Gail Ranstrom - Indiscretions

When she’d soothed the toddler, she put him back in his bed and returned to her room. Barrett still lay facedown and unmoving in front of the fireplace. There was a wide split on the back of his head and his skull showed through a gap in his hair. A widening puddle of blood had formed on the hearth. A clock in a distant part of the house struck midnight.

Her stomach convulsed. She had killed her husband! She groped for the chamber pot, emptied her stomach and then wiped the cold sweat from her forehead. There would be hell to pay! Barrett’s younger brother, Alfred, would take William away, then see that she was arrested and hanged. Alfred had always been ambitious for his own sons. Elise would not put it past the man to eliminate William so his own son could inherit the title and wealth.

No. No, she wouldn’t let that happen. She staggered to her dressing room and donned a dark blue dress, then pulled her valise down from an upper shelf. With no particular plan, she threw a few serviceable gowns and the contents of her jewel chest into the case, then carried it to William’s room and packed the necessary items for him. There would be a ship leaving the docks. Any ship. It didn’t matter where it was going. She’d go to hell if she had to.

London

September 1, 1820

R eginald Hunter, sixth Earl of Lockwood, regarded the undersecretary of the Foreign Office with doubt. “I don’t know, Lord Eastman. I’m with the Home Office. How can I help you?”

“The lines between the Home and Foreign Offices have blurred recently, especially in the West Indies. St. Claire is a British colony, which would put it under the auspices of the Home Office, but since we are dealing with other nationalities and subjects, the Foreign Office has taken charge.”

Hunt settled into the deep overstuffed chair across from Lord Eastman and accepted a small goblet of brandy from the footman. What could the man be about to say that required them to meet at their club instead of the government offices? Either Eastman wanted him drunk, or he had a concern with security at the office.

He cupped the goblet in his right hand and warmed the deep red liquid. “Did Castlereagh inform you that I’ve tendered my resignation to the Home Office?” The last thing he wanted on the eve of his retirement from public service was to become embroiled in someone else’s problem. He’d paid his dues, and an extra measure besides. What more could they ask than his soul?

“Yes, your resignation.” Eastman nodded. “That’s why we were hoping to persuade you to join us.”

“Thank you for the confidence, but why would I trade one dangerous job for another? I’m weary of risking my life at the turn of a corner. And now that we’ve finally dealt with—”

“The white slaver. Yes, heard about that. Just a week or so ago, wasn’t it?”

“That was the last loose end. I can quit in good conscience now, take my seat in the Lords and settle down.”

Eastman sipped his own brandy. “You’ve barely reached your apex, Lockwood,” he said, using Hunt’s title. “This assignment is a little plum. Easy as pie and something you could do in your sleep. Think of it as a holiday.”

In his experience, nothing the government asked of him was that simple. “Then have someone else go on holiday.”

“Has to be done on the hush. Very sensitive, as it is a part of an ongoing investigation. You’re known for your discretion.”

Discreet? Is that what they were calling assassins now? Would discretion reclaim the soul he’d forfeited to do the dirty but necessary jobs that other men refused?

Ah, but he was intrigued in spite of himself. And now he was sure the Foreign Office had a traitor. Why else would they need a man of his “talents”? “Is your leak here or in St. Claire?”

Eastman frowned and lowered his voice. “We don’t know. We need an outsider for this, and your name came up since you have holdings in St. Claire. Only natural that you’d want to visit and check on your investments, eh?”

Hunt sighed. “Tell me about this ‘little plum’ you want me to look into.”

“Pirates.”

The 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.