Gentleman's Trade

by Newman, Holly

  He was, however, strangely concerned that she should view Mr. Wilmot as a possible mate. She had certainly allowed herself to be kept close to his side, and made no demur at the carriage seating arrangements Miss Chaumonde took upon herself to dictate. If anything, she was amused, for he was quick to note the tiny tightening and curving of her lips at Paulette’s suggestions. For all her seriousness, there was a streak of humor in Miss Mannion that he desired to see released. It was an adjunct of a hidden passion she possessed, bubbling just below the surface. Was Mr. Wilmot cognizant of that well-spring? Somehow, Hugh hoped he was not.

  Miss Chaumonde clasped him tightly as the carriage drew up before the theater. “I shall have to speak to Monsieur Mannion about this coachman. Mon Dieu, but I swear I shall be black and blue come morning from this wild ride,” she babbled earnestly, looking up at Hugh with soulful dark eyes. “And this last, one would think the man would know how to rein in his team in a less hectic fashion. I would have landed on the floor if it hadn’t been for you, Mr. Talverton.”

  “Somehow I doubt that, Miss Chaumonde,” he drawled. “But I thought you were to converse only in English.”

  “Bah! English is such a tiresome language.” She paused at Adeline’s and Mr. Danielson’s sudden burst of laughter, furrowing her brow in exasperation, for she detected nothing humorous in her words. She cast them a resentful little look and shrugged her dissatisfaction before turning her attention back to Mr. Talverton.

  “But don’t you consider my French lapses charmante?” she asked prettily.

  “Truthfully, Miss Chaumonde, no,” he said as he descended from the carriage and turned to extend his hand to her.

  Momentarily subdued, she meekly accepted his aid. She sighed loudly as they stood to the side awaiting Trevor and Adeline, and for an instant, Hugh regretted his caustic words. Then he felt her hand tuck itself into his arm. He looked down to meet her twinkling eyes.

  “I have it now, Monsieur Talverton. You are roasting me most unkindly.” She edged shockingly closer to him as Trevor and Adeline joined them.

  A chuckle welled up in his chest. Truly, Miss Chaumonde was irrepressible. Trevor shook his head in silent commiseration while Adeline frowned warningly at Paulette.

  Ignoring Adeline, Paulette batted her lashes and preened. She was proud of herself for making Mr. Talverton laugh. Soon she would have him eating quite contentedly out of her hand. Giggling at her success, she skipped forward to meet the other Mannion carriage, pulling Mr. Talverton along in her wake.

  “These streets, they are horrible, are they not, Vanessa?” Paulette inquired when the other party had descended.

  Vanessa was nonplussed but smiling. “I’m sorry, have I missed something?”

  Trevor laughed. “Only Miss Chaumonde’s complaints.” The group started toward the theater steps.

  “Now it is you who are horrible,” complained Paulette petulantly, while clinging to Hugh’s arm.

  Trevor professed astonishment and innocence.

  “I know I shall be quite bruised tomorrow, and if I am not, it will be only because Mr. Talverton was kind enough to protect me from being completely tossed about like a child’s ball.”

  “Yes,” Adeline said, her soft gray eyes gleaming mischievously in the lantern light. “It was quite amazing how she was jostled about.”

  “I can well imagine,” Vanessa said dryly, though she looked at her younger sister intently. There appeared a bloom in her fair cheeks and a rare gaiety in her spirit. It was unlike her quiet sibling to enter into conversation in company, much less to tease. It appeared Mr. Danielson was a fortuitous choice for an escort. Perhaps, now that she is comfortable with him, she will learn to be comfortable with other gentlemen.

  Mr. Mannion did not let the party dally on the steps of the theater but quickly ushered them into the building. Hugh Talverton followed amiably along with the group, though his attention was diverted by the variety of people entering the theater. One aspect that particularly struck him was the preponderance of French being spoken.

  “Trevor,” he said sotto voce as the women were divested of their wraps and seated by the box railing, “where are we?”

  “What?”

  He waved his hand out before him to indicate their sumptuous surroundings and all the elegantly attired theater patrons. “Is this Paris?”

  Trevor laughed softly, and sat down in his seat behind Adeline and Paulette. Hugh sat next to him, behind Paulette and Vanessa. He crossed his legs and leaned toward Trevor.

  “This mimicry is comical.”

  “It’s not mimicry. Most of these people are of French or Spanish antecedents and are fiercely proud of their heritage. Actually, they don’t care for us Americans much. The Chaumondes are among the few exceptions.”

  The hand Hugh had rested on his knee received a stinging little tap. He turned in surprise to see Vanessa frowning at him and waving her closed fan above his hand, prepared to deliver another tap.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said with chilling politeness.

  Paulette turned her head to look back at him. “Chut! The play, it is about to begin!”

  Vanessa nodded and turned her attention toward the stage.

  He leaned forward between them. “My humble pardon. And what is it we are to see?”

  Paulette raised her eyebrow in disbelief. “A Moliere play, of course. L’Ecole des Femmes.”

  He groaned. “Don’t tell me,” he said heavily. “It’s in the original French.”

  She looked perplexed, then shrugged. “Mais naturellement.”

  Vanessa kept her eyes directed toward the stage, though her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

  Hugh nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Naturally,” he muttered.

  Trevor, seated on one side of him, smirked; Mr. Wilmot, seated on the other, looked at him with disdain. Hugh had the distinct impression he was in for a long night.

  Later in the evening, after the requisite intermission to allow the patrons to saunter the halls, purchase refreshments, visit, exchange gossip, and, most important, be seen, the Mannion party settled back comfortably in their chairs to watch the second half of the play.

  Vanessa sighed, her brow furrowing a moment with the effort of concentrating on translating the French dialogue. It was rumored the theater would soon begin producing plays in English as well as in French. She hoped the story was true. She would particularly enjoy seeing Shakespearean plays like Romeo and Juliet or Twelfth Night. She enjoyed the Moliere comedy, but the undivided attention necessary to achieve enjoyment could also engender throbbing temples.

  That was, perhaps, unfair. She was restless tonight, bound up by unknown feelings. She had toured the halls on Mr. Wilmot’s arm during intermission and felt content, almost proud to be seen in his company, for she’d noted many a considering eye turned in their direction. By the numerous nods and little waves he bestowed upon the different people they passed, he appeared to know all of New Orleans, and not, judging by their attire, strictly the elite. He would not stop, however, to introduce her to anyone. Nor did he choose to stay near Adeline, Paulette, and their escorts to converse. He seemed to desire her to himself. She didn’t know whether to be piqued or flattered by his possessive manner. Nonetheless, she admitted she did find satisfaction and a measure of delight in his company.

  Vanessa stiffened when she felt a light touch on the top of her shoulder. She looked over, shocked to see it was Mr. Wilmot’s hand resting there with a license she had never bestowed to him. And here she had just been thinking about how she liked him. His conceit was greater than Mr. Talverton’s if he believed that by returning his attention she was granting him license.

  Very slowly and precisely she raised her other arm to disengage his hand. He allowed his hand to be removed but clasped her fingers tightly in return. Stunned, she tugged, only to feel his grip tighten, though his thumb lazily caressed her knuckles. The blast of a cold, all-consuming fury shook her. Turning, she glared at him with
frosted eyes, cold and glittering like icicles, and issued a silent, daring challenge.

  In answer he smiled, his dark eyes gleaming with something predatory flickering in their depths. Her eyes widened, her delicate nostrils flaring. Panicked, she tugged again at her captured hand. Suddenly she felt startlingly alone and helpless although they were surrounded by many people.

  Mr. Wilmot was a stranger, a man she didn’t recognize, and he frightened her.

  Hugh Talverton looked over in time to see Wilmot clasp her fingers and Vanessa turn toward him. Her expression was hidden from him by the deep shadows in the box, but by the rigid set of her body he knew she was not pleased with the gentleman.

  The situation amused Hugh, for he’d earlier thought she was no match for Wilmot. He turned the other way to poke Trevor in the ribs to share his appreciation of the scene. He was startled to see him already watching the encounter with outrage evident in the tight clenching of his jaw and of his white-knuckled fists resting on his knees. He had never witnessed Trevor in a rage. He was always friendly, and likely to be an arbiter of disputes, not a participant. Instinctively, Hugh knew he couldn’t trust his friend to act rationally. He’d heard duels were commonly fought in New Orleans over trifles, and this was no trifle. He had to diffuse the situation quickly. He saw Mr. Wilmot smile wolfishly at Vanessa while refusing to relinquish her hand. At any moment he expected Trevor to jump to his feet and mill Wilmot down, then demand satisfaction.

  He uncrossed his legs and swung his other leg up to change sides, letting the momentum of the swing carry his foot into the side of Vanessa Mannion’s chair with a resounding jolt.

  “Oh, Miss Mannion, I’m terribly sorry. It’s these confounded great long legs of mine. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  The jarring action took both Vanessa and Mr. Wilmot by surprise. The man’s grip loosened, and Vanessa’s fingers slid free.

  She felt disoriented, like a top, spinning off and dancing away. The force of her fury melted rapidly, leaving her dazed and numb. She slowly turned to face Hugh Talverton, struggling to pull her scattered wits about her, realizing he was speaking to her.

  “No, no. I’m quite all right, I-I . . .” she stumbled, then paused. She found herself staring up into Mr. Talverton’s face and was astonished when he slowly winked at her. And there was no mistaking it for a wink, for at the moment he was not sleepy-eyed, and accompanying the wink was an audacious smile pulling up one corner of his lips.

  He’d kicked her chair on purpose! The realization washed through her with an almost dizzying sense of relief, for he had saved her from an intently embarrassing situation. Immediately she recovered, a quick smile warming her features. Now it seemed every eye in the box was fixed upon her and she blushed.

  “I understand, it was an accident,” she said as solemnly as she could manage, though her breathing was rapid and shallow. “It is a wonder that more such incidents don’t occur, as cramped as these boxes are,” she tossed out lightly, her laugh barely escaping hysteria.

  “No,” he gravely protested, “you’re just trying to make me feel better and I thank you, but Trevor here can tell you what a clumsy oaf I can be at times with this big frame, isn’t that right, Trevor?”

  With an effort, Trevor tore his hostile gaze from Mr. Wilmot, who appeared to be merely sitting at his leisure, his attention once again on the play.

  “What? You, clumsy?” Instantly he felt Hugh’s heavy hand descend upon his thigh and squeeze. “Oh, oh yes, very clumsy,” he amended hastily and the pressure was relieved. He looked askance at Hugh and massaged his mistreated limb.

  Vanessa smiled wanly at the byplay.

  “Chut!” remonstrated Paulette, turning around and pouting prettily at them all for disturbing the play.

  Hugh nodded his apology and leaned back in his chair, shifting around again so his long legs were angled in Mr. Wilmot’s direction. It put him in immediate striking distance should the gentleman attempt to make another foray upon Miss Mannion’s person.

  Mr. Wilmot raised an eyebrow, but Hugh merely smiled congenially back at him. He decided he needed to have a long talk with Trevor. Tonight.

  Still feeling agitated and unbalanced, Vanessa leaned forward in her chair, feigning an absorption in the play she did not possess. Her posture was at once a deterrent to further liberties, and an opportunity to cool her heated features. She could feel her cheeks still burning and she did not trust herself to look at any of the others in the box lest they see and question her high color.

  What worried her was the knowledge it was not Mr. Wilmot’s conduct that caused her blush, or caused the wave of light-headed giddiness that left a tingling awareness in its wake. She shivered slightly and wrapped her arms about her, though indeed, she was not chilled. It was strange, the tingling. She had experienced it the first time on the night of the ball when Hugh Talverton picked her up out of the mud. He had saved her from one embarrassing situation by creating another, as he had this evening. Part of her wanted to believe it was the embarrassment that spawned the tingling. She rubbed her hands along her upper arms as the tingling faded and her cheeks cooled.

  The truth, illogical as it seemed, was she was attracted to Mr. Talverton. He roused her emotionally as no man had done before, and there was no comprehending the reasons. She began to realize emotions would neither be ruled nor understood by the mind. She knew herself to be an intelligent woman, but her intelligence left her foundering when emotions held sway. She was not confident she liked that fact. Maybe that was the reason her mother had merely smiled at her and Louisa looked so dreamy-eyed. Love, as the strongest of emotions, did not allow for intellectual definition. If that was the case, she was not altogether certain love could ever be hers.

  What piqued her the most was the knowledge that it was Mr. Talverton who should cause her to think in this manner. He was certainly not a man to fall in love with, a man who was alternately arrogant and shamefully teasing. Nonetheless, it was interesting that he should have displayed a ready understanding of her predicament with Mr. Wilmot and chosen to remedy it by bringing embarrassment upon himself rather than upon her. He had never shied from embarrassing her in the past. Perhaps he did understand the depths of her discomfort in this situation. Whatever, his actions were not those of a man totally self-oriented and bereft of compassion. Perhaps she had been too quick in her judgments. She hoped she was intelligent enough to admit and profit by her errors. She determined she would look upon Mr. Talverton more kindly in the future. She owed him that debt.

  A raucous burst of laughter from the gallery below drew her attention to the stage. The play was nearly over and the character Arnolphe was receiving the just recompense for his coxcombry. She tried to follow the rapid French. It was unusually difficult. Gnawing at the fringes of her mind was the knowledge she still had yet to deal with Mr. Wilmot. She shuddered. He also roused emotions within her, but they were not emotions she wanted to consider. Feeling cowardly, she shunted the problem aside. No doubt, she told herself, Mr. Wilmot was also thinking better of his behavior and would beg forgiveness later. Actually, she wanted it to be just a bad dream and best forgotten.

  Though missing the comic meaning in yet another line, she joined in with the general laughter. Resolutely she turned her mind to the stage.

  Hugh Talverton stared contemplatively at the cheroot he held in his hand. He rolled it between his fingers, then raised it to his nose, savoring its aroma, and smiled. He and Trevor were seated in the cozy parlor above the Danielson and Hailey Company offices, drinking port and enjoying a smoke before retiring.

  “Do you know,” Hugh said, holding the cigar out before him, “these are still not popular in England.” Shaking his head dolefully, he reached out to grab a lit taper from the table between them.

  Trevor puffed on his, slowly releasing a blue cloud to wreath his head. “Mark my words, someday they will be, and snuff will be an anecdote of the past.”

  Hugh set the candle down and leaned back, the t
ip of his cigar glowing red. “Is that Trevor the smoking enthusiast, or Mr. Danielson, the importer/exporter, speaking?”

  “Both,” he answered, grinning.

  Silent a moment, Hugh puffed on his cigar. Now, Trevor was relaxed and mellowed. No lingering signs of rage or animosity appeared. His friend’s reaction to Wilmot’s actions baffled Hugh. He had not thought Trevor possessed more than friendly feeling for Miss Mannion, preferring the gentleness of Miss Adeline. Could he have misconstrued the object of Trevor’s affections? If he felt more than brother-to-be affection for Vanessa, Hugh realized he was again in trouble.

  Years rolled back in his mind as he remembered when he and Trevor had both courted Julia Branholm. It nearly cost them their friendship. Julia, though choosing to wed Trevor, was quite demanding that they forget their differences. She’d possessed a rare grace and understanding; one could do no less than accede to her wishes. Hugh remembered how stalwart he’d stood as best man at their wedding, offering congratulations and support. Afterward, he purchased his commission and was off to war, claiming army life a proper occupation for a younger son. It was only much later, after enduring the heat of battle, the triumph of winning and the agony of defeat that he understood his feelings for Julia. He had not really loved her with the depth she deserved. She was a trophy he sought to win for winning’s sake. She had recognized the shallowness of his affection while he could not.

  Eight years later, it appeared he played the same games with himself. He was attracted to Vanessa Mannion because she was an object to win. He certainly was not in the market for an American wife, yet inexplicably, he wished she’d look favorably upon him. What particularly galled was the knowledge he would have gone on deceiving everyone as to his intentions, including himself. But with Trevor somewhere in the maze, as he’d been those many years ago, Hugh realized he could again be playing with mirrors. He had to determine Trevor’s degree of emotional involvement. He also vowed, no matter what he learned, he would support Trevor in his quest. His friend was a damned fine gentleman, and Hugh was confident Julia would wish her husband to remarry, for he deserved happiness.