Indiscretions Read online

  It had been months since he’d kissed a woman as enticing as this one.

  Slowly, allowing her to escape if that was her wish, he bent to her lips. To his profound relief, Daphne did not demur. When her lips parted ever so slightly, he was quick to take the gift she offered. Her mouth was plush and tasted of a subtle honey blended with flowers and heat.

  Lockwood met her tongue, shared his fire and hunger with her. A shivering sigh was her only response, as if she was struggling to regain her senses. Dear Lord, he knew he was lost. A single kiss, and he wanted her with an intensity that nearly doubled him over.

  Instead, she placed one trembling palm against his chest and pushed him away with a little gasp.

  What a sweet little fool she was if she thought they could recork that bottle. Once opened, that particular brew was too intoxicating to leave untasted.

  Praise for Gail Ranstrom

  The Courtesan’s Courtship

  “This book should not be missed.”

  —Rakehell

  The Rake’s Revenge

  “Ranstrom crafts an intriguing mystery, brimming with a fine cast of strong and likable characters and a few surprises.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  The Missing Heir

  “Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  Saving Sarah

  “Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England… If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

  —The Romance Reader

  A Wild Justice

  “Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”

  —The Romance Reader

  GAIL RANSTROM

  INDISCRETIONS

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and

  GAIL RANSTROM

  A Wild Justice #617

  Saving Sarah #660

  The Christmas Visit #727

  “A Christmas Secret”

  The Rake’s Revenge #731

  The Missing Heir #753

  The Courtesan’s Courtship #783

  Broken Vows, Mended Hearts #803

  “Paying the Piper”

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER NOVELS AVAILABLE NOW:

  #823 MISTLETOE KISSES

  Elizabeth Rolls, Deborah Hale, Diane Gaston

  #825 THE RASCAL

  Lisa Plumley

  #826 THE DEFIANT MISTRESS

  Claire Thornton

  For Shirley, Fritzie, Winnie and Sadie, who taught me

  all I needed to know about being a lady. And for

  Cheryl, Tanya, Christine and Sandi, who taught me all

  I needed to know about being a woman.

  And with everlasting gratitude to Lisa, Suzi,

  Eileen and Tracy.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  London

  August 11, 1815

  The second blow sent sudden pain racing along Elise’s nerves to explode in her brain. She cringed and raised her arms to protect her head. Striking back only angered him further. Oh, but the last little shred of pride and self-respect she still possessed demanded that she defend herself, no matter what the cost. No matter what the consequences.

  She skittered backward until she cleared his reach and then staggered to her feet. “No, my lord! Back away now, before I call for help.”

  Her husband laughed at her hollow threat. “The servants won’t come, madam. They’d lose their living, and they know it. And you, pathetic cow that you are, will not leave me because you’d have to leave your brat behind.”

  “Your heir,” she corrected.

  “Heir,” Barrett snarled. “You gave me a puny, sickly squalling little brat. That’s what I get for marrying a chit barely out of the schoolroom. But you’re going to remedy that now, aren’t you, Elise? Spread your legs and I might not hit you again.”

  He unfastened his trousers and bile rose in her stomach. His eyes were wild and his breath stank of whiskey. If he touched her, she would vomit. She’d had enough of his brutal lovemaking. She shook her head. “Go back to your mistress, Barrett. There is no comfort for you here.”

  He launched at her with a strangled cry. “By God, your brother did not warn me of your stupidity when I bought you. Give me value for my money. Do your duty!”

  Her back hit the wall, trapping her. A thin wail drifted from the adjacent room. Their voices had woken William. She turned toward the sound. The governess had quit after Barrett’s last fit of temper, and she hadn’t been able to find a replacement. “Let me go to him, my lord. He needs me.”

  “Your duty is to me, Elise, and ’tis time you learned it.” He turned and headed for the adjoining door.

  Terrified, she followed. “Wait, my lord. Let him cry. I… I will give you what you want.”

  “Aye, you will. When I’m done here.” He threw the door open and crossed to the bed. Seizing the three-year-old, he held him aloft. “Is this what you love best, madam?”

  “Barrett, please,” she choked, fear clogging her throat. She tore off her wrapper, exposing herself in her thin nightdress. “Put him back and…and I…”

  “I’ll have it anyway, madam. It’s mine to take as I please.” He tucked little William under one arm and headed to the window. “But first I’ll rid us of this useless appendage.”

  Oh, dear God! He meant to throw William out the window and he was drunk enough to do it! He had his back to her and, without thinking, she seized a brass candlestick and hit him over the head. He dropped to his knees and William tumbled onto the woven rug, still crying and hiccupping.

  Barrett turned toward her, hatred in his eyes and a trickle of blood oozing down his cheek from his temple. “You will pay for that!” He staggered to his feet, the child forgotten in his fury.

  It was hopeless. Barrett was insane and he knew her weakness. William would never be safe. His lips drew back in a snarl and his hands stretched out for her. He no longer meant to claim his marital rights—he meant to kill her. She fled back to her room and he tackled her, bringing her down with a breathless thud. Her forehead hit the marble hearth and her head swam as blood streamed from the gash in her skin.

  Frantic, knowing that if he killed her there would be no one left to protect William from his father, she groped above her head, seeking anything she could use to stop him.

  She gripped the fire poker and rolled faceup.

  Barrett’s expression was a study in madness. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth as he ripped her nightdress away from her breasts. Sobbing, she brought the poker down on his shoulder and again on his head. And again. And again.

  He collapsed on her and was still, his weight compressing the air from her lungs. Still weeping and panting, she dropped the poker and pushed his weight to the side. She wriggled free, clutching the gaping sides of her nightdress together an
d using a shred to wipe the blood from her forehead.

  William’s cry was frenzied now, almost a scream. She half crawled, half stumbled back to the other room, gathered him up from the floor and held him close. Still in a daze, she crooned and rocked back and forth, murmuring reassurances.

  “Hush, William. Hush. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  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.

  Chapter One

  London

  September 1, 1820

  Reginald 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.

  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.