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.
She shivered at the thought. Or was it the rising wind? A cloud passed over the moon and she looked up to find the stars replaced by sudden dark clouds. A storm had whipped up out of nowhere. She glanced over her shoulder, dismayed to find that she had wandered beyond the boundaries of Sea Whisper and would be caught in the impending storm.
“Did you miss me, Mrs. Hobbs, or are you lost?”
She gasped and whirled toward the sound of the deep voice. There, before her, was the cause of her sleeplessness. Lord Lockwood. Her heart thumped at the sight of his bare chest. Strongly muscled, clearly defined, softly matted with dark hair and tapering into a narrow waist, it was the most stirring sight she’d ever seen. He was barefoot, dressed only in trousers, and those compelling eyes were watching her with a mixture of wariness and amusement as he twirled the stem of a white wild orchid between his index finger and thumb.
“Oh, I…what are you doing here, sir?”
“This is my land, Mrs. Hobbs. You are a trespasser, so a better question might be, ‘What are you doing here?’”
“You…own New Albion?” She’d heard of the absentee owner of the neighboring plantation, but she’d never expected to meet him. Indeed, she scarcely talked to the overseer, Mr. Prichard. How ironic that Fate had delivered Lockwood to her doorstep, or her to his. “Why did you not tell me last night when you brought me home?”
“I told you that you were not out of my way.”
“Oh,
