. Her figure was neither thin nor stout, but definitely voluptuous, and a soft smile lifted the corners of those full rose-tinted lips. She was somewhere in her midtwenties, a head shorter than he and, when she turned toward him, he was stunned by the deep green eyes that rivaled her hair ribbon. Her features were a study in perfect symmetry. Greek sculptors would have done mayhem to carve her likeness.
A blush stole up her cheeks, a sure sign she had noticed his interest. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked as she wiped her hands on a crisp apron. “I’m Mrs. Hobbs.”
Yes. Dear God, at least a dozen things she could do for him, and several she was doing at this very moment without even trying. Even her voice raised the fine hairs on his arms.
“Sir?”
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’ve come for something sweet.”
She smiled again, but this time his heart bumped. Then she glanced away, almost as if she were afraid to look at him too long. “Sweet? Well, then, we have cherry and blueberry tarts, buns with cinnamon and raisins, sweet biscuits, lemon and ginger biscuits and, if you care to wait, biscuits with a wee bit of chocolate. Oh, and pineapple cakes.”
While he was still mulling over his choices, another woman peeked out from the back room. Shorter, plumper and younger than Mrs. Hobbs, this woman was almost as lovely. He had the sudden notion that the wares at Pâtisserie could taste like chalk and the bakery would still do a brisk business.
As if sensing his thoughts, Mrs. Hobbs lifted a biscuit off the tray with a spatula and held it out to him. “Compliments of Pâtisserie, sir.” She turned her attention to the woman in the back room. “Do you need something, Mrs. Breton?” she asked.
“I just came to see if we have shelf space up front.” She glanced at the baker’s rack in the window and nodded. With a shy glance in Hunt’s direction, she disappeared again.
He took the offered biscuit, still warm from the oven, and shifted it from one hand to the other until it cooled enough to eat. The first bite convinced him that he was in heaven. He watched Mrs. Hobbs’s reaction as he ate the delicacy. Her lips parted ever so slightly and her chin lifted a fraction of an inch as if tilting upward to receive a kiss. Oh, would that he could! But, no. She was waiting for his verdict.
“Delectable,” he pronounced. “Make that a dozen biscuits, Mrs. Hobbs.”
She blinked and nodded, the spell broken. Turning again, she ripped a length of brown paper off a roll, placed the biscuits in the center and tied the package with a length of French blue ribbon.
Mrs. Hobbs took his crown and opened a drawer beneath the counter. “I fear my change is limited. Do you have anything smaller, sir?”
Actually, to his embarrassment, he had something growing larger by the minute. “Sorry, Mrs. Hobbs. Keep the change.”
“Oh, no. That is excessive, sir.”
The gleam of a gold band on her left hand caught his attention as she withdrew every coin in her till. Of course. Mrs. Hobbs. Damn the luck. The most charming shopgirl he’d ever seen, and she was unavailable.
She held her hand out with the change from the till. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“Not at the moment, Mrs. Hobbs.”
When her eyes met his, she shivered, dropped the coins in his palm and broke the contact. “I shall get change, sir. If you will come back later, I will have it for you.”
Chains and an anchor wouldn’t keep him away. “Count on it, Mrs. Hobbs.”
Hannah Breton elbowed Daphne in the ribs as they craned their heads out the half door to watch the tall stranger walk back down Broad Street. “You’ve brought another visitor low with your charms, Daphne.”
She’d brought him low? She rather thought it was the other way around. It was a rare occurrence, indeed, when a man could so take her by surprise that she could not think. She must have looked an absolute fool.
“You should have mentioned you are a widow,” Hannah continued.
“Even if I were interested—which I am not—he did not even bother to introduce himself. Besides, I do not want a man.”
“And a crying shame, if you ask me,” Hannah teased. “You use that gold ring to keep them away. When are you going to take it off? There’s certainly no shortage of men for a woman like you.” Hannah sighed, then glanced back down the street. “But not many with eyes that blue.”
Not blue. Deep, deep periwinkle. Almost violet. And it should be a crime for a man to have lashes so dark and long.
But his eyes hadn’t been his best feature. No, that would be his smile. Sensual lips drew back to reveal straight, even teeth and a tiny dimple in his left cheek. Almost boyish, and completely charming. Daphne always noted a man’s smile—or the lack of it. Men who did not smile made her very nervous. She always suspected them of an ill nature.
Hannah chuckled and nudged her with an elbow. “There, that little sigh gave you away. And if you do not want a husband, who’s to say you cannot take a lover? You’re alone, after all.”
She shivered. Impossible! For so many reasons. And she’d never even been tempted before looking into those amazing eyes.
When she’d seen the Gulf Stream in the harbor this morning, she knew there would be strangers in San Marco—and she knew they’d be gone soon. The dark, compelling stranger was no exception. No one ever came to stay on St. Claire. And that was exactly why she did.
A knock on the kitchen door interrupted Daphne’s thoughts. The egg delivery, no doubt. Hannah put her spoon down and went to open the door.
“Here they are!” their visitor exclaimed. “The treasure of St. Claire.”
“My goodness! Captain Gilbert! Where have you been?” Hannah asked, an expression of pleasure curving her lips.
“Around the world and back again,” he teased. “But I came to see you all the moment I could.”
“How long will you be here this time?”
“A week. Perhaps a fortnight. Need to take on cargo and make a few repairs before I return to England.”
“Then we’d best stock up on pineapple cakes.” Hannah smoothed her apron as she went back to her kettle.
Daphne faced the captain. He was graying and tall, had a warm smile and clear blue eyes with creases at the corners from squinting into the sun. “Hello, Captain Gilbert. Nice to see you again.”
“How nice?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
She laughed. He knew she was always happy to see him, and not just because he always brought her an issue or two of the London Times. He was the kindest man she knew. “Hannah, would you fetch the captain a pineapple cake?”
Hannah nodded. “Why don’t you take Mrs. Hobbs out back for a little catch up, Captain? I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.”
Daphne lifted her apron over her head and slapped a puff of flour from her patterned skirt before following Captain Gilbert to the small courtyard outside the back door.
He took a seat at the little wrought iron table and laid the newspapers on his lap. She knew he wanted conversation. He had once confided that he missed female conversation since he was always at sea and his wife had died many years ago.
“Tell me, Captain, how was your voyage and what have you been doing?”
He fell silent as Hannah brought a tray with a teapot, cups, sugar, milk and lemon, and a small pineapple cake on a delicate china plate. She raised her eyebrows at their silence and left as quickly as she could. Hannah would want an accounting of the conversation later.
Knowing his preferences by now, Daphne poured the tea and added a bit of sugar and a squeeze of lemon. He took the cup and sipped, then nodded his approval.
“Working hard, Mrs. Hobbs. It is becoming more and more difficult for an honest man to make a living. But I get by. Made enough last trip to carry me through another voyage. My underwriters are charging an absurd price to insure my cargo. Damn pirates.” He sighed and shrugged. “But what else can I do?”
“Not much, I suppose,” she agreed. “I fear goods from home are costing me dearly, too. You wouldn’t believe what I pay for tea, cloth, paper and ribbon.”
“Aye, it hurts on both sides, Mrs. Hobbs. Here and there. Wish there were a way around it. For now I’m just trying to carry the items most in demand in London. Pineapples, this trip. And parakeets and mahogany.”
“Have you considered applying for a patent to carry government documents? They wouldn’t clutter your cargo space and would provide a nice little bonus at the end of the voyage.”
“I did, in fact, apply in London, Mrs. Hobbs, but with so many naval vessels in the Caribbean, they have been providing that service.”
Daphne frowned. The Royal Navy did not provide that service for St. Claire. It was a rare occurrence when one of His Majesty’s ships put in at San Marco. Perhaps she could ask Governor Bascombe. Yes, she’d speak to the governor, and then tell the captain if the result was favorable.
The captain finished his pineapple cake and set his fork aside. He returned his teacup to the saucer and stood. “Now I’m off to arrange the repairs. I want everything in readiness for the arrival of the pineapples. They don’t keep well in a warm hold, you know. The ton pays a pretty price to have them on their tables, and I don’t want to dock with a hold of rotten fruit.”
She stood with him. “The repairs will require a week or two, will they not?”
“Aye.”
Good. She’d have time to talk to the governor.
“Oh, by the way, I’ve brought a Times or two.” He dropped the papers on the table and grinned.
Daphne affected surprise. “Oh! You shouldn’t have, Captain. But thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
He patted her shoulder as he passed her on his way down the alley. He never said goodbye. She wondered if that was a sailor’s superstition.
She gazed at the newspapers. There was no time to linger now. The chores of closing lay ahead. But tonight, at home, she would sit and read every word, savoring the little nuggets of gossip and the latest scandal to occupy wagging tongues—any news at all of her family or friends.
Chapter Two
T he sun was nearly setting and Daphne wanted to get home before dark. The trade had been very good today and all that remained was a loaf of plain bread, a few buns and three pineapple cakes. She would place them on the table in back, and the poor children from the wharves would take them away in the night.
Hannah was washing up in the back and called to her. “You go on, Daphne. Timmy will be bringing your gig any minute. I can handle the last of the customers.”
Her home was five miles from town, sufficient to provide isolation without desolation. She was hanging her apron on a peg as the shop bell rang, and she spoke without turning. “Sorry. We’re closed.”
“Just my luck.”
She turned at the sound of the rich baritone. The stranger had come for his change. Before she could think better of it, she smiled. “I’m glad you made it back.” She went behind the counter, opened the till and counted out his change. When she looked up, he was watching her in a most peculiar way. “Is there something you need, sir?”
“I am wondering what other delicious things you might have besides biscuits and tarts, Mrs. Hobbs. I’m thinking I’d like my change in goods.”
She laughed. “That would be enough to give you a tooth-ache. And I fear we’ve sold out of sweets but for a few pineapple cakes.”
“Then I shall have to come back. Keep the change on account,” he said.
She dropped his change back in the till. “Are you staying aboard the Gulf Stream, sir?”
He gave her that slow grin and shook his head. “I have business on St. Claire.”
She schooled her curiosity. “Then I hope you find our island to your liking, sir.”
“Hunt,” he said.
“Mr. Hunt.” The name suited him. He had the watchfulness of a predator. He seemed about to say something and then shrugged. “I already find St. Claire to my liking. I doubt I’ll be in town every day, but you may be sure I will come here when I am.”
