He took a seat at the little wrought iron table and laid the newspapers on his lap. She knew he wanted conversation. He had once confided that he missed female conversation since he was always at sea and his wife had died many years ago.
“Tell me, Captain, how was your voyage and what have you been doing?”
He fell silent as Hannah brought a tray with a teapot, cups, sugar, milk and lemon, and a small pineapple cake on a delicate china plate. She raised her eyebrows at their silence and left as quickly as she could. Hannah would want an accounting of the conversation later.
Knowing his preferences by now, Daphne poured the tea and added a bit of sugar and a squeeze of lemon. He took the cup and sipped, then nodded his approval.
“Working hard, Mrs. Hobbs. It is becoming more and more difficult for an honest man to make a living. But I get by. Made enough last trip to carry me through another voyage. My underwriters are charging an absurd price to insure my cargo. Damn pirates.” He sighed and shrugged. “But what else can I do?”
“Not much, I suppose,” she agreed. “I fear goods from home are costing me dearly, too. You wouldn’t believe what I pay for tea, cloth, paper and ribbon.”
“Aye, it hurts on both sides, Mrs. Hobbs. Here and there. Wish there were a way around it. For now I’m just trying to carry the items most in demand in London. Pineapples, this trip. And parakeets and mahogany.”
“Have you considered applying for a patent to carry government documents? They wouldn’t clutter your cargo space and would provide a nice little bonus at the end of the voyage.”
“I did, in fact, apply in London, Mrs. Hobbs, but with so many naval vessels in the Caribbean, they have been providing that service.”
Daphne frowned. The Royal Navy did not provide that service for St. Claire. It was a rare occurrence when one of His Majesty’s ships put in at San Marco. Perhaps she could ask Governor Bascombe. Yes, she’d speak to the governor, and then tell the captain if the result was favorable.
The captain finished his pineapple cake and set his fork aside. He returned his teacup to the saucer and stood. “Now I’m off to arrange the repairs. I want everything in readiness for the arrival of the pineapples. They don’t keep well in a warm hold, you know. The ton pays a pretty price to have them on their tables, and I don’t want to dock with a hold of rotten fruit.”
She stood with him. “The repairs will require a week or two, will they not?”
“Aye.”
Good. She’d have time to talk to the governor.
“Oh, by the way, I’ve brought a Times or two.” He dropped the papers on the table and grinned.
Daphne affected surprise. “Oh! You shouldn’t have, Captain. But thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
He patted her shoulder as he passed her on his way down the alley. He never said goodbye. She wondered if that was a sailor’s superstition.
She gazed at the newspapers. There was no time to linger now. The chores of closing lay ahead. But tonight, at home, she would sit and read every word, savoring the little nuggets of gossip and the latest scandal to occupy wagging tongues—any news at all of her family or friends.
Chapter Two
T he sun was nearly setting and 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.