rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. “The pack of sea rats we’re looking for are bloodthirsty barbarians. I’m just a poor longshoreman. I don’t go looking for trouble and I don’t make any.”
“Or so they believe.”
Layton gave him a lopsided grin. “So far, at least on St. Claire, that’s the truth. My orders are to collect intelligence and stay out of trouble.”
Hunt nodded. Those were Layton’s orders, not his. The Foreign Office expected him to “handle” any problem on St. Claire. “Any word, any mention at all, of Captains Sieyes or Rodrigo?”
“None. It is as if no one in San Marco has ever heard of pirates.”
“They cannot be blind, deaf and dumb.”
Chapter Three
T he next morning, Hunt threw his coat across his saddle and left for New Albion, his plantation just west. Lush growth crowded the sides of the road while overhanging trees canopied the track, blocking the sun but not the early morning heat. The road ran parallel to the ocean and he could hear the soft hiss of waves through the heavy growth of mangrove and cypress. Distant screeches reminded him of the brightly colored birds in cages on the wharves destined for London drawing rooms.
That thought brought him back to the most exotic creature he’d seen yet: the tempting Widow Hobbs. Widow. Not married. Fair game. She’d have no illusions of a future together. She was self-sufficient and did not need him—a good thing, since he had nothing to give. They’d be free to enjoy whatever comfort the other could offer without impossible expectations.
When Governor Bascombe had insisted upon holding a reception for Lockwood, Hunt had requested that an invitation be sent to Mrs. Daphne Hobbs. The governor had merely smiled and warned that she never attended public affairs.
Too bad. She had made her own way in the world instead of catching another husband—which would have been an easy task for a woman of her looks and manner. She had a backbone. He liked that in a woman. But if she could not be enticed to attend soirées, he would just have to become Pâtisserie’s best customer.
A pair of wrought-iron gates, open to the road, bore the words New Albion. He turned his recently acquired gelding through the gate and proceeded down the track a quarter of a mile.
His first sight of the house surprised him anew. He hadn’t remembered it looking so typically like a British manor. Two stories, with tall windows open to the breeze, it was constructed of stone and covered with a verdant growth of flowering tropical vines. A row of small well-kept cottages formed a semicircle behind the house, and off to one side across a clearing were the barn and stables. The drive made a loop in front and he dismounted at the wide steps.
A short man with dark, slicked-back hair and a luxuriant mustache came down the steps to greet him. “Lord Lockwood? Good to meet you. I’m Jack Prichard, your factor. You had a pleasant voyage, I hope?”
He nodded and shook the man’s hand. “Uneventful, which I hear is a good thing.”
Prichard laughed. “Never know when you’ll encounter a hurricane this time of year.”
Hunt looked toward the cottages. “The staff?”
“And the workers. They are out on the plantation this time of day. Your trunks arrived and I’ve left them in the foyer until you decide where you want to stay. There is a room upstairs with a crossbreeze or, if you prefer privacy, the guesthouse.”
He would prefer privacy. In fact, he would require it. “Where is the guesthouse?”
Prichard pointed to a trail through the garden toward the sound of waves breaking on a beach. “Not far down the path.”
The factor signaled a waiting servant who entered the front hall, hoisted Hunt’s trunk to his shoulder and followed them. The path took them several hundred yards toward the ocean, but the destination was well worth the walk. Single story, long and low, the guesthouse was built on stilts with a porch surrounding the entire structure. When he opened the door, he was enchanted. Though the house was beneath the tree canopy, the ocean was visible through a wall of windows lining the front.
Prichard slid one window to the side, and then another, and fresh sea air swept through the house, making it feel almost a part of the outdoors. Polished native mahogany floors were interrupted only by rich Persian carpets and low rattan chairs with deep cushions that faced the water.
Hunt dropped his jacket over one chair and went to the other room. A wide bed made up in crisp linen sheets was partially shrouded by transparent netting draped from the ceiling. More floor-to-ceiling windows were open to the breeze. The only concession to cooler months was a fireplace in the wall between the outer room and the bedroom, open on both sides. The privacy would suit him well.
“Shall I assign you a personal servant, Lord Lockwood?”
“No servants,” Hunt said. No interference, and no witnesses to his comings and goings.
Daphne smoothed the rich plum silk in her lap. After trying the gown on, she’d only had to take in the seams a fraction beneath her bosom. She’d had the gown remade in Charleston, along with a few others, when she’d gone to visit William at school last year.
And now, with Governor Bascombe’s invitation to a reception honoring a Lord Lockwood tomorrow night sitting on her foyer table, she’d have the perfect opportunity to repay Captain Gilbert for all his thoughtfulness. She’d steal a private moment with the governor, request a patent for the captain to carry official documents and then count her debt to him paid.
The errant notion that she might encounter Mr. Hunt passed through her mind and sped her heartbeat. The mere thought of him was like an opiate—seductive, promising unknown delight, addictive. Dangerous. Every sensible thing in her warned her to stay away from the man. That anything else could bring disaster. That, should he have the faintest suspicion of who she was and what she’d done, all she had worked to build and all she loved would be forfeited.
No, the risk was too great to give in to the temptation that was Mr. Hunt. Nevertheless, and illogically, she twisted the wedding band off her finger, dropped it in her sewing basket and returned to her task.
Taking one final stitch and knotting the thread, Daphne put the gown aside. She arched her back and rolled her head as she stood. Her life since leaving London had been anything but sedentary and now she could not sit for long periods of time. She’d found forgetfulness and peace in hard labor. It was only in the quiet moments that the reality of what she’d become caught up with her.
The faint click of the kitchen door opening drew her attention. Olivia must have come back for something. The housekeeper was always leaving her supper or her mending before going back to the cottage by the gate to her property.
“Olivia?” she called. “What did you forget?”
When there was no answer, an uneasy shiver shot up her spine. “Olivia?” She snatched the scissors from her sewing box and whirled to the back hallway as soft footsteps approached. “I… I have a pistol,” she warned.
“Si, an’ you will use it, too.” A tall Spanish beauty appeared in the doorway. Her long dark hair hung loose to the small of her back and she had the confident look of a woman who knew her own worth. She gave Daphne a saucy
