Gentleman's Trade

by Newman, Holly

  Gentleman’s Trade

  By

  Holly Newman

  Copyright ©1988, 2013 by Holly Thompson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover art and graphics by ADKDesigns.biz

  Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by Booknook.biz.

  Table of Contents

  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

  A Note From Holly

  CHAPTER ONE

  “And what are your expectations for the year, Mr. Danielson? Shall we ladies once again be able to find exquisite French laces and Chinese silks in our local shops?” Vanessa Mannion asked with teasing lightness before guiding a silver spoon full of fresh strawberries to her lips.

  “Oh, oui! And what of those merveilleux plumes de I’autruche?” Paulette Chaumonde added excitedly, her spoon clattering into her fragile bone china dessert dish.

  “Only English, please, Paulette,” Amanda Mannion, Vanessa’s mother, gently chided their young guest. Mrs. Mannion was beginning to believe they’d never turn Paulette into the American young lady her father wished her to be, for she clung tenaciously to her Creole roots.

  “Pardon, Madame,” she returned meekly, bobbing her sleek dark head in her hostess’s direction before turning shining eyes back toward Mr. Danielson.

  Mrs. Mannion shook her head, amusement pulling at the corners of her mouth.

  Vanessa laughed. “Paulette’s enthusiasm runs away with her, but I too confess a certain weakness for hats adorned with those magnificent feathers,” she said, tracing an ostrich feather curving around her face from an imaginary hat on her head.

  “And may I say how charmingly those plumes would frame your visage, Miss Mannion.” Mr. Danielson made an elegant show of bowing while seated.

  “Why, thank you, sir.” An irrepressible twinkle danced in her eyes as she acknowledged his gallantry with a little tilt of her head.

  Russell Wilmot, seated on the other side of the elegantly appointed dining table, grunted, and from the corner of her eye Vanessa saw him glare at Trevor Danielson from under lowered black brows. His reaction pleased her, though she continued to ignore him while smiling engagingly at Mr. Danielson. Mr. Wilmot was a determined suitor for her hand. Though she was flattered by his attention and intrigued by his person, she did chafe at his possessiveness. Vanessa feared he had the mistaken notion, from her father, no doubt, that she was a pliant, mindless female. This was an idea she wished to suppress before their courtship progressed any further.

  A faint inquiring lift to her brow served as a gentle reminder to Mr. Danielson of her original question. She took a small sip of lemonade, her gaze sliding from him to her father seated at the head of the table. Her smile slipped when she caught his condemning eye and viewed the slight downturn of his lips. Plainly, he was annoyed at her presumption to ask any question that might be construed to be of a business nature. Her father possessed lamentably outmoded notions on subjects suitable for discussion before ladies, and talk of commerce was not of their number. Fashion, the arts, home management and social engagements were the only subjects he considered fitting for his genteelly reared daughters to discuss. It was no wonder Mr. Wilmot had mistaken perceptions of her.

  Belatedly she realized Mr. Danielson was answering her question. Her smile brightened and she cocked her head in an attitude of intense concentration and interest.

  “To return to your original question, without digressing into the mechanics of trade,” Mr. Danielson was saying easily, with a brief nod and smile in Richard Mannion’s direction admitting his awareness of his host’s strictures.

  “I should trust not.” Richard Mannion’s baleful glare directed at his daughter bespoke a wealth of meaning.

  To her chagrin, Vanessa felt a faint blush warm her cheeks.

  Her father, a prominent cotton factor and commission merchant, was a proponent of mixing business habits with eating habits, claiming volumes could be learned about a man at the table, from the cut of his manners to the cut of his meat. Nonetheless, at the business dinners he hosted in his home, he expected his daughters to display elegant manners and a gift for social repartee, not business acumen or political interest. Still, for Vanessa, his select dinner parties were an opportunity to feed her voracious appetite for information. Knowing her father’s sentiments, however, she tried to couch her questions with feminine interests and thereby mitigate any accusation of trespassing on male preserves. Judging by his expression, this time her ruse had failed; soon he would be passing to her mother that little secret signal they shared that said he deemed it time the ladies withdrew from the dining room and left the men to their port, cigars, and business discussions.

  She glanced again at her father, a small, rueful sigh escaping her lips. She chafed at his restrictions for she held a lively curiosity and interest in trade and politics, and for goodness sake, this was 1816! Had not the women of the city aided their countrymen in the Battle of New Orleans by sewing warm clothes for the Kentucky militiamen who came to fight the British with scarcely more than rags on their backs? And afterward, of course, there were the long hours spent greeting the returning soldiers, bandaging wounds and bathing fevered brows. Such efforts were not done without knowledge of war or the politics involved.

  Some of these same thoughts must have occurred to Trevor Danielson for he paused before continuing, an amused smile twisting his lips. “As you say, Richard,” he murmured, nodding. He turned back to Vanessa, appearing to choose his words carefully. “I believe New Orleans shops will soon be overflowing with the latest feminine fripperies from all over the world.”

  “Without recourse to smuggled goods from that pirate, Jean Laffite, and his band?” Vanessa asked with wide-eyed innocence. She did not have to look at her father to feel him glowering.

  “I must protest, Miss Mannion,” Russell Wilmot interjected, his heavy, raspy voice commanding her attention. A slow smile claimed his broadly planed face, pulling at a long, thin white scar running up his neck and alongside his face that lent him a rakish appearance. Vanessa heard tell it was the reason for his unusual voice.

  “Laffite proved himself a loyal citizen in the Battle of New Orleans and was commended for his efforts by Jackson himself.” His harsh voice managed to convey a silky warning.

  “Temper your praise, Mr. Wilmot,” growled Richard Mannion, tossing his napkin on the table and slamming his chair backward several inches. “That pirate was always one to go for the main chance. The man has no conception of loyalty, unless it is to himself.”

  Russell Wilmot’s eyebrows twitched and his color darkened. He leaned toward his host.

  “Truthfully,” Mr. Danielson interceded quickly, “with all trade doors open once again, I doubt in the long run his kind can compete with legitimate commerce.”

  “Why is that?” Russell Wilmot deman
ded aggressively, glaring at him.

  “Volume, sir,” Trevor Danielson assured him. “The sheer volume of goods entering our city will bring prices down to a level where it will not be economical for pirates to operate off our coast.”

  “Indeed?” Vanessa murmured, faintly encouraging him to continue, her smoky blue eyes carefully hooded to disguise their gleam of excitement.

  “Now that the war is over I expect our profits to easily double this year.” He raised his napkin to dab at the ends of his mustache, glancing around to the rest of the company at the table. “And not just for the Danielson and Hailey Company. This will be a record year for all business in New Orleans.”

  “Perhaps I should consider acquiring more warehouses.” Wilmot’s sarcastic, heavy humor intrigued Vanessa. He was a curious man, this suitor of hers, and even after three years in New Orleans, his antecedents remained a mystery. He operated the largest warehousing operation on the Mississippi. It was located in the city’s worst area, and he employed men others deemed undesirable; yet he’d managed to acquire money and position in society, an unusual feat in so short a time, especially for an American within the Creole-dominated social hierarchy.

  Richard Mannion harrumphed and scratched the side of his nose. “Acquiring more warehouses may not be an idea to dismiss out of hand, Wilmot.”

  Trevor Danielson paused, a faintly quizzical expression on his face as he glanced at his host. Then he leaned back in his chair and nodded. “This is the beginning of a new era for New Orleans,” he said slowly. “The city has always been a major trade center, but I think its importance is just beginning to be realized.”

  “On what do you base your comments?” Vanessa asked, ignoring how her father’s grizzled gray brows had descended to form a thick iron bar above his eyes. Mr. Danielson was in an expansive mood, and she was going to reap what she could. Out of the corner of her eye she noted her father signaling to her mother and her heart plummeted; nevertheless, she kept her attention centered on Mr. Danielson.

  That gentleman failed to note his host’s increasing dissatisfaction with the tenor of the conversation and responded heartily to Vanessa’s question. “Why, on the number of Englishmen present in our city, Miss Mannion! There are also scores more on their way, I understand.”

  Adeline Mannion gasped and clutched a napkin to her chest, her clear gray eyes staring wide out of her delicate, heart-shaped face. “What? But I thought you said . . . Surely you don’t mean . . . .” she babbled in confusion.

  “No, he don’t,” tossed out her father, impatiently.

  Amanda Mannion leaned toward her youngest daughter and patted her hand reassuringly. “Finish your dessert, Adeline,” she instructed calmly.

  Vanessa closed her eyes briefly at her sister’s naiveté. Hers was such a quiet nature, she was often thrown into confusion.

  Mr. Danielson, however, smiled gently at Adeline and responded in kind: “Have no fear, Miss Mannion. The war is, as I stated, truly over, and I doubt we shall see another for the English are here to trade with us. They badly need our goods, particularly our cotton for their mills.”

  Russell Wilmot laughed shortly. “And they’ll pay a pretty price, too,” he rasped, his dark voice like gravel grating against itself, sending an odd ripple of feeling through Vanessa.

  “Oo-o-o,” Paulette Chaumonde breathed as she also reacted instinctively to the dangerous menace in his tone. Then, mercurially, she cocked her head to one side and directed her attention to Mr. Danielson, suppressed excitement evident in her eyes. “These Englishmen, are they aristocrats? I would adore meeting a real English duke or earl!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know of any dukes or earls in New Orleans, Miss Chaumonde,” he said kindly.

  Her pretty bow-shaped lips formed a little pout of dissatisfaction.

  “But, Miss Chaumonde, surely you don’t expect the aristocracy to dirty their hands in trade?” Mr. Wilmot mocked lightly.

  Paulette tilted her chin up at him, her brown eyes flashing. “And why not? There are many here in New Orleans who still bear the titles of their families in France and Spain, and they are among the most successful in the city. They made this city long before you Americains arrived!”

  “Paulette!” warned Richard Mannion.

  “Pardon, Monsieur Mannion, mais il fait un affront.”

  “English, please, Paulette!”

  “He insults the English aristocrats only!” Adeline put in quickly, her voice breathy and anxious, for she hated altercations.

  “Actually,” Trevor Danielson drawled, drawing attention back to himself, “Mr. Wilmot’s comment no longer holds steadfast among the ranks of the younger peers. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine recently arrived in the city on business, and he’s the son of a viscount.”

  Paulette shrugged philosophically. “I suppose a viscount is better than a mister.”

  Vanessa shook her head wryly at her friend. “You are incorrigible, Paulette!”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Chaumonde, but Hugh Talverton is only a mister.”

  “But heir to a title—”

  “That goes to his brother and his brother’s sons.”

  “Phtt!” Paulette muttered dismissively. “Accidents may happen.”

  Russell Wilmot gave a shout of laughter. “I hadn’t realized what a bloodthirsty wench you are.”

  She shrugged and addressed Mr. Danielson again: “Nevertheless, this Mister Talverton,” she said, rolling the word mister around in her mouth as if it were a distasteful bite of food, “he was raised to the manner born, no?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Bon. Is he married?”

  A slight smile appeared, despite Mr. Danielson’s efforts to contain his humor. “No, Miss Chaumonde,” he replied gravely, “he is not.”

  Paulette nodded. “Ah-h-h,” was all she said, but her eyes were contemplative as she reached for her lemonade.

  Vanessa delicately hid a smile behind her hand, while her esteem for Mr. Danielson rose at his handling of Paulette’s enthusiasm without snubbing her for obvious infatuation with aristocrats. For herself, Vanessa had no respect for what she considered a parasitic society claiming veneration for an empty title versus a man’s deeds. She did not share her young friend’s awe of aristocrats. Though in fairness, she admitted Paulette probably came by her attitude fairly, for it was true that remnants of French and Spanish aristocratic families still lived in New Orleans, hanging on to their tattered emblems of glory.

  Vanessa had long considered the Creole population of New Orleans to be frivolous, and had often found herself condemning those she did not understand. With her older sister Louisa’s marriage to Charles Chaumonde, however, and now with Charles’s sister, Paulette’s, stay with them while her father was away in Washington, she had been forced to revise her thinking. She had begun to develop a more sympathetic attitude toward Creole ways. Still, their preoccupation with social position and frivolity was daunting.

  Amanda Mannion moved to rise from her seat at the table. “I think, ladies . . .”

  Paulette interrupted her. “You will, of course, bring this Mr. Talverton to the Langley ball tomorrow evening.”

  “Miss Chaumonde, he is in town to do business. I hardly think . . .”

  “Mr. Danielson, if a gentleman wishes to do business in New Orleans, he must socialize in New Orleans,” Paulette chided gently with a calm assurance and regal manner far beyond her eighteen years that drew reluctant smiles from the rest of the company.

  Richard Mannion cleared his throat. “As much as it goes against the grain, I admit the child’s right, Trevor. Damn nuisance, but true. But let’s allow these ladies to withdraw. We’ve pounded their poor pretty heads with enough business for one evening.”

  Vanessa raised her eyebrows in supercilious disbelief when her father glanced over in her direction, but took his cue with good grace, rising smoothly to her feet.

  “Over a glass you can tell us about this Talverton fellow�
�s business,” he went on, turning his head briefly to smile benignly at her.

  She smiled sweetly in return and followed her mother, sister, and Paulette Chaumonde to the parlor.

  “You were clever this evening, Vanessa.” Amanda Mannion straightened her russet silk skirts and settled herself next to Adeline at their quilting frame. “But I’m afraid your father is now so sensitive to your machinations that nothing gets by him.”

  “Why does he wish to keep us wrapped in lamb’s wool? It is not as if I wish to enter his business. I just want to know.” Vanessa paced in front of the quilting frame, her hands gesturing emphatically before her. “He never used to be this way when we were younger, but in the last three or four years he’s positively become a bear at the idea of our possessing any thoughts of our own.”

  Her mother sighed. “I know, dear. I believe his attitude comes from growing up on a plantation.” She looked over at Paulette seated on a cream-colored jacquard sofa, painstakingly embroidering an initial on a small, lace-edged handkerchief. “Do you have enough light, Paulette?”

  “Oui, Madame.”

  Amanda closed her eyes for a moment to deal with her exasperation. “English, speak in English.”

  A mutinous expression passed briefly over Paulette’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Vanessa halted her pacing, her head tilted as she contemplated her mother’s last comment to her. “Mama, that doesn’t make any sense. He hated the plantation and couldn’t wait to leave.”

  “Your stitches are a little large, Adeline. Look at mine.” She watched Adeline for a moment, nodded approval at her new efforts, then turned back to Vanessa. “I know that, but it was how he was raised that he disliked, not how his sisters were raised.”

  “Can’t you talk to him, Mama, convince him his attitude just doesn’t make sense?”

  Amanda smiled ruefully. “I can try, but I don’t foresee success. Something drastic would have to occur before your father would allow his thinking to be modified.”

  “Me, I think you are complaining unnecessarily,” proposed Paulette. “Here I have much more freedom than other Creole girls. Most all are convent bred, and oh-so-strictly chaperoned.”