A pair of wrought-iron gates, open to the road, bore the words New Albion. He turned his recently acquired gelding through the gate and proceeded down the track a quarter of a mile.
His first sight of the house surprised him anew. He hadn’t remembered it looking so typically like a British manor. Two stories, with tall windows open to the breeze, it was constructed of stone and covered with a verdant growth of flowering tropical vines. A row of small well-kept cottages formed a semicircle behind the house, and off to one side across a clearing were the barn and stables. The drive made a loop in front and he dismounted at the wide steps.
A short man with dark, slicked-back hair and a luxuriant mustache came down the steps to greet him. “Lord Lockwood? Good to meet you. I’m Jack Prichard, your factor. You had a pleasant voyage, I hope?”
He nodded and shook the man’s hand. “Uneventful, which I hear is a good thing.”
Prichard laughed. “Never know when you’ll encounter a hurricane this time of year.”
Hunt looked toward the cottages. “The staff?”
“And the workers. They are out on the plantation this time of day. Your trunks arrived and I’ve left them in the foyer until you decide where you want to stay. There is a room upstairs with a crossbreeze or, if you prefer privacy, the guesthouse.”
He would prefer privacy. In fact, he would require it. “Where is the guesthouse?”
Prichard pointed to a trail through the garden toward the sound of waves breaking on a beach. “Not far down the path.”
The factor signaled a waiting servant who entered the front hall, hoisted Hunt’s trunk to his shoulder and followed them. The path took them several hundred yards toward the ocean, but the destination was well worth the walk. Single story, long and low, the guesthouse was built on stilts with a porch surrounding the entire structure. When he opened the door, he was enchanted. Though the house was beneath the tree canopy, the ocean was visible through a wall of windows lining the front.
Prichard slid one window to the side, and then another, and fresh sea air swept through the house, making it feel almost a part of the outdoors. Polished native mahogany floors were interrupted only by rich Persian carpets and low rattan chairs with deep cushions that faced the water.
Hunt dropped his jacket over one chair and went to the other room. A wide bed made up in crisp linen sheets was partially shrouded by transparent netting draped from the ceiling. More floor-to-ceiling windows were open to the breeze. The only concession to cooler months was a fireplace in the wall between the outer room and the bedroom, open on both sides. The privacy would suit him well.
“Shall I assign you a personal servant, Lord Lockwood?”
“No servants,” Hunt said. No interference, and no witnesses to his comings and goings.
Daphne smoothed the rich plum silk in her lap. After trying the gown on, she’d only had to take in the seams a fraction beneath her bosom. She’d had the gown remade in Charleston, along with a few others, when she’d gone to visit William at school last year.
And now, with Governor Bascombe’s invitation to a reception honoring a Lord Lockwood tomorrow night sitting on her foyer table, she’d have the perfect opportunity to repay Captain Gilbert for all his thoughtfulness. She’d steal a private moment with the governor, request a patent for the captain to carry official documents and then count her debt to him paid.
The errant notion that she might encounter Mr. Hunt passed through her mind and sped her heartbeat. The mere thought of him was like an opiate—seductive, promising unknown delight, addictive. Dangerous. Every sensible thing in her warned her to stay away from the man. That anything else could bring disaster. That, should he have the faintest suspicion of who she was and what she’d done, all she had worked to build and all she loved would be forfeited.
No, the risk was too great to give in to the temptation that was Mr. Hunt. Nevertheless, and illogically, she twisted the wedding band off her finger, dropped it in her sewing basket and returned to her task.
Taking one final stitch and knotting the thread, Daphne put the gown aside. She arched her back and rolled her head as she stood. Her life since leaving London had been anything but sedentary and now she could not sit for long periods of time. She’d found forgetfulness and peace in hard labor. It was only in the quiet moments that the reality of what she’d become caught up with her.
The faint click of the kitchen door opening drew her attention. Olivia must have come back for something. The housekeeper was always leaving her supper or her mending before going back to the cottage by the gate to her property.
“Olivia?” she called. “What did you forget?”
When there was no answer, an uneasy shiver shot up her spine. “Olivia?” She snatched the scissors from her sewing box and whirled to the back hallway as soft footsteps approached. “I… I have a pistol,” she warned.
“Si, an’ you will use it, too.” A tall Spanish beauty appeared in the doorway. Her long dark hair hung loose to the small of her back and she had the confident look of a woman who knew her own worth. She gave Daphne a saucy grin. “I think you will have to be more ferocious than that if you want to stop someone, querida. If I had been the thief, you would be much the poorer now, eh?”
Daphne exhaled and dropped her scissors. “Why did you not answer me?”
Olivia shrugged. “I wished to see what you would do. I worry about you when I am not here.”
Daphne turned away from her to hide her annoyance. Olivia meant well, but she could often be trying. “I got on quite well before you came along,” she snapped.
“Si?” Olivia laughed and shook her head. “And that is why you are here on St. Claire? Because you ‘got on’ well?”
Daphne had learned almost the same day she arrived on the island that Olivia was a conscienceless busybody. Thank heavens she was discreet. And thank heavens Daphne had been careful to bury her secrets deeply beneath the rain tree behind her house.
“I suspect I am here for the same reason you are, Olivia,” she answered.
Olivia gave a weary shrug. “Men,” she said. “They are the reason for everything, eh? But I came back tonight because I forgot to put the little William’s letter where you could see it. It is in your desk.”
William? She went to the escritoire in one corner of the room. Her spirits lifted and she smiled as she opened the thin little letter and saw the child’s bold writing. “Do you mind if I read it now, Olivia?”
“I will go, querida. Tomorrow, eh?”
“Yes, tomorrow.” Daphane sighed, settling into her chair again. She read the words quickly, then went back to savor them a second time.
Her son was doing well. His letter was filled with news about his friends and classes. He’d finished his exams and had been promoted a level. He had grown two inches since last Christmas. The headmaster and his wife had invited him to stay with them over the Christmas holiday again, but he begged to be allowed to come home. He was homesick for her and St. Claire, he wrote, and promised he would be no trouble.
Trouble? That he could even think such a thing cut like a dagger to her heart. Of course he was no trouble, and she would give anything to have him with her every single day. It tore at her very soul to spend so much time apart from him, but the danger of having him where he could be found if she was discovered was too great. Oh, but surely she could risk having him for the Christmas season? A month? Two?
She withdrew a sheet of paper from the escritoire drawer and scribbled a few lines. Words of encouragement and love, and the promise that she would send for him soon. She folded her letter, sealed it and placed it on the foyer table to take with her to town tomorrow. She would post it by packet to a neighboring island, where it would be routed to Charleston—the only way she could be certain her letters wouldn’t be traced.
Music floated on the sultry island breeze. Chandeliers cast a gentle glow through the grand ballroom. Were it not for the smell of salt air stirring the draperies and the humidity, Hunt c
ould well imagine himself at a state dinner at Whitehall. On his left, Governor Bascombe introduced him to yet another island notable while, on his right, the chargé d’affaires, Mr. Doyle, kept the line moving.
Hunt shook the newest arrival’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Goode,” he said. “I believe we are neighbors, are we not?”
“Aye, Lord Lockwood. Our lands adjoin to the east. Glad you’ve come. Now you can straighten out that factor of yours.”
“Prichard?” Hunt asked in surprise. “Has he encroached on your land or business?”
“In a manner of speaking. I can’t keep workers. Prichard pays yours too much, so mine keep wandering off to New Albion.”
“Have you tried paying yours more, Mr. Goode?”
The man gave him an incredulous look. “Profits, Lord Lockwood. That would cut my profits.”
“Ah, yes,” Doyle interrupted smoothly. “A man must make a living, mustn’t he? Have you tried the hors d’oeuvres, Mr. Goode? They’re delicious. You’ll find them in the drawing room.”
“Nicely done, Doyle,” Hunt said when Mr. Goode had shuffled off to the drawing room. The chargé was the type of man who had always been popular at school—charming, good-looking and the sort one wanted on one’s cricket team.
The tall, fair, solidly built chargé grinned. “Mr. Goode has a tendency toward confrontation. Easy enough to manage when you see it coming.”
Hunt was about to reply when he caught a flash of shimmering plum from the corner of his eye. He refocused on the captivating creature. Mrs. Hobbs. Bascombe had been wrong. She’d come. Dare he hope she’d come alone? He gave a polite half bow and excused himself.
She had her back to him and he took a moment to admire the curve of her swanlike neck and the set of her shoulders. Her sun-streaked hair, done in an interesting twist at her nape, glowed in the candlelight. He could smell her scent—not vanilla and sugar, as it had been in her shop, but something more tropical. Oleander? No, gardenia. He inhaled deeply before speaking.
“Mrs. Hobbs. I am delighted to find you here.”
She spun and left him bemused. The cut of her gown was both innocent and bold, revealing the valley between her breasts and suggesting a hidden lushness. And was that a hint of black lace beneath the plum silk? Lord! Was she wearing a black chemise? His mind ran riot with the fantasy and his body responded shamelessly.
“Mr. Hunt,” she said in a low, throaty voice, obviously unaware of what she was doing to his pulse. “I wondered if you might be here tonight.” She offered her hand, as gracious as any duchess.
Mr. Hunt? Then she still didn’t know who he was? He bowed over her hand and held it fast. “Have you come alone, Mrs. Hobbs? Might I importune you for a waltz?”
She glanced around and took note of Governor Bascombe, still in conversation with Mr. Goode near the punch bowl.
“You can pay your respects to our host afterward,” he said. “In fact, I will be pleased to take you to him myself.”
A shadow of indecision passed over her features and he thought she might refuse. Then she looked up at him and when her uncertain green eyes met his, he could see her surrender. Whatever internal battle she had been waging had just been lost. And he’d won. Still holding her hand in his, he led her to the dance floor.
She tilted her chin to look up at him and an enigmatic smile curved her full lips. She looked so exactly like a woman who’d just tempted fate that he grinned back.
“It’s just a dance, Mrs. Hobbs. I’m not going to devour you,” he said, not entirely certain that was the truth.
She laughed and moistened her lips as he led her into the dance. “It’s just that…it has been a while, Mr. Hunt.”
“Really? How long?”
She shook her head. “So long I cannot remember. Six, seven years?”
“Ah, since your husband died.”
“Long before that. I…we did not mix in society much. My husband did not like to dance, and he did not like me to dance with others.”
And yet, as they danced, he’d have sworn dancing had been second nature to her. “Where was that? London?”
“Yes. It seems like another lifetime ago.”
He found it hard to believe that he could have missed her, even in the height of the seasonal crush. He had no doubt she was a part of the ton, even if only on the periphery. Could she have come to town when he was away on business?
“You have not forgotten a single step,” he said, and led her into a quick turn.
She tilted her head back and laughed. “I shall hope I keep my balance.”
“Follow my lead, Mrs. Hobbs. I shall keep your balance.” He should be doing his job—meeting and charming the locals, ferreting out information about the islanders, pirates and the leeward side of St. Claire—but he didn’t care. He’d rather dance with Mrs. Hobbs than breathe at the moment.
“How long have you been on St. Claire?” he asked, still curious how he had ever missed meeting her in London.
She glanced away and sighed. “A little more than five years.”
“Less than ten?”
He felt her resistance to his questions in the stiffening of her spine and her unwillingness to meet his gaze. Mrs. Hobbs was hiding something. He’d seen the signs too many times to be fooled by it now. He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, most of the English occupants of the West Indies were hiding from something or looking for a fresh start. Had she just wanted to find a life away from painful memories after her husband died?
He glanced sideways at her hand on his shoulder. Her wedding ring was gone. That was interesting, as was her pretty blush when she noticed the direction of his gaze.
The music ended and he released her with a reluctant sigh, remembering his promise to deliver her to the governor. He offered his arm and led her toward the reception line, which had halted in his absence.
“Ah, here you are,” Bascombe said as they approached. “We’ve been waiting for you, Lockwood. But now that I see what has delayed you, I completely understand.”
“Lockwood?” Mrs. Hobbs looked up at him in surprise.
“Oh? I thought you’d been introduced.” Bascombe looked between them with a touch of reproach, as if to say that they shouldn’t have danced without a proper introduction. “Lord Lockwood, may I present Mrs. Daphne Hobbs? Mrs. Hobbs, please meet Reginald Hunter, Lord Lockwood.”
Unbelievably, Hunt saw a veil drop over her features, as if she had just shut herself off from him. She performed a graceful curtsy and bowed her head. “Lord Lockwood. So pleased to meet you.”
If they had not been surrounded by people, he might have told her to call him Reginald, Hunt or Lockwood, but not Lord Lockwood, or my lord, or sir, or any of the other words that would put distance between them. He bowed, lifting her hand to his lips. She met his gaze over her hand and her expression was guarded. When he released her, she moved away, as if she’d been just another guest waiting in line to meet him.
Oh, no. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment, but he was not about to let her close him out so easily.
Daphne sipped a glass of wine as she stood in the shadows and watched the reception line dwindle. Whatever tryst or liaison she’d fantasized about with Mr. Hunt was now an impossibility. As Lord Lockwood, he would mix with the same society she had fled. He would have heard the scandal concerning her. She was not naive enough to think such a delicious bit of gossip would have been hushed up. She would wager everything she owned that Lord Lockwood would know the name Lady Barrett. It was not every day a peer’s wife murdered him and escaped the country with his family’s jewels and the heir to the title.
As soon as she could make her plea to Governor Bascombe, she would excuse herself and leave. Furthermore, she would ask Hannah to wait on Lockwood if he came to Pâtisserie again. She would immediately remove herself as far as she could from his notice. She’d only been successful in remaining undiscovered all these years by avoiding encounters such as this.
Finally, Gov
ernor Bascombe exchanged a few words with Lord Lockwood and moved away, leaving Lockwood with the chargé. She seized the opportunity and went forward to take the governor’s arm.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she said as she led him toward a balcony overlooking the bay.
“Not at all, m’dear. Thank you for coming. You’ve always refused, and that’s what I told Lockwood.”
“The invitation was his idea?”
“Imagine my astonishment to learn that you’d never been formally introduced. Ah, well, that’s fixed now. A very clever way for him to arrange a proper introduction. I think it’s plain that you can expect even more attention from Lockwood.”
Daphne looked over her shoulder to see Lockwood deep in conversation with a local planter. How extraordinary that he would request an invitation for her.
But she could not think of that at the moment. A quick glance right and left assured her that they were quite alone on the balcony. “Actually, I wanted to speak with you, Governor Bascombe. I have a favor to ask.”
“Well, now. I hope it is within my power to grant.”
“The favor is for a friend of mine. Captain Gilbert. He makes the run from London to Washington and St. Claire, and then back to London. He is here at least three times a year.”
“Yes. I’ve met the man. Quite competent.”
“I’m glad you think so, sir. You see, I thought it might make good business sense to offer him a patent to carry official government documents.”
The governor just stared at her, speechless. No doubt he was not accustomed to women meddling in state affairs. This was going to take a little finessing.
“I am concerned, sir, that Captain Gilbert may discontinue the run if it is not more profitable. As he is one of the most reliable shippers to make port in St. Claire, I think it would be expedient to make him the offer. I must say that I depend upon him for my supplies of untainted flour and a number of spices. He has even been known to take small orders for cloth and other items. I’m certain there are some items that you and Mrs. Bascombe have come to rely upon. Surely it would be a detriment if he should forego St. Claire in the future.”
Indiscretions Page 3