Gentleman's Trade (4 page)

“This is our destination?” Hugh Talverton asked incredulously.

Vanessa stiffened at his arrogant tone and was forming a properly cutting return when Paulette answered.

“It is a most handsome
maison, n’est ce pas
?
Naturellement,
it was built by a Frenchman.”

“Really,” was his dry reply. He stepped back slightly to view the house.

“Speak English, Paulette!” Vanessa snapped, venting her annoyance with Talverton on her friend. He slid her an amused glance, then returned to his silent observation of the Langley home. To her chagrin, she discovered herself also studying the building. In truth it was a plain, unprepossessing edifice of peach-colored stucco, a house one might miss if unaware of its exact location. The only exterior hint of the family’s wealth and prestige lay in the ornate iron grillwork of the wide front gates.

Vanessa looked back at Mr. Talverton. He possessed a strong silhouette, softened only by a wavy mane of dark blond hair. His jutting, hawk like nose stamped the description “arrogant” on his features, as did his studied languid manners and sleepy-eyed gaze. She was certain he was silently making comparisons of the Langley house to London homes. If he was passing judgments on first impressions, the gentleman was about to suffer the first of what she privately considered to be many disillusionments. The thought brought an anticipatory smile to her lips and lit her eyes.

Hugh Talverton glanced down at her as they passed the lanterns flanking the gated entrance. For a moment her face was brilliantly lit before they stepped into the dark carriageway. Her expression fascinated him. It was the first time he saw her in bright light, and he was caught by the vibrancy of her features. They were not, individually, beautiful. Her nose was not classically straight and her gray-blue eyes, the color of the ocean’s horizon on a misty morning, were too wide-set; nonetheless, cast together and overlaid with emotion they were stunning. She was beyond a doubt endowed with a curious allure. In the dim and heavily shadowed passage, he found himself straining to see her and calling to mind aspects of her person that he remembered from when he held her in his arms.

He knew her hair to be brown; now he wondered what other colors would gleam in its dark depths when she stood in the light of a chandelier. Her skin was like ivory, but he recalled a delicate rose blush flaring across her creamy complexion when he picked her up in the street and stared down into her affronted features. In his arms, while she writhed and spat like an angry kitten, he felt the sweet curves of her figure through her voluminous short cloak. With wry self-abasement, he knew his grip on her had tightened as much to feel her form as to still her struggles. She had been within her rights to deliver a resounding slap. Any delicately reared woman of London would have done the same, if she didn’t first succumb to a fit of vapors or faint dead away. Strange. He couldn’t imagine this little American doing either, for she was an enticing combination of propriety, pride, and passion. Assuredly, Vanessa Mannion would make a bewitching wife for some fortunate gentleman. Dispassionately, he wondered why the thought disturbed him.

Playful tugs on his arm reminded him of the coquettish young miss at his other side. Miss Chaumonde pulled her hand out of the crook of his arm and gestured wildly in front of her as she skipped ahead. He looked up, following her lead, and was astonished at the courtyard they were entering. Festooned with lanterns, it reminded him of Vauxhall Gardens; however, the gardens in England never sported such exotic and perfumed flowers as filled every corner here. Camellias, oleanders, roses, and violets grew riotously amid meticulously sculpted bushes and small benches. At one side, elegantly gowned ladies, attended by Negro servants, were washing mud off their bare feet. Bemused by the view, he realized they had shunned even the low boots the women of the Mannion party wore. Though initially shocked, his mind adjusted quickly to the sight and, admiringly, admitted a certain practicality to their actions.

He felt Miss Mannion gracefully slide her arm away from him. He looked back to meet her amused countenance. The little minx knew the courtyard tableau would amaze him! Suddenly he felt as naive as a schoolboy seeing the wonders of London for the first time. It grated that she should so anticipate his reaction. He needed to recover and suppress her pretensions to success.

His eyelids drooped until he looked at her through narrow slits. “Interesting,” he murmured, one corner of his mouth turning up in a condescending smile. “I am at a loss to know how I shall describe this scene in letters home. Perhaps barbaric.”

“Barbaric!” Vanessa’s eyes flashed, and Hugh was suddenly reminded of an afternoon storm at sea.

“Too strong a word?” he asked innocently.

His tone did not deceive her, and she knew he was being deliberately provoking. Her mouth opened and closed as she fought against the urge to give him a blistering set down, sure her words would only fuel his humor. He was the most infuriating gentleman she had ever met. She could not believe he and Mr. Danielson could be close friends, for Mr. Danielson was the soul of gentlemanly conduct. From now on, she would be certain to remain out of Mr. Hugh Talverton’s orbit. He would not receive any encouragement from her to continue their acquaintance!

The quizzical expression arching his brow as he politely waited for her opinion suddenly gave way to a charming smile as he looked beyond her. Startled, Vanessa turned just as her mother appeared along with Mrs. Langley.

“Mary, I’d like you to meet Mr. Hugh Talverton, Mr. Danielson’s friend from England,” said Amanda Mannion, smiling warmly at Hugh. “Mr. Talverton, this is our hostess, Mary Langley.”

“It is a pleasure,” he said smoothly. “I hope you will forgive my presence at your home uninvited, but Trevor insisted.”

Vanessa thought his voice sounded oily and his smile looked contrived. She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips slightly to keep from commenting.

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense, Mr. Talverton,” Mary Langley enthused, patting his arm gently. “Mr. Danielson did just right. Why, if he had not brought you along and I’d discovered your presence and availability later, I can promise you Mr. Danielson would not be in my good graces. No, not at all.” She shook her head emphatically, silver-gray curls dancing around her face.

“Vanessa, Amanda told me of your accident,” she continued, scarcely drawing another breath. She glanced down at Vanessa’s dress and clucked condolingly. “Such a beautiful gown, too. It is a shame, these streets are so miserable. Why, did you know, just last week Madame Simone caught her heel on a warped board as she was starting to cross the Rue de Chartres. I hear she landed very inelegantly in the mud. I know she wrenched her ankle dreadfully, poor dear, and suffered the embarrassment of being carried home by two young men just leaving Maspero’s Exchange.”

Vanessa flushed to the roots of her hair at Mrs. Langley’s mention of being carried, but their hostess didn’t notice and she rattled on.

“She says she is still suffering mortification from the incident and refuses to go out. Says her nerves are exhausted. Can you imagine? Anyway, Vanessa, why don’t you use Susan’s old room? You remember, I’m sure, at the top of the stairs and to the right.”

“I’ll accompany you, Vanessa,” Amanda said.

“Oh, wonderful, simply perfect. And I’ll just take Mr. Talverton around and make a few introductions. This way, Mr. Talverton,” she directed, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward. “Now, you must tell me, what brings you to New Orleans and what do you think of our city?”

Vanessa laughed at the sight of the flighty Mary Langley taking the arrogant Mr. Talverton in hand. “I wager he’ll be lucky to say two words,” she told her mother.

Amanda merely smiled. She hooked her arm in her daughter’s, and they walked toward the grand stairway leading to the gallery overlooking the courtyard, and to the bedchambers beyond.

“That man is impossible. If all Englishmen are of his breed, it is no surprise this country broke from England!” Vanessa continued as they mounted the stairs.

“Remember, we are of English stock ourselves.”

“True, but Great-Grandfather Mannion at least had the sense to emigrate.”

“Don’t you think you might be too hard on Mr. Talverton?” her mother asked.

“Hard! Mama, don’t tell me you, too, have been taken in by his thin veneer of charm. The man does nothing but look down that beak of a nose at us. He finds us uncivilized and contemptible.”

“Indeed,” Amanda murmured as she led Vanessa into a pretty pink and white bedroom. “Ah, good, the hot water is here already,” she said glancing at a steaming copper bath set on the floor near the vanity. “Mary’s servants are extremely efficient. Here, let me help you with those fastenings.” She made short work of the gown’s closures and deftly pulled the garment over her daughter’s head without disturbing her coiffure. She laughed suddenly. “It is hard to warrant, but that petticoat does not have a speck of mud on it.”

Vanessa sat on a low chair in front of the vanity, removed her boots, then plunged her feet into the copper bath. “Oh, this is bliss,” she said, leaning back for a moment and enjoying the warm water.

Amanda picked up the soiled gown, examining its condition. “Your father wants you to be nice to Mr. Talverton,” she said noncommittally.

“Why?”

“He is in New Orleans to buy cotton contracts for some new, modern mill in England. It could be a substantial amount of business for your father.”

“Ah! I understand,” Vanessa said, leaning over to wash her feet. “I am to make amends for my breech of etiquette.” A disgusted smile twisted her lips. “Naturally, Mr. Talverton is not likewise expected to make amends for his behavior.”

Amanda pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “Of course not,” she returned lightly.

Vanessa shook her head at this hypocrisy, then she sighed. “All right, I promise to be sweetly pleasant should we chance to meet; however, I reserve the right to avoid him at all costs.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“What?”

Amanda laid the dress on the bed and picked up a towel, holding it out to Vanessa. “Your father is proposing a theater venture for Monday evening.”

“He doesn’t even like the theater! And what has this to do with Mr. Talverton?”

“He is to be invited, as is Mr. Danielson. Mr. Wilmot will be included, for his warehouses may be necessary for storage and as a staging area for the cotton bales.”

“Surely he would not expect us to accompany them. Look how he gets now if any whiff of a business discussion is in the air.”

Amanda held up her hand. “I know. I’m only telling you what was told to me.”

A soft knock on the door interrupted her. It was Leila with Vanessa’s gown of French blue thrown over her arm.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, that I weren’t here sooner, only after we set out, I remembered I didn’t have any of the gewgaws that went with this, particularly Miss Vanessa’s blue fan, so we had to go back. I hope I remembered everything.”

“That’s all right, Leila,” soothed Mrs. Mannion. “Vanessa has just now finished cleaning her feet. Your arrival was perfectly timed.”

“Thank you ma’am,” the dark woman said, sketching a curtsy before taking the new clothing over to the bed.

“I shall leave you two alone. You will both proceed faster without me. Vanessa, remember what I said about Mr. Talverton,” Mrs. Mannion adjured as she opened the door of the bedroom and slipped out.

“Well, Miss Vanessa, let’s get you in prime tweak. They’ve struck up the music and I tell you, even this old soul’s having difficulty keeping her feet still.”

Vanessa laughed, and walked forward to put herself into the woman’s capable hands.

Hugh Talverton stifled a yawn of boredom as he looked out across the room. The charming smile he’d adopted upon entering the Langley home faded as his mind wandered.

Mrs. Langley had perforce dragged him throughout her house, introducing him to all they passed, yet not allowing him time for more than a perfunctory “How do you do.” Names and faces blurred in memory. Finally she’d led him to the ballroom, only to seat him on a small settee by her side while she entered into a voluble conversation with a substantially endowed matron. The woman, whose name he didn’t remember, made Mrs. Langley appear a quiet and retiring speaker.

It struck him, as he looked at the ballroom’s polished cypress floor, that continued comparisons of New Orleans to London were meaningless. He noted, during his twisted meandering in the Langley home, that there was a sense of austere elegance in the house’s decoration. No seraphs or nymphs in varying degrees of dishabille adorned the ceilings. No intricate carvings of heavy wood, no gilt accent on furniture or walls, and most curiously, no heavy damask draperies cluttered the rooms. Odd. He’d never considered English decor as cluttered; however, seeing the Langley home somehow made him think of the fashion in England as suffocating. If he had to typify the Langley home with any style, he supposed it came closest to some of the estates he’d seen during the peninsular campaigns.