answer so surprised him that he coughed, drawing the attention of a few quiet occupants of the club library. He cleared his throat and whispered, “Easy? What the hell is easy about pirates?”
“The Caribbean is rife with them. These are a particularly ruthless and bloodthirsty lot and we need to put them down like the rabid vermin they are.”
And there it was. They wanted him to “put down” the rabid vermin. Need someone without a conscience? Bring Lockwood in. “I’m out of that business, Eastman.”
“We’re only asking you to gather intelligence, Lockwood. See if you can find out where the pirates are based and who is feeding them information and ship movements. Find our leak. And plug it.”
“They aren’t likely to be based at a single point. And you must know who their informants are by now.”
“Only that they are British.”
Hunt digested this information for a moment. “Why St. Claire and not Jamaica or Barbados?”
“We already have operatives there, but they are making no headway. We need someone with a perfect right and reason to be on St. Claire. Ask questions. Cozy up to the locals. The officials. Find out what they’re hiding. Only contact us if you have an emergency or urgent news, and go through me or my clerk, Langford.”
Hunt sat back in his chair and sighed. He hadn’t visited the plantation on St. Claire in ten years. Maybe it was time.
Eastman leaned forward. “It won’t inconvenience you too long, Lockwood. Present yourself to Governor Bascombe and his chargé, Mr. Doyle, for introductions. Poke around a fortnight. A month at most. If the opportunity presents itself, handle the problem. Then back to England and on with your life.”
Handle the problem? God, he wanted out. Out of the ugly underbelly of government intrigues and foreign machinations.
Apparently reading Hunt’s hesitation, Eastman tried a new appeal. “Every time a ship is taken or sunk, we hear the groans all over London. We wouldn’t ask if there weren’t so many underwriters losing their drawers over this and if prices for imported goods weren’t rising even as we speak.”
With a sinking feeling that he’d just been sucked into another vortex, Hunt nodded.
St. Claire Island, West Indies
October 9, 1820
Though the journey had been quick and uneventful, Hunt was glad to set foot on solid ground again. He had a full list of things to do today—buy a horse, call on Governor Bascombe, rent a room at the local inn and meet his contact—but first he needed to take the lay of the land.
He shrugged out of his woolen jacket and draped it over his arm. The first thing that struck him as he walked the streets of San Marco was how truly international the town had become. A mixture of languages and accents buzzed around him as he strolled the cobbled streets.
He found an inn, several taverns, chandlers, locksmiths, haberdashers and greengrocers. Midway down Broad Street, he spied a tidy stone building with a divided door—the top half open to admit the morning breeze—and a wide front window with Pâtisserie lettered in black script. At the bottom of the window, in smaller letters, was the information, Mrs. Hobbs, Proprietress. A baker’s rack stood in the window to display a stunning array of pastries and breads.
This would be a good place to start. Bakeries, as much as taverns, were often the hub of gossip and news. He’d once uncovered a pickpocket operation being run out of a bakery in Cheapside. He opened the lower half of the door and entered, setting the shop bell a-jingle. A mouthwatering smell wafted from the back and, along with the sound of feminine laughter, enticed him.
A woman, using a towel to protect her hands from burning, carried a tray of biscuits from the back room. The task had her complete attention as she slid the pan onto the counter, and Hunt used the moment to study her.
Mouthwatering. Yes. Exactly. Sleek brown hair that fell halfway down her back and glinted streaks of sun was tied at her nape with a green ribbon. Her figure was neither thin nor stout, but definitely voluptuous, and a soft smile lifted the corners of those full rose-tinted lips. She was somewhere in her midtwenties, a head shorter than he and, when she turned toward him, he was stunned by the deep green eyes that rivaled her hair ribbon. Her features were a study in perfect symmetry. Greek sculptors would have done mayhem to carve her likeness.
A blush stole up her cheeks, a sure sign she had noticed his interest. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked as she wiped her hands on a crisp apron. “I’m Mrs. Hobbs.”
Yes. Dear God, at least a dozen things she could do for him, and several she was doing at this very moment without even trying. Even her voice raised the fine hairs on his arms.
“Sir?”
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’ve come for something sweet.”
She smiled again, but this time his heart bumped. Then she glanced away, almost as if she were afraid to look at him too long. “Sweet? Well, then, we have cherry and blueberry tarts, buns with cinnamon and raisins, sweet biscuits, lemon and ginger biscuits and, if you care to wait, biscuits with a wee bit of chocolate. Oh, and pineapple cakes.”
While he was still mulling over his choices, another woman peeked out from the back room. Shorter, plumper and younger than Mrs. Hobbs, this woman was almost as lovely. He had the sudden notion that the wares at Pâtisserie could taste like chalk and the bakery would still do a brisk business.
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?”
