Indiscretions

by Gail Ranstrom

  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 t
he 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

  The 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.”

  Hannah appeared around the corner, making it apparent that she’d been eavesdropping. “Well, then, the widow Hobbs and I will be looking forward to seeing you,” she said.

  Mr. Hunt grinned widely and bowed his head to Hannah. “Thank you, Mrs. Breton. For everything.”

  “My pleasure,” Hannah said. She turned to Daphne and said, “Timmy is in back with your gig, Daphne. I’ll tell him you’ll only be a minute.”

  The heat of a blush crept into her cheeks. She’d scold Hannah later, but the damage was done. And she marveled that Mr. Hunt had remembered Hannah’s name from this morning, though he did not look like the sort of man who would miss much.

  He raised an eyebrow and said, “You’re young to be a widow, Mrs. Hobbs. I am sorry for your loss.”

  He didn’t look sorry as he glanced down at her wedding ring. “Thank you,” she told him after a moment’s hesitation.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Good evening, Mrs. Hobbs.”

  She stood there for a long minute, staring at Mr. Hunt’s back as he left the shop and mounted his horse. Oh, such strong calves, long legs and wide shoulders. There was something very…compelling about the man. Something that piqued her interest and caused a yearning she hadn’t felt before. She would have to be very careful around Mr. Hunt. Any careless involvement would have her at the end of a hangman’s noose in short order.

  Even near midnight, the air was balmy and humid. The soft breeze was a sultry caress on his skin and the scent of exotic flowers overlay the tang of sea air. In the past ten years, Hunt had forgotten the night heat, warmer than a summer day in England. Even the tavern door stood open to catch an errant breeze. He took a deep breath and entered.

  Like taverns everywhere, the Blue Fin was dimly lit and smelled of stale ale. The square barroom had a long counter at one side and two dozen tables scattered throughout. Hunt sat in one corner facing the door with his back to the wall, a habit he’d acquired after being knifed in the back by a French agent in a Marseille public house. He ordered a tankard of ale and placed it on the small wooden table in front of him. Half past eleven. Right on time.

  A man of average height entered and glanced around. He was dressed in rough brown trousers and a stained blue work shirt. His long sandy hair was pulled back and tied with a black string at his nape. He was the very picture of a longshoreman. When his gaze met Hunt’s, he nodded. Hunt nodded back.

  The man went to the bar and bought a tankard of ale. After exchanging pleasantries with the barkeeper, the man slammed his tankard down on the counter and headed for the back door with an excuse that he had to use the privy.

  Hunt did a slow count to ten, finished his ale and stood. He dropped a small coin on the table, exited to the street and then rounded the building to the rear courtyard of the tavern. And there, waiting for him in the shadow of an ancient oak, stood Oliver Layton, clandestine operations, Foreign Office.

  Layton glanced at the rear door to the tavern. “We’ve got about five minutes, Lockwood.”

  “Good to see you, too, Layton. Have you found a more private meeting place for us?”

  The man nodded. “West of town, just before your plantation, there’s a brick mile-marker. Off the road about one hundred yards you’ll find an abandoned hut. The track is overgrown, but there’s still a trace of it. Behind the center stone above the lintel is a pocket. Leave messages there. I will check for them and leave my own every midnight. If you need to talk to me, meet me there.”

  Hunt nodded. “Bring me up-to-date.”

  “Not much to tell. I’ve been in place a month. The locals are just beginning to trust me. I’ve hinted that I’d like to make more money and don’t care how. We’ll see if someone takes the bait. Do you have a plan?”

  “Nothing firm beyond a reception to be given tomorrow night by Governor Bascombe and his chargé d’affaires, Gavin Doyle. I met with them this evening. They don’t know why I’m here. I gather Eastman fears the problem may have reached the highest levels. In the morning I’ll go to New Albion. I haven’t been to my plantation for ten years.” Hunt closed his eyes to remember. “Then…if I recall correctly, there is a mountain range that runs down the south end of the island. The mountains come down to the sea, and since it is the windward side of the island, the currents are fairly treacherous. Not much land over there.”

  “What has that to do with us?”

  “There’s a small town built on the cliffs. Blackpool. I hear they don’t like strangers. Something is wrong there. The captain of the ship I sailed on pretended ignorance of the town. I find that interesting,” Hunt told him. “Most shippers want to make the most of a port. If Blackpool has any goods to trade or any need of supplies, it would be a logical stop. That it isn’t on anyone’s itinerary is suspicious. I intend to pay them a little visit. Have you heard any gossip regarding the village?”

  “The townspeople are strangely silent about the other side. It’s almost as if it doesn’t exist. I asked the harbormaster about ships from Blackpool, and he told me they don’t come here, and that our ships don’t go there. Then he made a cryptic remark about ill fortune to those who tried.”

  Hunt laughed. “Good God, what an opening! And you haven’t gone to the other side after that tempting remark?”

  Layton rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. “The pack of sea rats we’re looking for are bloodthirsty barbarians. I’m just a
poor longshoreman. I don’t go looking for trouble and I don’t make any.”

  “Or so they believe.”

  Layton gave him a lopsided grin. “So far, at least on St. Claire, that’s the truth. My orders are to collect intelligence and stay out of trouble.”

  Hunt nodded. Those were Layton’s orders, not his. The Foreign Office expected him to “handle” any problem on St. Claire. “Any word, any mention at all, of Captains Sieyes or Rodrigo?”

  “None. It is as if no one in San Marco has ever heard of pirates.”

  “They cannot be blind, deaf and dumb.”

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, Hunt threw his coat across his saddle and left for New Albion, his plantation just west. Lush growth crowded the sides of the road while overhanging trees canopied the track, blocking the sun but not the early morning heat. The road ran parallel to the ocean and he could hear the soft hiss of waves through the heavy growth of mangrove and cypress. Distant screeches reminded him of the brightly colored birds in cages on the wharves destined for London drawing rooms.

  That thought brought him back to the most exotic creature he’d seen yet: the tempting Widow Hobbs. Widow. Not married. Fair game. She’d have no illusions of a future together. She was self-sufficient and did not need him—a good thing, since he had nothing to give. They’d be free to enjoy whatever comfort the other could offer without impossible expectations.

  When Governor Bascombe had insisted upon holding a reception for Lockwood, Hunt had requested that an invitation be sent to Mrs. Daphne Hobbs. The governor had merely smiled and warned that she never attended public affairs.

  Too bad. She had made her own way in the world instead of catching another husband—which would have been an easy task for a woman of her looks and manner. She had a backbone. He liked that in a woman. But if she could not be enticed to attend soirées, he would just have to become Pâtisserie’s best customer.