Daphne wanted to get home before dark. The trade had been very good today and all that remained was a loaf of plain bread, a few buns and three pineapple cakes. She would place them on the table in back, and the poor children from the wharves would take them away in the night.
Hannah was washing up in the back and called to her. “You go on, Daphne. Timmy will be bringing your gig any minute. I can handle the last of the customers.”
Her home was five miles from town, sufficient to provide isolation without desolation. She was hanging her apron on a peg as the shop bell rang, and she spoke without turning. “Sorry. We’re closed.”
“Just my luck.”
She turned at the sound of the rich baritone. The stranger had come for his change. Before she could think better of it, she smiled. “I’m glad you made it back.” She went behind the counter, opened the till and counted out his change. When she looked up, he was watching her in a most peculiar way. “Is there something you need, sir?”
“I am wondering what other delicious things you might have besides biscuits and tarts, Mrs. Hobbs. I’m thinking I’d like my change in goods.”
She laughed. “That would be enough to give you a tooth-ache. And I fear we’ve sold out of sweets but for a few pineapple cakes.”
“Then I shall have to come back. Keep the change on account,” he said.
She dropped his change back in the till. “Are you staying aboard the Gulf Stream, sir?”
He gave her that slow grin and shook his head. “I have business on St. Claire.”
She schooled her curiosity. “Then I hope you find our island to your liking, sir.”
“Hunt,” he said.
“Mr. Hunt.” The name suited him. He had the watchfulness of a predator. He seemed about to say something and then shrugged. “I already find St. Claire to my liking. I doubt I’ll be in town every day, but you may be sure I will come here when I am.”
Hannah appeared around the corner, making it apparent that she’d been eavesdropping. “Well, then, the widow Hobbs and I will be looking forward to seeing you,” she said.
Mr. Hunt grinned widely and bowed his head to Hannah. “Thank you, Mrs. Breton. For everything.”
“My pleasure,” Hannah said. She turned to Daphne and said, “Timmy is in back with your gig, Daphne. I’ll tell him you’ll only be a minute.”
The heat of a blush crept into her cheeks. She’d scold Hannah later, but the damage was done. And she marveled that Mr. Hunt had remembered Hannah’s name from this morning, though he did not look like the sort of man who would miss much.
He raised an eyebrow and said, “You’re young to be a widow, Mrs. Hobbs. I am sorry for your loss.”
He didn’t look sorry as he glanced down at her wedding ring. “Thank you,” she told him after a moment’s hesitation.
He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Good evening, Mrs. Hobbs.”
She stood there for a long minute, staring at Mr. Hunt’s back as he left the shop and mounted his horse. Oh, such strong calves, long legs and wide shoulders. There was something very…compelling about the man. Something that piqued her interest and caused a yearning she hadn’t felt before. She would have to be very careful around Mr. Hunt. Any careless involvement would have her at the end of a hangman’s noose in short order.
Even near midnight, the air was balmy and humid. The soft breeze was a sultry caress on his skin and the scent of exotic flowers overlay the tang of sea air. In the past ten years, Hunt had forgotten the night heat, warmer than a summer day in England. Even the tavern door stood open to catch an errant breeze. He took a deep breath and entered.
Like taverns everywhere, the Blue Fin was dimly lit and smelled of stale ale. The square barroom had a long counter at one side and two dozen tables scattered throughout. Hunt sat in one corner facing the door with his back to the wall, a habit he’d acquired after being knifed in the back by a French agent in a Marseille public house. He ordered a tankard of ale and placed it on the small wooden table in front of him. Half past eleven. Right on time.
A man of average height entered and glanced around. He was dressed in rough brown trousers and a stained blue work shirt. His long sandy hair was pulled back and tied with a black string at his nape. He was the very picture of a longshoreman. When his gaze met Hunt’s, he nodded. Hunt nodded back.
The man went to the bar and bought a tankard of ale. After exchanging pleasantries with the barkeeper, the man slammed his tankard down on the counter and headed for the back door with an excuse that he had to use the privy.
Hunt did a slow count to ten, finished his ale and stood. He dropped a small coin on the table, exited to the street and then rounded the building to the rear courtyard of the tavern. And there, waiting for him in the shadow of an ancient oak, stood Oliver Layton, clandestine operations, Foreign Office.
Layton glanced at the rear door to the tavern. “We’ve got about five minutes, Lockwood.”
“Good to see you, too, Layton. Have you found a more private meeting place for us?”
The man nodded. “West of town, just before your plantation, there’s a brick mile-marker. Off the road about one hundred yards you’ll find an abandoned hut. The track is overgrown, but there’s still a trace of it. Behind the center stone above the lintel is a pocket. Leave messages there. I will check for them and leave my own every midnight. If you need to talk to me, meet me there.”
Hunt nodded. “Bring me up-to-date.”
“Not much to tell. I’ve been in place a month. The locals are just beginning to trust me. I’ve hinted that I’d like to make more money and don’t care how. We’ll see if someone takes the bait. Do you have a plan?”
“Nothing firm beyond a reception to be given tomorrow night by Governor Bascombe and his chargé d’affaires, Gavin Doyle. I met with them this evening. They don’t know why I’m here. I gather Eastman fears the problem may have reached the highest levels. In the morning I’ll go to New Albion. I haven’t been to my plantation for ten years.” Hunt closed his eyes to remember. “Then…if I recall correctly, there is a mountain range that runs down the south end of the island. The mountains come down to the sea, and since it is the windward side of the island, the currents are fairly treacherous. Not much land over there.”
“What has that to do with us?”
“There’s a small town built on the cliffs. Blackpool. I hear they don’t like strangers. Something is wrong there. The captain of the ship I sailed on pretended ignorance of the town. I find that interesting,” Hunt told him. “Most shippers want to make the most of a port. If Blackpool has any goods to trade or any need of supplies, it would be a logical stop. That it isn’t on anyone’s itinerary is suspicious. I intend to pay them a little visit. Have you heard any gossip regarding the village?”
“The townspeople are strangely silent about the other side. It’s almost as if it doesn’t exist. I asked the harbormaster about ships from Blackpool, and he told me they don’t come here, and that our ships don’t go there. Then he made a cryptic remark about ill fortune to those who tried.”
Hunt
