Gentleman's Trade (12 page)

Adeline paled but remained silent.

“Hugh and I have had doubts about Wilmot. Hugh has even volunteered to be cannon fodder to draw Vanessa’s attention away from Wilmot.”

Adeline smiled. “I don’t believe that will be difficult.” Trevor cocked an eyebrow in inquiry.

“I think my sister is more than halfway in love with Mr. Talverton.”

Trevor’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, really. I feel the same interest in her from Hugh. Perhaps my continued show of interest in Vanessa may be just the trick to get him to appreciate his feelings.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because long ago he and I were both suitors for Julia’s hand, and Hugh has never been one to take defeat easily. This time he just might exert himself to be certain he doesn’t lose again.” He looked down at Adeline tenderly. “Oh, but I would like to declare myself for you.”

She smiled back. “Soon, my dearest love, soon,” she said, choking slightly.

Trevor pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

“I cannot find her anywhere!” proclaimed Paulette, sweeping into the parlor.

Trevor and Adeline sprang apart.

“Now, where is everyone?” demanded Paulette.

Adeline sighed with relief and looked ruefully at Trevor. “Mr. Danielson and I are out here.”

Paulette came to the door. “Oh, is she in
le jardin!”

“No,” Adeline said, moving past her into the room, “we didn’t see her out there.” She sat down by the quilting frame and bent her head to set some more stitches.

“Mon Dieu,
where can she be?” Paulette asked.

Trevor shrugged and sauntered over to stand by the fireplace. Just then they heard voices from the hall, and Paulette turned expectantly toward the door.

Amanda Mannion was still chattering to Mr. Wilmot as they came into the room, chastising herself for her runaway tongue. She hastily rang for refreshments, sat down next to Adeline, and waved everyone else to dispose themselves at their leisure.

Paulette sat down, then bobbed up again. “But where is Mr. Talverton?”

“Right here, Miss Chaumonde,” he said from the doorway. He crossed the room to her side and sat down.

“It is unfortunate Miss Mannion will not make an appearance,” he said to the room at large, seemingly oblivious to the various tensions in the air. “I really am quite interested to know how well the raw beef worked.”

Late the next afternoon, Hugh Talverton sat slumped in a scarred wooden chair in the bar room at Maspero’s Exchange, absently contemplating the sawdust clinging to the toes of his boots. In another hour, the cavernous room would burgeon with merchants, town tulips, and swashbuckling filibusters. Then there would be a raucous energy throughout the building as the rafters sang with loud voices filled with hilarity and anger, or creaked with the whispered plans for some illegal or noble endeavor. Now it was quiet; the few who sat at scattered tables, far apart from others, talked in hushed tones.

Hugh sat there the better part of an hour, attempting to sort his thoughts into some semblance of logic. His frown deepened, and his eyebrows pulled together creating furrows across his wide forehead. Hugh didn’t like the strange maze he walked. It lacked the formal elegance and precision of an English garden maze. There was an unseemliness to its twisted paths, an unseemliness relieved solely by the brightness of Vanessa Mannion. Her father did well to call her his bright star. There was a vibrancy about her that heightened Hugh’s senses and stirred a heretofore unknown protectiveness within him.

He grinned sardonically as he realized Shakespeare’s
All’s Well That Ends Well
might be the source of Mannion’s phrase. He looked up at the ceiling and silently mouthed the lines:

‘Twere all one That I should love a bright particular star And think to wed it, he is so far above me. . .

He was certain Shakespeare would appreciate the irony, for those were the words the lowborn Helena said regarding the highborn young count she loved. In the reality he faced, Hugh felt those were his words; in these United States, he was the interloper without position.

The tenor of his own thoughts stunned him. Love? Wed? What paths were his mind and heart taking? He shook his head and straightened in the chair, looking about to signal a waiter for another drink. His maudlin thoughts on the dark maze tricked his senses. He was not hanging out for a wife. To entertain himself in New Orleans with a dalliance was acceptable, but a wife? He shuddered convulsively. She was Trevor’s chosen and they’d deal admirably, he told himself forcibly as he caught the attention of the waiter and conveyed his request. It was his duty to aid his friend in clearing the path, not clutter it as he had with Julia. Years in the military had taught him well the responsibilities of doing one’s duty.

Now, it was also his duty to untangle the skein of Mr. Wilmot’s plans and save the Mannions if he could, for that had to be Richard Mannion’s reason for confiding in him. He held that confidence dear, and not readily would he divulge his knowledge, not even to Trevor. For some reason, he had been given a mandate, a sacred trust, to lead the family out of the maze. It was a trust he would honor. The question was, how?

He accepted another glass from the hovering waiter and took a long drink. He closed his eyes, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he thought. His other hand dangled by his side, the glass loosely held in his fingertips. He drew in a deep sighing breath and expelled it slowly.

His best course was still perhaps the one he laid out for Trevor. Mannion felt his best recourse was to prevent a relationship from developing between Vanessa and Wilmot, without arousing Wilmot’s suspicion and thereby causing him to force matters to his satisfaction. If he could do this during the time prior to their summer departure, Vanessa would then be removed from Wilmot’s grasp for the duration of the summer and by the time she returned, Mannion expected to have the funds to repay the purchased notes.

There was one major aspect of Mannion’s plan that was faulty, and Hugh could not believe Richard did not see it. Vanessa now held Mr. Wilmot in fear and disgust. He saw that yesterday in her father’s library. Hugh doubted the gentleman could overcome her newfound abhorrence. Vanessa operated within her own very strict sense of personal rules. They could be bent but not broken, and Wilmot quite effectively broke those unwritten rules by his behavior the night of the play. Not for the first time did Hugh wonder what possessed the man to so ill judge an action.

Hugh did not believe Wilmot was likely to win the fair Vanessa with honeyed words. He doubted the man was even capable of uttering such speech. Wilmot’s only recourse was blackmail. He could threaten her father and therefore blackmail her into marriage to obtain financial safety for her family. Knowing Vanessa, Hugh would be surprised if she did not succumb to that type of coercion. He doubted, however, that Wilmot would play his hand too soon; a willing bride would be preferable to an unwilling one. In the meantime, he may rethink his strategy and begin plying his charm with a trowel. But he could only do this if he was in Vanessa’s orbit, preferably alone. In company, he could not achieve his ends. Consequently, Hugh’s first priority was to be constantly upon the Mannion’s doorstep.

It may also be wise to continue to adopt his slightly jovial, quick-to-temper-and-hurt demeanor. It will be interesting to see what Wilmot makes of the mien, Hugh thought sardonically since he could not see himself cowering and bowing prostrate before the man, a circumstance Hugh was confident Wilmot was unused to. It would put him slightly off stride.

Hugh’s second order of business would be to subtly encourage Trevor to press on his investigations into Wilmot’s character and dealings within the town. He needed to know the extent of the man’s clout. It may end up being wiser to move Vanessa farther afield than a summer home, and send her to some other part of the United States.

He shifted in his chair and stretched languidly. The level of noise in the bar room was increasing, its haven for thought evaporating. He rolled his head to get the kinks out of his neck and opened his eyes.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d fallen asleep,” said Russell Wilmot sitting in the chair opposite him, his lips curled in a travesty of a smile.

Hugh started, nearly dropping his drink. What was the damned man doing here? Hugh faked a yawn to play for time to gather his wits. “I almost was,” he said ruefully, his agile mind wondering what the man’s game was, and how long he’d sat opposite him. He didn’t enjoy surprises like that. They set his teeth on edge. What was damnable was the fact he’d not heard the man approach. He’d not been out of the service a year and already his instincts were failing him. Time was when he slept so lightly he heard the slightest rustle of fabric, footfall, or expelled breath and leapt to his feet.

He smiled congenially at Wilmot, though inwardly his thoughts were hardly friendly. All his senses were jinglingly alive, as if to belatedly make up for the lapse that had led him to be surprised at Wilmot’s appearance. The man’s expression was feral as he sat before him, idly swinging his leg. His black clothes were austere, but expensively made, and the diamond winking at him from the folds of his cravat was no cheap bauble. He had a powerful frame, his hands showing a roughness that proved the man was no stranger to hard work. Hugh’s nose twitched slightly as a strange, sweet scent wafted his way. He sniffed, thought for a moment, and then almost laughed, for the heavy rose scent emanated from Wilmot’s clothes. Obviously the man had not spent his entire afternoon locked up in an office perusing account books. He idly wondered about the woman who pressed herself up so close against him that her scent lingered. A mistress, more like. It might be amusing to turn Trevor’s investigation in that direction. Some mistresses could prove distressingly possessive and vindictive.

Hugh sat straighter in his chair, raised his port glass, and silently offered a salute in Wilmot’s direction. The man’s eyebrows twitched in dubious disbelief of Hugh’s action, yet acknowledged the salute with his own, and a half smile ghosting his lips.

Wilmot pulled a thick cigar out of his coat pocket and arrogantly waved the passing waiter to supply flint and tinder. The man rushed to obey. Hugh’s eyes narrowed. He realized Wilmot was well known at Maspero’s. He wondered if he came here to conduct his legal business, or if he was, as Trevor suggested, one of the filibusters who gathered to plot revolutions.

Wilmot clamped his teeth around the cigar and leaned back in his chair. “So, tell me, Mr. Talverton, what do you think of New Orleans?” he queried aggressively, without preamble.

Curious as to the man’s purpose, Hugh responded easily. “It is a fascinating city, sir, unlike any I have ever encountered.”

Wilmot barked a short laugh. “From what I have seen, Europe pales in comparison, my friend.”

“You’re a traveler?”

“Only by necessity. I have not the time for frivolous entertainment.”

“Ah, yes, hard work and all that,” Hugh said airily, aping the manner of some of the more flighty aristocrats of his acquaintance. “Trevor tells me you have made quite a successful business for yourself here.”

Wilmot’s brow furrowed at Hugh’s tone, yet he could not detect a trace of malice. “I have been fortunate.”

“Indeed,” murmured Hugh, touching his fingertips together in a steeple as he silently regarded the man.

“How long do you intend to remain in our city?” Wilmot inquired.

“Probably a few weeks more, at least until society retires to the country to avoid the contagion I understand is yours every year.” He shuddered deliberately, then warned himself against overplaying his hand when he saw Wilmot’s eyebrows twitch again. “I shall return come harvest, however.”

“You have plans?” An ash from his cigar fell to the table. Wilmot absently brushed it to the floor.

Hugh shrugged. “None formally. Unlike you, I think I shall travel for entertainment, see a bit of this country of yours. I’ve been thinking of heading up the Mississippi on one of those new riverboats and stopping at St. Louis.” He paused for a moment, the image of the congenial London rattle. “You certainly can tell the French influence in this area, can’t you, with names like New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and St. Louis. Your government made quite a deal when it purchased this land.” He smiled in his most charming fashion and took a drink.

“Yes, that rankled with you British.”

Hugh scratched the side of his head. “I’m not up on the political ramifications of all that. Think I’ll reserve judgment till I see this land of yours. I admit I’m interested in this peltry trade. Beaver fur is dear in England.”

“Do you care to try your hand as a trader or trapper?”

Hugh looked aghast. “Me? Neither, sir. But I don’t rule out buying. Might be able to make a tidy little sum on the side, other than the cotton.”

“With your interest, I’m surprised you don’t go upriver now. Mannion knows your requirements, so there can’t be much for you here until fall.”

This was the nub of the matter. Wilmot wanted him away from the Mannions. Was he also considered a threat? “True enough,” he answered easily, “but I’m staying on to bear Trevor company. It’s been eight years since we last spent some time together. We’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

“Ah, yes, the balls, the gossip, the women—”

Suddenly Hugh realized he played his role so well that Mr. Wilmot really had no notion he was other than a rackety London beau. Nonetheless, Hugh ventured Wilmot still did not know how to play him in the scheme he was hatching. He wagered he was still the wild card, and that made Mr. Wilmot a trifle nervous. Good. A nervous man makes mistakes.

Hugh nodded absently to Wilmot’s observation, then glanced around the room, as if suddenly aware of it. “Getting to be a sad crush in here, isn’t it?” he asked as a gentleman squeezed between his chair and the one behind.

“Maspero’s is a gentleman’s resort,” responded Wilmot as suavely as his gravelly voice permitted.

Hugh nodded again, tossed off his drink, and dropped some coins on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Wilmot, I’ve promised to meet Trevor near the marketplace. He promised to introduce me to another facet of New Orleans society.”

“Oh? And what might that be, the camp houses on Rampart Street or the stews of Girod?”

“Haven’t heard of those yet. I’ll have to ask Trevor,” Hugh lied.

“Where’s your spirit of adventure? Investigate them on your own. It will broaden your education.”

I’m sure it would, thought Hugh savagely. But he was not a man to be so naive, though he was amused at Wilmot’s clumsy attempt to trick him into endangering his own life in that rough part of town, haven of the keelboat men. His smile broadened, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “Mayhap I will,” he returned lightly. “Right now, Trevor’s to lead me on your equivalent of a stroll in Hyde Park.”

“Ah, yes, Chemin des Tchoupitoulas.”

“That’s it.”

“Perhaps I shall see you there later.”

“Delighted, and thank you for the company.”

“Anytime, Mr. Talverton, anytime.”

“Right,” mused Hugh as he turned to leave. It took all his considerable presence of mind to stop from turning around, or running for the door in fear of a knife thrown in his back.

Hugh followed the Rue de St. Louis southeast to Chemin des Tchoupitoulas, or King’s Road as it was commonly known. Across the way was the levee dotted with wood benches beneath graceful willow trees. Beyond lay the port where beautiful tall-masted sailing ships cast long shadows across squat ugly keelboats docked nearby. The wharf was quieter now than during the prime of the day, when people of seemingly all nationalities scurried about, shouting, as they directed business at the docks, handling such commodities as hemp, cotton, coal, food, tobacco, lead, and pelts.

Activity on the levee also assumed a slower pace, its face changing as the day changed. Elegant gentlemen, couples, and families strolled the levee, or sat beneath the willow trees. A few Negro women, with baskets on their heads, still wound their way through the people, offering refreshments and flowers, but on the whole, the mercantile activity of the day might only have been some far-away dream.

Hugh looked down the path, searching for Trevor’s lithe figure. He spotted him a block away, standing near one of the willows, talking to someone seated on a bench. He sauntered toward them, a broad smile lightening his features when he realized his friend’s companion was a veiled woman in an elegant apricot-colored walking dress trimmed with blond lace. He’d wager the woman was Vanessa, still hiding the small, mottled discoloration on her face. She was lucky, actually, that the bruise was so slight though he doubted she would have believed it a good fortune.