Indiscretions

by Gail Ranstrom

  “I think I’d like to go home now,” she said in a quiet voice. “I shouldn’t have come. I really am not comfortable here.”

  He wasn’t surprised at her decision. She’d appeared ill at ease except when they’d been alone. “I shall escort you, Mrs. Hobbs. Shall we find our hostess and make our apologies?”

  “After the drive from the governor’s reception, you know an escort isn’t necessary. And I think it would be slightly scandalous for us to leave together again. Wagging tongues, you know. Gossip is St. Claire’s favorite pastime.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. As much as he’d like to be with Daphne, he’d rather not leave the Grahams’ picnic. There were men here he needed to cultivate—exporters, importers and merchants. Men who would be privy to the shipping news, who might provide a sudden insight or a piece of the puzzle.

  Daphne must have sensed his relief, because she released his arm and made a small curtsy. “Thank you for helping me disengage myself from Mr. Doyle. I shall find Mrs. Graham and say my farewells.” She turned and hurried along the pebble path to the house.

  He watched, fighting the urge to call her back. A faint hissing passed by his right ear and then, without sound or warning, Daphne crumpled to the ground. For a moment, he thought she had tripped, or caught the toe of her slipper on a fallen branch, but there was something unnaturally still in her form. He had no conscious memory of moving, only of kneeling beside her and turning her to look into her face.

  A trickle of blood oozed down her cheek from an ugly splotch near her temple. The skin had broken in an erratic pattern, as if it had burst from impact. He dragged her into his arms and bent over her, trying to shield her from whatever had done this to her. He glanced around in a slow circle, narrowing his eyes to peer through the gloom. Blast the darkness! The only indication of anything wrong was a small round stone, gleaming with a wet patch, that looked out of place on the path.

  The guests broke into a spate of applause and the quartet began another set. He was about to call for a doctor when Daphne moaned and struggled to sit up.

  “Wh-what…”

  “Sh-h,” he whispered, then immediately wondered whether his instinctive reaction to keep this event secret was the right one. His instincts won out. They’d saved his life too many times to second-guess them now.

  He stood, lifting her with him. “Lie back,” he instructed. “I will deal with Mrs. Graham.”

  “I do not want—”

  “I will tell her it was an accident.”

  “W-wasn’t it?”

  He suspected there had been something quite deliberate about it. He could still hear the hissing sound. If one of the lads playing with a sling had misfired, surely he’d have come forward by now. But this was not the time to quiz Daphne about her enemies. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Before she could make much sense of what had happened, Lockwood had her in the gig and they were headed for Sea Whisper at a brisk pace, trailing Lockwood’s mount behind. She had a vague memory of him reassuring Mrs. Graham that all was well. That one of the boys playing in the woods that bordered the lawns had mistakenly released his sling in Mrs. Hobbs’s direction. No, no fuss, please, he’d instructed. He’d just see that Mrs. Hobbs got home safely. And, after he’d had Mrs. Graham wet his handkerchief to clean the blood from Daphne’s face, they’d departed.

  She was mildly nauseated and her head ached. A hard knot was rising where she’d been struck—so close to the temple that a half inch lower would have killed her. And again, she was in his lordship’s debt. She’d wanted to protest that she could see herself home, but when he’d put her on her feet for a moment, she’d swayed and nearly fallen.

  She knew he’d wanted to stay tonight, and that compounded her guilt. He’d rebuffed her feeble attempts at conversation and was concentrating on the road. He kept glancing over his shoulder and watching the mangroves on either side of them, almost as if he expected to encounter wild beasts.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked. “Nauseated? I think you have a concussion.”

  Entirely possible. “I am sorry to inconvenience you, Lockwood.” The gates of Sea Whisper loomed ahead. “Truly. This is far enough. I can make it the rest of the way. Please, I have importuned you long enough.” In truth, she did not like being in any man’s debt, and she’d never invited a man into her house before. She was not certain she wanted to do so now. She tried to think if there were things in her house that could betray her. Things that would tell him who she really was. But her head ached and she couldn’t concentrate.

  A grim smile curved the corners of his mouth. “Not a chance I’ll leave you looking so unwell, Mrs. Hobbs. You haven’t importuned me at all.”

  A polite lie? She held her tongue while he drove through the gates and she noted the light in Olivia’s cottage. This time he took her all the way to the house. Surely once she was inside and settled, he would leave. She attempted to stand and fell back into her seat, her head swimming.

  Without a word, Lockwood hopped down and came to her side of the gig. He lifted her out, carried her to the door and kicked the lower panel by way of knocking.

  She winced. “I do not have a butler, Lockwood. Or any servant living in. Just put me down and I’ll be fine.”

  He juggled her weight to free his left hand, and opened the door. Olivia had left a lantern lit in the front hall and Lockwood passed through into the parlor. “Where is your—”

  “To your right,” she said, beginning to feel nauseated again. If she could just lie down and be still—

  He was remarkably surefooted and had keen eyesight in the dark. He found her room without further directions and placed her gently on the bed.

  “I shall keep my back turned while you change,” he said, lighting the candle on her nightstand.

  She nearly choked. “No! I…am too tired. If…if you would just help me with my slippers, I will be fine.”

  He sat beside her, and lifted first one leg and then the other to remove her light leather slippers. His hands felt warm and seductive as he smoothed her skirts down again. That charming smile that was not a part of him was back. “You are quite safe, Daphne. I would not use this situation to take advantage of you. Let go,” he added. She couldn’t make sense of the request until he tugged his handkerchief from her hand. He went to the pitcher and bowl on her washstand, wet the cloth again and returned to her.

  “Lockwood, really, I am fine. You can go now.”

  “Sorry, m’dear, but no. I will be waking you throughout the night. In injuries such as yours, the patient can lapse into a coma from which they do not awaken.”

  That was a sobering thought. She lay still and tried not to wince as he dabbed at her wound.

  “I see you’re accustomed to this.”

  “Accustomed?”

  “This is not your first such injury,” he explained. “You have a scar just inside the hairline above this one.”

  Her heartbeat lurched. That horrible night came back to her in a rush— Barrett tackling her, her head cracking on the marble hearth, seizing the poker… Bile rose in her throat and she gagged.

  “Breathe,” he soothed as he braced her. “Breathe and it will pass.”

  After a moment the nausea receded and Lockwood eased her back to her pillows. She closed her eyes, exhausted and wanting to stop his questions.

  His shoulder propped against the doorjamb, Hunt watched Daphne sleep until he was certain she was resting comfortably, then returned to her parlor and poured himself a glass of sherry from the decanter on a small sideboard. He sat on the sofa, the only piece of furniture that looked sturdy enough to hold him. In a moment he’d unhitch Daphne’s gig and stable the horses.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Her injury puzzled him. It was an impact injury, delivered by a blow with something not sharp enough to cut the skin, but with enough force to shatter and even kill. His original impression of a rock and a sling was likely correct. But delivered by a careless boy
playing at Indians? Not likely.

  What was far more likely was that she had, by her association with him, found herself the victim of an attack meant for him. Someone must know—or at least suspect—what he was doing on St. Claire and either meant to stop him or give him a warning to cease.

  Damn. That would mean he’d been found out. But who knew of his errand on St. Claire? He and Layton. Eastman surely wouldn’t have told Bascombe—unless he’d hoped to draw the man out at Hunt’s expense.

  “Son of a bitch,” he murmured to himself. Eastman had used him as bait. At best, Hunt would discover the leak and plug it. At worst, he’d be dead and Eastman would know the information came from their agent, Layton, or Bascombe.

  So which one was it?

  “Perdition!”

  Hunt leapt to his feet and turned to face the intruder. A woman, her arms and legs akimbo, faced him. Her olive skin was flushed and her dark eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Where is Mrs. Hobbs?” she asked.

  “Who the blazes are you?” he returned.

  The woman did not answer and hurried down the hall to Daphne’s room. A moment later she returned, looking even fiercer and carrying a poker. “What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing,” he said, keeping his voice calm and in command. “She was at the Grahams’ picnic and was accidentally hit with a rock from a boy’s sling.”

  “You lie. Mrs. Hobbs does not go to picnics.”

  He shrugged. “Nevertheless. I drove her home but I did not think it wise to leave her alone.”

  “I am here,” she challenged.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Olivia Herrera, the housekeeper.” Poker still at the ready, she advanced another two steps. “And who are you?”

  Ah, this would be the woman who lived in the gate cottage. “I am Reginald Hunter, Lord Lockwood. I own the neighboring estate. New Albion?”

  Some of the tension drained from her arms. She lowered the poker to her side and eyed him warily. “Si? New Albion?”

  He nodded. “I am going to unhitch the gig and stable the horses. Then I am spending the night on the sofa. I suggest you go back to your cottage and get some sleep. Mrs. Hobbs will need your assistance in the morning.”

  “You should go, eh? I will spend the night.”

  Hunt grinned. “I am staying, Mrs. Herrera. You may stay or go, as you please.”

  And she did stay. He found a strong pot of coffee waiting on the sideboard when he returned from the stables. Later, as he sat on the edge of Daphne’s bed to shake her awake, Mrs. Herrera watched him from the door of the small bedroom adjoining Daphne’s. She gave him a wary nod and closed her door, as if to say she had decided to trust him.

  She shouldn’t. After the things he’d done—the trusts he’d broken and the men he’d killed in the name of God and Country—trusting him was like trusting a wolf to guard a lamb. He’d debauch Daphne in a trice if she were better. In fact, he planned on it.

  Chapter Eight

  “I do not think I like this new man of yours, querida.”

  Daphne winced with the dull headache and tried to push herself up against the pillows. “What new man, Olivia? I do not…” She stopped. Lord Lockwood, of course. She had a vague memory of him waking her through the night and making her tell him her name and his. He wanted to make certain she was lucid, no doubt, but the questions had annoyed her at the time.

  “Perhaps you do not have him, but he has other ideas,” Olivia informed her. “You know, querida, he has an interesting way about him. I do not know which surprises me more—that I followed his orders, or that you did.”

  Good heavens! She had. The thought disturbed her. She had fought too long and too hard to win her independence to forfeit it now.

  Olivia gave a deep chortle. “Ah, querida, you wear your heart on your sleeve, eh? I wondered…si, I wondered. But be careful. He is a dangerous man.” She put the lunch tray down on Daphne’s bedside table and helped her to sit up. “This Lord Lockwood of yours left orders that you are to have only liquids today, until the nausea passes. If you have dizziness, you must stay abed. I would do it, too, querida. Something tells me this man will be back to see that we have followed his instructions.”

  “P-Pâtisserie. Hannah will be wondering what’s become of me.”

  “I sent the stable boy to town to inform Mrs. Breton that you will not be in today, and perhaps not tomorrow. You need to rest, querida. I want you to have a nap after you eat.”

  Olivia placed the tray over her lap. Tea and broth. Lockwood must have inspired fear in Olivia if she’d followed his directions so assiduously. Daphne wondered what he had said. She had yet to find anything that intimidated the housekeeper for long.

  “Please bring me my mirror.” Gingerly, she pushed her hair back from her forehead to assess the damage. A huge knot of vivid dark blue pooled around the broken skin. She knew from experience that she would be able to hide the worst of it by parting her hair to that side, then shuddered, dimly recalling that Lockwood had asked her about that other scar.

  “Do you wish to lie down again, querida? Here, let me help you.”

  “No. No, I want to finish my lunch.” She steadied the tray and sipped her tea, sweetened with lemon and sugar. The broth was a little harder to stomach. Perhaps it was the salt. She tried again, determined to conquer her nausea. If Lockwood were coming back, she wanted to be presentable. And to give him no reason to spend another night.

  Hunt stared at his desk. The maps, notes and pens were precisely as he’d left them, yet somehow not as he’d left them. There was a subtle change that was oddly too exact. Almost as if they’d been moved and then replaced in a memorized order.

  He went to his bureau and opened the drawers one by one. There, too, he sensed that someone had gone through them. The care with which items had been replaced indicated the intruder knew he had ample time. Hunt had been gone all day, and then with Daphne all night. Prichard? One of the servants? An outsider?

  He returned to his desk and sat. One by one, he studied the maps and notes to determine if there was anything to indicate his purpose on St. Claire. He’d been very careful to keep any trace of his mission hidden. Naturally, he would have maps of his land and of the entire island. There were no notations of areas of interest to him—coves where pirates might lay in, places where rendezvous might be held, trails over the mountains to Blackpool. Nothing to betray him. Likewise, the papers were innocuous. He’d learned long ago to phrase everything in code.

  Questioning Prichard would do him little good. If the man were the guilty party, he would be prepared with pat answers. Yes, it would be wiser to lay a subtle trap to determine whether Prichard was responsible.

  On the other hand, if it wasn’t Prichard… He closed his eyes and made a mental list of anyone who could remotely be responsible. Layton, of course, because he knew why Hunt was on St. Claire. Governor Bascombe, because he appeared to have an interest in keeping Hunt from going to Blackpool and had suspicious, frequent absences. Captain Gilbert, because, as a seafaring man, he was bound to know more about the other side of the island than he was telling. Doyle, because…just because.

  And because Hunt had stayed alive by being a cautious man, he added Daphne Hobbs to the list. She couldn’t be personally responsible for the search of his things, but there was always her wary servant, Olivia Herrera. Daphne had secrets and a mysterious past. She could have reasons for her presence on the island, and other reasons for her sudden entry into society. Could she have made an enemy evil enough to injure her, as she’d been injured last night? Absurd! And yet he couldn’t dismiss the idea. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t afford to trust anyone and that Daphne had been someone’s target.

  He folded the maps, closed his journal and slipped them back into the drawer. The time had come to take action. The questions he’d asked had gained him only vague evasions. He had to turn this mockery of an investigation into something workable. His primar
y expertise was in managing a situation, not investigating it.

  He stood, pulled a strand of hair from his head, wet it with his saliva and placed it across the narrow gap between the desk and the drawer. If anyone opened the drawer again, he’d know it.

  Now, to bait the trap.

  After spending the afternoon touring the remainder of the plantation—beside Jack Prichard, to give his story credence— Hunt dangled the bait. “Prichard, could you have Cook pack two or three days’ supplies for me and also have a bedroll and oilskin ready by day after tomorrow?”

  “Aye, my lord. Are you leaving?”

  He smiled. Was that wishful thinking? “Just doing a little exploration. I’ve heard there’s a cove protected by a coral reef where the fish are extraordinary, and I’d like to see the waterfall on Mount Colombo.”

  “Oh.” The factor’s face brightened. “You will be amazed by the beauty. Yes, I will see to it that you have everything you need.”

  “Good. I finished my records and accounts this morning, so when we’re done here, I’ll clean up and go visit a friend. I shall likely stay in town tonight.”

  “Then you’ll be leaving St. Claire soon?”

  “Another week, perhaps. I’m close to making a decision regarding New Albion and may sell it.”

  “Do you have a buyer, sir?”

  “Not at the moment. Interested?”

  “If the price is right.”

  “Hmm. We’ll talk later, Prichard. For the moment, can you show me where the fruit is stored before it is shipped?”

  “Ah, yes. We do not keep it too long. We prefer it to rot on the docks at the shipper’s expense rather than at ours.” He laughed and shook his head. “It’s all in the timing, my lord. It’s all in the timing.”