Hugh set his cigar down to reach for his port glass, his mind wandering to the events of the evening. He shook his head slightly at the memory of Trevor’s expression when Wilmot refused to relinquish Vanessa’s hand. That was when he’d first begun to feel as if he’d stumbled into a new, unknown maze, and he had vowed to tread carefully through the remainder of the evening with the Mannions. By virtue of some adept maneuvering, reminiscent of his peninsular days, he mused, he’d altered the seating arrangements for the return trip to the Mannions’ home. He and Miss Chaumonde shared the carriage with Vanessa Mannion and Mr. Wilmot. And bless Miss Chaumonde’s naiveté, she prattled incessantly with virtually a scene-by-scene review of the play. Fortunately, her chatter did not allow for response from anyone. It also precluded her falling across him on the pretext of a rough carriage ride, but under the circumstances Hugh would have even welcomed that, for certainly it would have created another form of diversion.
Upon her arrival at home, Vanessa retired immediately to her room, claiming a headache from the effort of understanding the rapid French dialogue throughout the play. After she left, there remained a curious tension in the air among the company that even Paulette’s gaiety could not overcome. Mr. Wilmot quickly made his exit. He and Trevor soon followed.
Hugh picked up his cigar and looked over at his companion who sat quietly smoking, a faint smile on his face. He wondered what the man was thinking. No, more than that, he needed to know what Trevor was feeling, particularly toward one Miss Vanessa Mannion.
He flicked an ash off his cigar, and stared at its glowing tip. “This Wilmot fellow, where is he from?” Hugh casually asked.
“No one really knows, but speculators say he’s from Kentucky, since he gets on with the keelboat men. Why?”
“Curiosity. I wondered how he became a favorite in society.”
“So you feel it, too.” Trevor shifted uneasily in his chair and took a sip of port.
Hugh raised a questioning eyebrow.
“That feeling of something criminal,” Trevor explained, setting the glass on the table.
“I don’t know that I’d go so far as to say criminal; however, the gentleman is a creature of both crude and polished airs. I do not trust that duality. I take it others do not see the split?”
“Oh, I think they do, but first they don’t recognize it as anything sinister. It’s more an indication of the man’s worth, that he’s been able to build a business and thereby raise himself above his birth. For many who come to this country, it is the American dream. Wilmot embodies that dream. He has looks, intelligence, and great strength. And that was almost all he had when he came to New Orleans three years ago. In that time he’s been able to parlay himself into more deals and schemes than you can imagine. And they’ve paid off.” Trevor paused and shook his head ruefully.
“Oh, there have been rumors about what his real business was. Most believe he was one of Lafitte’s legitimate fronts and might still be. Others connect him with the revolutionary filibustering that goes on over at Maspero’s, though few agree on the subject of the revolution. I’ve heard the Texas territory, Mexico, and South American locations named.”
“Egad!”
“Precisely,” Trevor drawled.
“I’m surprised Richard Mannion countenances his presence around his daughters.”
“He invites him. Look, Hugh,” Trevor explained, “Wilmot is rich and powerful. He’s slowly been taking over all the warehousing on the wharf. That’s a key business in this city. New Orleans wouldn’t be the rich city she is without trade, for, frankly, the products of this area alone cannot support her.” He took another sip of port, then set down his glass and leaned forward.
“Right now, Mannion needs a new cotton press facility, but he has no place for it, nor the capital to purchase one for he’s made substantial loans this year to cotton growers in order to insure a big crop. Because of this, he’s hoping to strike a deal with Wilmot for warehouse leasing. Though if I know Wilmot, I suspect he’s negotiating for a partnership deal, using Vanessa.”
“And her father’s agreeable to this?” Hugh inquired.
“Hardly. Richard Mannion’s a wily old goat on his own, even if he does have a blind spot where his own daughters are concerned.” Trevor picked up his cigar, frowned at the dead tip, and leaned forward to relight it in the candle flame. He drew in deeply before looking back toward Hugh. “Adeline tells me Richard’s strongly encouraging Vanessa to be nice to you.”
“To me!”
“Ostensibly to help cement his cotton deal with you. Personally, I think it’s to throw off Wilmot.”
Hugh’s eyes narrowed as he considered this information. “But what about you, Trevor? Where do you fit in?”
Trevor sighed ruefully. “Now that is a good question. Less than a week ago, I would have confidently stated I was one of Vanessa Mannion’s suitors. Now I’m not sure what I am.” He ran his hand through his hair.
“I have never seen you possessed with rage to the extent you were at the theater,” Hugh said slowly.
“Yes, I don’t know what came over me. It was as if I was seeing her as some pawn in a big chess game. I cannot fathom any genteel woman being treated in such a fashion, or any gentleman so forgetting himself as to treat a lady like a lightskirt.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Miss Mannion is one of the most intelligent, entrancing women of my acquaintance, and to see her treated in that manner . . .”
“Easy, Trevor, easy. I’m sure this little mistake of his will turn Miss Mannion’s attention elsewhere. Though the man is powerful, he is not so powerful that he can make a woman marry him. Perhaps if his background is as crude as you suggest, he is not at ease in society and is ignorant of proper behavior. This may well prove to be a salutary lesson for him. No, I doubt you will have to worry about socializing with Wilmot in the Mannions’ company.”
“Perhaps you’re right. And truthfully, I, like Richard, cannot afford enmity with the man. Danielson and Hailey Company is a frequent client of his. Our warehouses are just not sufficient to handle all our merchandise, and we’re not intending to build more here. With the advent of the steamboat for hauling, we’re building further upriver, land’s already too dear around here, and, like I said, Wilmot’s got a lock locally. It is hoped that our new warehouses will be completed in a few months.”
“We need a battle plan,” Hugh mused.
“What?”
“Tactics,” he murmured. “The problem, as I see it, is to divert Wilmot from his pursuit of Miss Mannion without ruffling his tail feathers.”
“That is, perhaps, a bit simplistic; however, I’ll accept that.”
“Good. Then, to create our diversion, I propose we use me for cannon fodder.”
“What?”
“I believe that is what Richard Mannion is doing without my knowledge, so it’s a small matter to become a willing participant. Safer, too.”
Trevor looked unconvinced but willing to listen. Hugh plowed on: “Look, I don’t have to live here and work with the gentleman. In a few months I will merely be a memory.”
“So what do you propose to do?”
“Publicly, I shall continue to court Miss Chaumonde, for to do otherwise would cause comment.”
Trevor nodded his understanding and begged him to continue.
“Heretofore, Miss Mannion and I have maintained, at best, a guarded relationship. I shall continue to tease, slightly challenge, and otherwise upset the equanimity of Miss Mannion while playing upon Richard’s juncture that she be friendly to me. Under these circumstances, I anticipate she will spend more time contemplating my comeuppance than she will be thinking of Mr. Wilmot and the trouble he might be planning.”
Trevor looked at him, stunned, then burst out laughing. “That is such a ridiculous idea that it might work. And if you really wish to divert her, talk business and politics with her, she has an unslaking thirst for knowledge in those subjects.”
Hugh pursed his lips. “Inte
resting,” he murmured, his mind immediately formulating discussions bound to disrupt Vanessa.
“But seriously, Hugh, what of Miss Mannion? Is this fair to her?”
“Is letting her marry Wilmot fair to her?”
Trevor paused, exhaling sharply. “That is a point well taken, my friend. Very well taken.”
Hugh nodded and took another sip of port. Truly, his motives were suspect. They were as convoluted as the twistiest maze, for now the problem was how to insure Trevor’s place as suitor in Vanessa’s mind and heart. Perhaps a few jealous words on his part, a seemingly unconscious praise of his accomplishments. Yes, it could be done. He would also draw Mr. Wilmot’s fire; he only hoped the gentleman was a poor marksman.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Richard Mannion stood before the French windows, his hands behind his back, tapping out a restless rhythm when Vanessa peeped in around the open library door.
“Come in, Vanessa, and close the door,” he said softly, his back to her.
She started, for she didn’t know he was aware of her presence. When Jonas informed her she was wanted in the library, a frisson of dread went through her. Her father never asked anyone into the library unless it was for a private upbraiding. She searched her mind for an explanation of the summons, but none came, unless by chance he’d found out about the newspapers. She approached the library quietly, hoping to hear something that would give a clue to her father’s mood. Now she was baffled. Usually if called in for some perceived fault, he would stand rigidly by his desk, his face a study in disappointment and anger. Sometimes, if the error was great enough, he would pace the room and mumble darkly to himself before turning to address the miscreant. But he never stood staring out the window, and he never, ever, spoke softly.
Quickly she stepped into the room, gently shutting the door behind her. She tipped her head to the side, studying her father. He looked old. Odd, she’d never noticed how he was aging, how worn he’d become. She took a few tentative steps toward him, uncertain what to say or do.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Vanessa?” he sadly asked.
She blinked, her mind racing to understand. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
He turned toward her, dropping his hands to his sides. “Why didn’t you inform me of Russell Wilmot’s impropriety last night?”
“Who told you?” she gasped.
His fists clenched reflexively and his features shifted into anger for a moment, then relaxed. He laughed shortly and turned to walk over to his desk. “He did.”
“Mr. Wilmot?!” She clutched the back of one of the chairs in front of the desk for her knees felt strangely weak.
Her father reached out to guide her gently into the chair. She murmured her thanks, her mind struggling with the information.
“Why did he tell you?” she finally managed, looking up at her father’s deeply lined face.
A wry smile tilted up the corners of his lips and he snorted softly. “Why? Because the man is clever.” He rounded the corner of the desk to sit across from her, his hands resting on the polished surface expanse between them. “He came to my office this morning, said he had offended you last night. He told me how he first took the liberty of putting his hand on your shoulder and then of clasping your hand, ignoring your attempts to pull free. Is that correct?”
“Y-yes.” She felt like a mouse, caught in a corner and uncertain which way to run to avoid the cat.
“Why didn’t you tell me? It’s my duty as a father to protect my daughters.” He surged out of his chair, pacing the room agitatedly. “Damn it, girl, I felt like a caper-witted fool this morning, not knowing what the man was talking about, and that’s not a position to be in when dealing with a man like Wilmot.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but after Mr. Talverton made him stop, I thought it best to forget the incident, and I didn’t wish to worry you unnecessarily.”
“Mr. Talverton? What has he to do with this?”
“You don’t know? Mr. Wilmot didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Last night, during the play, when Mr. Wilmot so insistently held my hand, Mr. Talverton crashed his foot into the side of my chair.”
“I remember the accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Father. He did it as a means to end the situation without embarrassing all of us.”
An arrested expression captured Mr. Mannion’s features. Slowly he sank back into his chair. “So, he did that on purpose.” His eyes shifted and a tight smile curled one corner of his mouth. Vanessa watched, wary of his changing moods.
“Hmm . . . Tell me, Vanessa, what do you think of Mr. Talverton?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” she hedged. She leaned forward in her chair, closely watching her father. He was not behaving in character. It was totally unlike him to solicit opinions from any of his daughters.
“Come, come, my dear, you’re being too missish. Do you like the man? Do you like his company?”
Vanessa sat straighter in the chair, clasping her hands primly on her lap. “If you are thinking of wedding me to Mr. Talverton, I advise you to think again,” she said austerely, twin flags of red blazing on her cheeks. “Aside from last evening’s fiasco, he and I have been continually at crossed swords. He is entirely too toplofty for my tastes. And regardless of my sentiments, Paulette has staked her claim on him.”
Impatiently, he waved her protest aside. “I wasn’t thinking marriage. I’ve got plans for you, girl.”
“Plans! What sort of plans?” An incipient panic threaded her voice. What was her father about? A sense of caution began seeping through her.
“Never you mind that now.”
“Father!”
“No, and I’ll not say another word on the subject. Now, tell me what you think of Mr. Danielson.”
Bewildered, Vanessa sighed and shook her head. “Mr. Danielson has charm, manners, intelligence, and a manner of gallantry that is appealing,” she enumerated patiently. “He is a true gentleman.”
Her father grunted and scratched the side of his nose. “What about Mr. Wilmot?” he persisted.
Vanessa closed her eyes. Her father knew things he wasn’t saying, and as always, he was setting traps for the unwary. It irritated her to consider her position. Was she to be the hunted or the bait? It wouldn’t do any good to ask, for he wouldn’t answer her. Whatever, she’d wager it was business related.
She opened her eyes to stare steadily at her father. “Earlier last night,” she said crisply, “I considered myself fortunate to be in his company. He seems to be a popular gentleman, for he knows everyone. He is handsome in a devilish fashion, successful through his own efforts, intelligent, and gives a woman the feeling of being the center of his world by his attention and possessiveness. It is here, I hasten to add, that his possessiveness becomes suffocating and deadens his appeal. I believe that is what occurred last evening. He stopped thinking of me as a person and considered me as one would the purchase of a horse or new article of clothing, and treated me with the same carelessness as one would those objects.”
Richard Mannion leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his chest, and nodded, a wry smile twisting his lips. “All right, I’ll remember your words,” he promised.
Vanessa’s eyes narrowed as she studied his suddenly complacent, smiling demeanor. In the past three to four years, her father had rarely smiled, and never joked. If she had ever given the matter thought, she would have suggested that with the press of weighty business matters, he had forgotten how. Yet since the evening of the Langley Ball . . . nay, more precisely since the arrival of Mr. Talverton, she had on more than one occasion witnessed the upturn of the corners of his mouth and heard the deep rumble of rusty laughter. She was delighted to see humor restored to her parent, but fretted at its source.
“Now,” he continued, sitting straighter in his chair and shifting his clasped hands to the desk surface, “I’m going to tell you what I want from you, and none of your m
ulishness.”
“What?” she exclaimed indignantly, hastily dragging her errant thoughts back to the discussion at hand.
“First, you’ll continue to be nice to Mr. Talverton, especially after last evening.” He paused a moment, his thumbs circling each other. “Second, Mr. Wilmot will be coming to call this afternoon to apologize,” he baldly announced.
Vanessa groaned and closed her eyes, her body sagging at the thought of again meeting the gentleman.
Her father ignored her and continued. “And if the rains hold off, you’ll allow him to take you driving.”
“Father, that’s not fair!” she protested, gripping the arms of her chair until her knuckles whitened. “The man grossly insulted me. He treated me like a—a—a common trollop.”
“You’re exaggerating the matter,” he said dismissively. “He only touched you without permission.” He held up a hand to forestall her protests. “I know you feel he acted ungentlemanly, but, to use Paulette’s words, he hasn’t, as it were, been raised to the manner born. He claims he was swept away by your charm and beauty last evening and could not resist.”
“Swept away?” She laughed hollowly. “I’m sorry, Father, but I doubt his truthfulness. Mr. Wilmot is a very determined, intelligent and deliberate man, oriented toward one thing: success. Everything else is merely a means to an end.”
“Don’t be too hasty,” he said, favoring her with another of his rare smiles, this one baring his teeth. “The more tender emotions rarely equate with the intellect.”
Vanessa blinked in surprise. That was what she had been discovering for herself. Could Mr. Wilmot be struggling with the same confusing notions as she? Impossible. He was a confident and forthright man. But what if? No, she thought, hardening her heart. Even if it was true, it was no excuse for his behavior, for she was certain he delighted in her discomfiture. She remembered that predatory look in the depths of his eyes and shivered.
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