Indiscretions

by Gail Ranstrom

  After Hunt. After lying beneath him, knowing his touch, his reverence for her body and his attention to her pleasure. To lie with Barrett now would be profane. She shivered just thinking of it.

  “You promised I could see William next week,” she reminded him. “If you do not produce him happy and well, our bargain is void.”

  “And then what?” Barrett sneered. “What can you do? I’m within my rights to discipline my wife and my son in any way I see fit. Why, I can even have you brought up on charges of attempted murder, and I will, Elise, if you attempt to leave me. How often do you think you’d see the brat if you were in gaol?”

  “What?” she scoffed. “And have all of society know the details of our marriage? You may be within your rights to beat your wife and children, Barrett, but it is considered déclassé. Are you willing to face the polite censure I am enduring?”

  “After what you’ve done, no one would blame me. In fact, I think it is expected. Anyone would do the same. Half the ton believes I am a saint for taking you back.”

  “The other half thinks I am a fool for coming back,” she muttered under her breath.

  “You were more biddable before you had your little taste of freedom, m’dear. You didn’t talk back so much then.”

  “I am not the same woman you tried to kill that night, Barrett. I am stronger and I have learned to fight for myself. You will not like the woman I have become.”

  His expression turned ugly. “I did not like the woman you were. And what else did you have a little taste of, Elise? Did you spread your legs for another man? Did you give him what you refused me?”

  “Afraid you’d come up wanting in comparison, Barrett?” His grip on her arm constricted to the point of sharp pain. She would have bruises tomorrow.

  “Don’t bait me, wife, or you’ll be sorry.”

  She was already sorry. Sorry that she’d ever married Barrett, sorry that he hadn’t died when she’d hit him over the head, sorry that he’d found William. And— God forgive her—if she could, she’d do it all again, but this time she’d finish it.

  She could not even imagine the form Barrett’s vengeance would take if he knew about Hunt. Or if he knew that the moment he stopped watching her so carefully, she’d search for William, and when she found him, she’d do whatever she must to keep him safe this time, even if it meant killing Barrett.

  “Smile,” he warned. “Here come our host and hostess.”

  Hunt sipped his whiskey and listened to the faint strains of the orchestra as he watched Lord Eastman scribble the last of his notes behind the desk in Lord Bainbrook’s library. Looking up for verification, Eastman asked, “So you killed Rodrigo?”

  Hunt nodded.

  “One less parasite in the world, if you ask me,” Eastman muttered as he added another line to the report. “Thanks for managing that situation.”

  “It wasn’t an assassination,” Hunt told him, unable to summon any real regret. “It was personal.”

  A shrug was Eastman’s only reply. “And Blackpool?”

  “Not a pirate enclave.” He stood and went to the sideboard to pour himself another glass of whiskey. “More of a pirate sanctuary.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “There was no government that I could determine. No pirate lairs or hideaways. There’s an uneasy peace, often violated, and a brooding atmosphere. The only law is the law of lucre. Visitors are discouraged. No one appears to have a past or a future. In fact, the only conversations I heard were in hushed tones, and the violence was quick, and then covered over as if it had never been. Inhospitable.”

  “Would you recommend a bombardment of Blackpool?”

  Hunt fought back his raw anger at Layton’s death. There was no room for a personal agenda in such decisions. “I wouldn’t think so. The population is too small to make it worthwhile. Send a ship of the line to San Marco every month and word will filter to Blackpool. Eventually they will find the proximity to be bothersome and they’ll find another hole.”

  “Yes…” Eastman tapped his finger on the polished surface of the desk. “About that, Lockwood. Why do they allow it to exist? Isn’t Bascombe doing his job?”

  “I suspect Bascombe is deep in his cups half the day. Many of the duties fall to Mr. Doyle, the chargé there, though I gather he is hamstrung much of the time. According to Layton and a few of the natives, Blackpool is simply ignored as if it doesn’t exist. Easier, I suppose, than trying to enforce law there.”

  “Or could it be that Bascombe is in league with Blackpool or the pirates?”

  “I did my damnedest to make that connection, but I couldn’t find a tangible link. The only thing I can say for certain is that Rodrigo knew my name. That would indicate some form of communication between the two towns, would it not?”

  “That would be logical. But who is that person?”

  Hunt drew the moment out by taking a long drink of whiskey. When he’d taken this assignment, he’d have been willing to tell Eastman anything. Today, he didn’t trust anyone. There were several possibilities— Eastman among them. He had no doubt the information regarding ship movements was sent to Blackpool by someone in San Marco, and therefore the spy was either present or had contacts on the island. Expediency warned him to keep the information to himself. “Too soon to tell. I am exploring a few leads. Meantime, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about our conversation.”

  “Never think it, Lockwood. That’s why we called you in on this. Your discretion, you see. No one knows you are on assignment for us.”

  He laughed. “It is that we I am worried about, Eastman. Who are we?”

  “Auberville, and the secretary.”

  Lord Auberville? Hunt trusted him implicitly, and he trusted the foreign secretary, but anyone—everyone—else was open to scrutiny. “Is that why you asked me to meet you here? Still keeping me out of the Foreign Office?”

  Eastman stood and tucked his notes into his jacket. “Precisely. Now go enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m going home. I’ve barely been there long enough to change clothes. I imagine there’s a stack of correspondence waiting for me.”

  “Half your cronies are here tonight, Lockwood. Take a few minutes to say hello. Oh, and catch up on the scandals.” He laughed and shook his head. “Truth is stranger than fiction, it seems. Would you believe Barrett’s wayward wife has come back?”

  Hunt tried to remember the scandal. Something about the wife running away in the middle of the night, taking the only child with her. He hadn’t paid much attention at the time, since he’d never met the wife and despised Barrett and his ilk—brutish men who bullied their way through life.

  “She’s back, eh? Well, I might have to see this oddity.” In fact, he’d had just enough whiskey to be curious about what sort of woman would willingly return to Barrett. She must have been terribly down on her luck. Or dreadfully ill-favored.

  Eastman left the library first. Hunt waited a full five minutes before venturing out. He nodded to a few friends, had a short conversation with his brother, Charlie, promising to meet him at home later and then claimed a glass of wine from a footman’s tray. Time to go in search of the wayward lady.

  As he entered the ballroom, he noted a cluster of women whispering behind their fans. Ah, scandal was brewing already. He gathered Lady Barrett would be hard-pressed to find friends if she did not already have one or two in the aristocracy. He followed the line of their gazes to a couple standing with their backs to him, seemingly in conversation with Lord and Lady Bainbrook. Barrett was pinching the back of his wife’s arm, out of sight of his host.

  His gut twisted. The color of her hair? The slender line of her back? No, he was imagining things.

  “…this evening. Thank you for inviting us, Lady Bainbrook.”

  The voice. A chill of anger and betrayal swept through him. He could never mistake that voice. Questions, logical and otherwise, raced through his consciousness. Later. He would deal with his questions late
r.

  He stood behind the couple, nodding at Lord Bainbrook. Noting Bainbrook’s distraction, the couple turned, as he knew they would. Daphne’s eyes widened and a flash of terror passed over her face, so quickly gone that he realized he was the only one who’d seen it. That look, brief as it was, gave him great satisfaction—small payment for the pain she’d caused him.

  Barrett gave him a cautious nod. “’Lo, Lockwood. Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

  “Haven’t been around for a while,” he replied. He met Daphne’s widened eyes. Was that a plea he saw? Too bad. “I don’t believe I have met your…wife?”

  If Barrett was discomfited by Hunt’s lack of a formal greeting, he recovered quickly. “Oh, of course.” He turned to Daphne and said, “Madam, may I present Reginald Hunter, the Earl of Lockwood.” He turned back to Hunt and continued the introduction. “Lord Lockwood, may I present my wife, Elise, Lady Barrett.”

  So that was Daphne’s real name? Elise? She offered her hand, looking as if he might bite it. Ah, but he had much more interesting plans. He took that delicate hand, still roughened from hard work, bowed over it and lifted it to his lips. Her fingers trembled like a sparrow’s heartbeat. Deliberately, insultingly, he lingered over the kiss, releasing her hand only after Barrett cleared his throat.

  “Charming,” he pronounced as he turned back to Barrett. The man looked angry, but no angrier than Hunt was. Barrett was a viscount and Hunt outranked him in the peerage. There was no question of Barrett issuing a challenge unless Hunt’s attentions to the viscountess were far more blatant. That was coming. “Where have you been keeping yourself, Madam?”

  Elise’s lips parted in a gasp. Lord Bainbrook and his wife excused themselves quickly and turned away. He smiled with satisfaction.

  “I… I—”

  “She’s been away, Lockwood.” Barrett shot his wife a nasty look and Hunt was almost sorry for her. Almost.

  “Ah, away,” he repeated. “May I have the next dance, Madam?”

  “I—”

  “My wife does not dance, Lockwood. Never has.”

  Hunt gave the woman in question a smile. He and Elise knew that to be a lie. She had waltzed with him at the governor’s mansion and had followed his every lead with grace. He watched her face for any sign of denial, but a mask had dropped and he might have been watching a statue.

  “What a great pity,” he said at last. “We shall have occasion to meet again, eh?”

  His less-than-subtle suggestion had the desired effect. Barrett’s brow lowered ominously and Elise’s eyes widened. Oh yes, she’d come looking for him. If for no other reason than to beg him to stop his baiting.

  He bowed sharply at the waist and walked away.

  But she did not come to find him. Not her fault, he supposed, since Barrett didn’t let go of her arm until they were ready to depart—almost as if the man were afraid she would bolt again. But he had seen no signs of mutiny in Elise. In fact, he’d seen no signs of life at all beyond her trembling hand. Clearly, she was afraid Hunt would betray her. As to that, he was still undecided.

  Back in Bainbrook’s library, Hunt helped himself to another glass of his host’s excellent whiskey and sat in one of the leather chairs before the fire. He hated having the answers to his questions within reach and still denied. Why had Elise left St. Claire without a word? Why had she lied about who she was? Why had she given herself so sweetly to him when she could never be his? Had it all been a lark to her when it had meant the world to him? She’d made a colossal fool of him.

  He’d done all manner of dark deeds in the name of God and Country—he had been conscienceless, killed, stolen and even kidnapped the enemy. He had done the dirty jobs no one else would take. Jobs that eroded one’s soul despite their necessity for the safety and security of the nation. But he’d never added adultery to his list of sins. Until now. Until Elise.

  God, there was nothing left in him now that was untainted. Nothing sacred. What few scruples his country had left him, Elise had stolen. He swallowed the whiskey and closed his eyes, relishing the burn as it traveled down his throat and heated his gut. Would that it could scald the anger and shame from him.

  “You’re looking grim, Lockwood.”

  He opened his eyes to find Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville, at the sideboard pouring himself a brandy. He groaned. “Go away, Sinclair.”

  “And let you wallow in whatever the problem is? What sort of friend would I be?”

  “Better than you know. My thoughts aren’t fit to speak aloud.”

  “Ah. A woman.” Sinclair sat across from him. “I’d say you are in deep.”

  “Drowning,” he admitted. “Tell me about Lady Barrett and do not ask me why.”

  Sinclair’s right eyebrow shot up and a wry smile curved his lips. “Very well. Five or six years ago, just before you got back from the continent, Lord Barrett was hit over the head. His wife, his son and the Barrett jewels disappeared. Though Barrett never said, conjecture had it that his wife had had enough of his escapades and escaped his yoke. He tried to preserve his reputation, but it was never quite up to snuff anyway. Now that she’s back—and the jewels with her, I might add—the gossip mill has it that she regretted her…ah, lapse of good manners, and has come to her senses. All very simple, and a tale told every day in some part of the world.”

  Come to her senses? She had preferred Barrett to him? Well, why not? His sins were doubtless darker, though less apparent. Yes, it all made sense now, down to the glittering diamonds circling her slender neck.

  Sinclair cleared his throat. “So, Eastman says you have information regarding our little problem.”

  “Little problem? I could wish it were little. Did he tell you what scant progress I’ve made?”

  “He said he was vastly encouraged by the way things are developing. No answers yet, but a narrowing of the possibilities.”

  Hunt glanced at the closed library door and lowered his voice. “I believe the problem has its source at very high levels and that the answers to our questions lie here, in London, and not the Caribbean.” He paused as he remembered giving Auberville’s name to Rodrigo. The pirate was gone now, but God only knew whom he might have told about Auberville. “By the way, stay out of the Caribbean until this is over.”

  Sinclair frowned but did not ask the obvious question. Instead, he asked, “You have not told Eastman your suspicions?”

  Hunt shook his head, then smiled when Sinclair gave a soft whistle. “I am going to track the insurance records from Lloyd’s, check bank accounts, perhaps engage in a little ‘investing.’”

  “Money. The root of all evil.” Sinclair raised his glass to Hunt in a salute. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Late the following afternoon, Hunt turned the key in the lock of his office door on Bow Street. It gave and opened easily. Everything remained the same—his desk, his chairs, the one dingy window high in the wall that admitted light from the grate on the street above. He crossed to his desk and found a light layer of dust covering the blotter, stacks of papers and old reports. He had expected to find the office reassigned. After all, he’d turned in his resignation before taking the assignment with the Foreign Office. He sat behind the desk and uncapped the brass inkwell.

  “Damn! Howe said he’d seen you come in, but I did not believe him. Are you not supposed to be in the West Indies?”

  Hunt smiled at his brother-in-law. Ethan’s office was just a few doors down the hallway. “Just got back yesterday. How are you, Ethan?”

  “I am well, and so is Sarah. And you will not recognize the baby. Sarah will be hurt if you do not come to dinner tonight. She’ll want to hear the stories of your travels.”

  “Not exactly fit for a little sister’s ears,” he confessed.

  “How did that go?”

  He shrugged. “As I expected. Not a complete waste of time, but not particularly productive. Say, hasn’t anyone read my resignation? My o
ffice looks untouched.”

  Ethan Travis grinned and sat in the chair facing Hunt. “Look in your drawer.”

  And there was his unopened resignation with the secretary’s name on it. “How did this happen?”

  “He knew what it was and told me to put it away until your return. He thought you would change your mind. I tried to tell him that would not happen, but…”

  “He was right, Ethan. I have changed my mind.”

  His brother-in-law cocked an eyebrow. “May I ask why?”

  “It is possible that I might need to kill someone before this is over and, if so, I will need the connections.”

  Ethan was speechless. He stared at Hunt for a long moment before answering. “I can see you are not jesting. Is there anything I can do?”

  He gave a short bark of laughter. “Aside from killing for me, you mean? Thank you, but no. I’d like to wrap this up as quickly as possible. When I am done here, I am done with everything.”

  “That will make Sarah happy. I should warn you that she has a list of eligible misses that she is plotting to put in your path. She thinks one of her brothers should be married, at least, and you are her first choice.”

  Hunt opened the bottom drawer on the right of the knee well. The bottle was still there. He withdrew the brandy, uncorked the bottle and found two reasonably clean glasses. He poured a healthy draught for them both and raised his glass. “To eligible misses, none of whom will meet me.”

  Ethan looked wary. “Hmm. Were I a betting man, I would wager on my wife. She has a will of iron, you know.”

  “Yes, I do. But she has met her match. I have decided I am not marriage material. Andrew will have to provide the heir. Tell Sarah…no, I will tell her. What time is dinner?”

  “Eight.” Ethan regarded him with a speculative look. “Have you talked to Charlie since your return?”

  “Briefly. I had business out last night and we were to meet at home later, but I was gone longer than I planned. Haven’t run into him today.”

  “Did I hear my name?” His younger brother came around the corner into his office. He glanced at the glasses and gave Hunt a grin. “Any left for me?”