Indiscretions. Gail Ranstrom

wouldn’t dismiss the notion, Daphne. There may yet be someone who can turn your head and carry you away.”

      Reginald Hunter’s face flashed before her, and she blinked. No. Never. Not on a cold day in hell. If he remembered her, and if he should see her portrait somewhere, she’d be arrested and taken back to England—and she’d do no more than step off the ship before she’d be hanged. What would become of William then? Barrett’s brother would take custody. She doubted William would survive his Uncle Alfred’s care. He was every bit as brutish as Barrett had been. But once William achieved his majority, Alfred would hold no power over him. Only then would William dare return to England.

      The shop bell rang and Hannah hurried to see who it was. A moment later, Captain Gilbert peeked around the kitchen door and grinned at Daphne. “I stopped by to thank you, Mrs. Hobbs. I just left Governor Bascombe. He summoned me this morning and we’ve had a most interesting interview. It seems I’m to have the patent to carry government documents between here and London.”

      She wiped her hands on her apron. “I hope that will make your circuits more profitable.”

      “By a far sight, Mrs. Hobbs. And I understand I have you to thank for it.”

      She was slightly abashed to have been caught in her machinations. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that, sir. I simply mentioned your name.”

      “Not the way the governor retells the story.” He grinned. “He told me that you have shunned island society since your arrival, and that you suddenly showed up when least expected. He said you were a woman with a purpose, however, and that you left once you’d accomplished that purpose.”

      She grimaced that she’d been so transparent. “I made a suggestion. That is all. Please do not make more of it than it warrants.”

      The shop bell interrupted them. Even with Hannah in front, Daphne seized the opportunity to halt the conversation. She left her rolling pin on the worktable and hurried into the shop.

      Lord Lockwood stood at the counter, bending over the pastry tray, his hands clasped behind his back. When he saw her, his lips curved in a smile.

      “Good morning, Mrs. Hobbs,” he said, his voice soft and warm.

      “Good morning, Lord Lockwood,” she murmured. She felt Captain Gilbert come up behind her.

      “’Lo, Lord Lockwood,” he said.

      The warm smile changed subtly to one of polite formality. “Captain.” He nodded. “How’s the provisioning going?”

      “Slowly, I fear. Looks like it will take a fortnight to have the cargo aboard and make ready to sail. Mrs. Hobbs, however, has just seen to it that I keep making the run from London.”

      A flicker of something feral passed through Lockwood’s eyes. “Did she? Well, I’d guess she could be persuasive.”

      Heavens! Did he think she’d persuaded the captain with favors? She started to deny it and then decided it would be better for Lockwood to believe anything that would make him keep his distance.

      Captain Gilbert, however, was quick to sort out the misunderstanding. “Mrs. Hobbs was kind enough to speak to Governor Bascombe on my behalf. I’ve been given a patent on carrying official documents and correspondence between St. Claire and London.”

      “I see,” Lockwood said.

      But he didn’t. The hardness that settled around his features told her that.

      The uncomfortable silence drew out until she remembered herself. “Oh, sorry. Can I get something for you?” She moved behind the counter and fussed with a rack of cooling bread.

      “Something smells good, Mrs. Hobbs. What do you have cooking?”

      “Cobblers, but they won’t be ready for hours.”

      “Ah, well, I won’t have time to wait.”

      Impulsively, she tore off a length of paper and placed a cherry tart in the center. “A poor substitute, Lord Lockwood. I regret the cherries were not fresh, but preserves suit quite well.” She folded the paper over it and tied it with the blue ribbon. “Careful, or the crust will split and the filling will make you sticky.”

      He accepted the package with a slight bow. “I am in your debt, Mrs. Hobbs.”

      “Not in the least, Lord Lockwood. I regret it is all I have to offer at the moment.”

      “I will be pleased to take whatever you offer, Mrs. Hobbs.” He gave her an appraising glance. “Whenever you offer it.”

      Her mind went blank and she could only nod and hurry back to the kitchen, mumbling an excuse about the dough rising. The low voices of the two men carried to her, but she could not make out their words. She did not like the idea of Lockwood questioning Captain Gilbert.

      The shop bell rang again and a moment later Captain Gilbert appeared in the kitchen doorway. He leaned one shoulder against the jamb. “Once again, I thank you for your efforts on my behalf, Mrs. Hobbs. If ever there is anything I can do for you, I stand ready and willing.”

      “Just keep bringing me newspapers, Captain.”

      At quarter past eleven that night, Lockwood found the abandoned hut without trouble. Layton’s directions had been quite precise. He waited in darkness, melding with the shadows of a massive oak. When Oliver Layton arrived and dismounted, he watched while the agent checked the brick over the lintel for messages.

      He came up behind Layton and tapped him on the shoulder. Layton jumped and spun around, his pistol drawn and cocked. “Sweet Jesus,” he cursed in a whisper when he saw who it was. “I could have killed you, Lockwood!”

      “Not with your throat slit,” he mocked. “Island life is making you sloppy.”

      The man shrugged good-naturedly. “Lesson learned. But what are you doing here? Have you found something out?”

      “I’m just getting started,” Hunt admitted. “I did a little quiet questioning at the reception and discovered a few interesting tidbits. Nothing concrete at the moment, but I will let you know should anything come of it.”

      “Is that all?” Layton frowned.

      “Guard your tongue with the harbormaster.”

      Layton raised his eyebrows and gave a succinct nod.

      “I heard a piece of gossip that the American president has authorized the formation of an antipiracy squadron. If it’s true, we might find some help there.”

      Layton laughed. “They’ve got their hands full trying to protect their own ships. Aside from that, it will be another year before such a squadron is outfitted and ready to sail. Heaven knows it will take a year before our own government decides what to do with the information we gather. And yet I had the impression that events here were critical and urgent.”

      Hunt thought of the dwindling fortunes in London and of the unknown man who had secretly betrayed them all. And what Layton didn’t know was that their government had sent him to deal with the situation. “I’ve given up trying to second-guess the government,” he told the agent. “Have you heard any rumors of corruption or collusion on the part of local officials?”

      Layton raised an eyebrow. “If you mean the harbormaster, nary a whisper. Is that something I should pursue?”

      “Not at the moment,” he answered, unwilling to expose the Foreign Office’s suspicion.

      When Layton turned to go, Hunt ventured another question. “Ever patronize Pâtisserie?”

      A roll of the eyes gave him the answer.

      “Which little delicacy do you favor?”

      “Mrs. Breton. Hannah. Those curves haunt my dreams.”

      “Have you wooed her?”

      “Good God, no! A longshoreman