Gail Ranstrom – Indiscretions (страница 10)

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 wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance with someone like her.”

“You’re not a longshoreman.”

“Aye, but she doesn’t know that. Yet.”

“I’ve been curious about the proprietress— Mrs. Hobbs. Have you heard anything about her?”

Layton shook his head. “No. Shall I—”

“No. Just idle curiosity.” He’d investigate that little mystery on his own. All the same, there was something not quite right about that whole arrangement. “Keep a weather eye on the shop, Layton. I’d hate to see them become embroiled in this. It promises to get ugly.”

An hour later, close to midnight by the position of the full moon, Hunt found he was unable to sleep. He slipped naked from bed and pulled on his trousers, poured himself a glass of brandy and went to stand on the verandah overlooking the ocean. The full moon above the bay was reflected in the placid water.

Leaning one shoulder against the brace of the overhang, he let the rich warmth of the brandy seep through him. His mind wouldn’t let go of the various tactics for his mission. Tomorrow he would study his map of St. Claire and get his bearings. Then he’d begin his search for the notorious pirates, Captains Sieyes and Rodrigo, and his investigation into St. Claire’s complicity, or lack of it, in the pirate conspiracy.

Once he had formed a strategy and committed to a course of action, he wouldn’t feel so on edge. He mentally ticked off a number of ploys and their advantages. He’d taken the first step by entering San Marco society. Even a colonial outpost observed protocol and decorum. And there was nothing like a drawing room for cultivating confidences and gossip. He’d found that people often did not realize the small gems of information they possessed. Until they knew the puzzle and how to put it together, they didn’t even recognize they held the pieces.

The cry of a night bird broke the stillness and alerted him that something was amiss. He walked, silent and barefoot, down the steps onto the path leading to the beach, every sense attuned to danger. He caught his breath and stilled when he saw what had disturbed the peace.

Daphne riffled the surface of the water with her bare toe. Still water made her nervous. She had learned that it was an omen of storms to come. An errant breeze lifted her hair in a little swirl and carried the scent of rain with it as she walked along the edge of the ocean.

She loved the freedom on St. Claire—or, perhaps, simply the freedom of not being Lady Elise. No appearances to keep up, no social obligations. No hiding of bumps or covering of bruises. She could stroll the edge of the ocean at midnight in nothing but her knee-length chemise with complete freedom. No one to see her. No one to care. No one to gossip.

Though she usually slept well, tonight a persistent restlessness troubled her. Every time she relaxed, her thoughts wandered back to that unexpected kiss with Lord Lockwood. How could she have known the unsettling emotions that would evoke? All day, her head had been filled with visions of a dark curl falling over a forehead above deep blue eyes and a mouth curved in a smile. Oh, that smile! It did strange things to her insides. Things she’d never felt before. Things that had kept her awake tonight and longing for something she knew she could never have. Something that was a lie at its core.

She stooped and picked up a conch shell. Wading into the water to her calves, she let the waves dampen the bottom of her chemise to weight it from rising in the wind, then retreated to the sand before it became soaked. She hummed a new tune she’d heard in town—a seaman’s chantey.

The lights of San Marco shimmered across the bay, reminding her how remote her home was, for all that it was barely five miles from town. When she’d come to St. Claire, she’d wanted to hide away, keep William safe from any chance of recognition. Then he’d grown and changed, turning from a sickly boy to a strong lad. When he’d been old enough, she’d sent him away to boarding school—away from her—to keep him safe. If Barrett’s brother managed to trace her, he wouldn’t find William.