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.
She looked
up as he drew near, a slight tension in the set of her shoulders. Hugh wished he could see her face to read the feelings registered there.
“Miss Mannion,” he said, briefly clasping her hand in both of his, “it is delightful to see you are no longer prone to hiding.”
The laughing lilt to his voice told Vanessa he was thinking of her sojourn under her father’s desk, not the polite excuse given to Wilmot for her absence. A flare of red stained her cheeks, and she was grateful for the face-obscuring veil. It was merely another example of his self-centered arrogance that he could take enjoyment from another’s discomfort, she told herself petulantly.
Then she relented, she was not being fair. Twice now he had saved her from embarrassment at the hands of Mr. Wilmot. All he asked in return was that she laugh with him in the aftermath. It was quite petty of her not to, she decided, and the situation had been humorous. She and her family had laughed over it long after the gentlemen had left.
“Hiding has its own rewards, Mr. Talverton, though it sometimes makes for strange alliances,” she said archly, delighting in his start of surprise followed by a hearty rich laugh.
“Something tells me I am missing the joke,” Trevor complained good-naturedly.
“It was at my expense, my friend, so vanity prohibits me from explanation,” Hugh said ruefully. He smiled down at Vanessa. “I am pleased to see your good humor restored, especially as I was the cause of your unfortunate accident that robbed us of your charming company.”
“Very prettily said,” Vanessa responded dryly, cocking her head to the side. “I shall have to take care that you don’t turn my head by your flattery.”
“Whoa! I should say, Hugh, she has put you decidedly in your place,” Trevor said, laughing.
Hugh shrugged laconically. “It is not a position to which I am unaccustomed,” he said with a smile. “One can only account oneself fortunate when it is done by as beautiful and gracious a lady as Miss Mannion.”
Vanessa started to answer, but Trevor interrupted. “Be done, Miss Mannion. I warn you, you shall only encourage him to become more outrageous. Anymore and he will be near to waxing poetical.”
“Oh? Well, it might be an improvement,” she said teasingly.
Trevor groaned theatrically. “Not when it is his poetry. He sounds as melodious as a cawing crow.”
“Now, Trevor,” admonished Hugh, “I must protest. I fear you’re confusing my singing with my poetry.”
“No I’m not. They’re both awful,” he assured Vanessa, “and something to be avoided ere he has you running for the alligator swamps.”
“Why, Mr. Danielson, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you so ardent,” Vanessa said, laughing freely.
“That’s because you’ve never heard his bleating. I have.”
“Bleating!” protested Hugh.
“Bleating,” affirmed his friend grimly, a pugnacious expression on his face.
Hugh looked at him silently for a moment, then burst out laughing, clapping Trevor on the back as he did so. “You have a decidedly unfortunate memory, my friend.”
“Unfortunate for you, maybe, not for Miss Mannion and me. I would call it provident.”
Vanessa laughed. “I am surprised you two have not seen each other in so many years, you act so close. Why the long absence?”
Hugh’s face wore a melancholy smile. “He married the woman I thought I loved.”
“Oh,” she responded weakly.
“And it was the happiest day of my life when I realized she preferred me to him,” Trevor interjected cheerfully.
Vanessa looked down at her hands resting in her lap, feeling awkward and at a loss for what to say. It pained her to think Mr. Talverton’s life had been blighted by his friend. She remembered Julia Danielson. She had been an elegant and charming woman, full of warmth and sincerity. She fidgeted on her seat and abruptly stood up.
“Adeline and Paulette should be here shortly. They went for a short stroll toward the marketplace.” She turned away from the gentlemen, straining on tiptoe to see down the path. “Oh, look, there they are now, and Charles is with them!” She hopped up and down, waving broadly at them to catch their attention, caring little how undignified she looked.
Hugh touched her arm to halt her antics, wondering what had made her so suddenly skittish. “They see you. Be careful else you fall and bruise another portion of your anatomy.”
“Mr. Talverton!” she said, scandalized, a hot blush flooding her face.
Hugh raised his eyebrows when he noted a telltale sliver of red below the edge of the veil and above the blond lace at her throat. “You have a vivid imagination,” he drawled, causing her to blush anew.
The man was infuriating, Vanessa fumed, caught between embarrassment and chagrin. Just when she was beginning to like him or feel some sympathy toward him, he invariably reminded her he was totally devoid of gentility, whatever his birth!
“Monsieur Talverton!” cried Paulette, releasing her brother’s arm and skipping toward them. “Je suis—”
“Paulette,” warned her brother ominously.
She looked back at him and wrinkled her nose distastefully before turning back to Hugh. “I am so happy to see you, for you will never guess what has transpired. Charles, Charles, tell him!” she said excitedly, grabbing her brother by the arm and urging him forward.
Charles rolled his eyes in dismay at his sister’s hoydenish behavior, but he could not totally repress a smile. “Don’t you mean ask him rather than tell him?” he inquired.
“Oh, Charles, don’t be a gudgeon,” Paulette said petulantly. She looked up at Hugh. “Louisa is planning a party.”
“I’m very pleased for her, but who is Louisa?” Hugh asked caustically.
“My wife,” said Charles.
“My sister,” said Vanessa simultaneously
“My apologies, I did not mean to sound so abrupt.” Charles laughed. “It is Paulette’s fault. She would always start a story from the wrong end. My wife misses the New Orleans social life, so she is planning a small soiree for this weekend. She has invited some of the people from neighboring estates to ours in the country, and has asked me to extend a few invitations in the city. She would be honored if you and Trevor could attend.”
“Well, I. . . .”
“Oh, you will say yes, won’t you? It will be tres amusant! We can all go down Saturday morning and return Sunday afternoon. It cannot possibly interfere with your business,” said Paulette.
“Paulette,” said Vanessa, “Mr. Talverton may have other plans.”
“Surely you do not,” exclaimed Paulette.
Hugh laughed and looked over at Trevor, who only smiled and shrugged.
“All right,” he relented. “I should like to visit a Louisiana country estate.”
Paulette clapped her hands. “Merveilleux!” she squealed. Vanessa kept quiet, but privately she was pleased with the proposed weekend and the knowledge that Mr. Talverton would join them. She was confident that with his wry sense of humor, he would help enliven the affair.
“Trevor,” Charles said, “Louisa asks that you bring the children, too.”
“Please do, Mr. Danielson,” said Adeline, laying a gentle hand on his arm and smiling warmly up at him. “I should love to see them again, and I am sure they would love the outing.”
He patted her hand, and smiled intently at her, but no one noticed, for Mary Langley bustled up to the group claiming their attention with her chatter, wild gestures, and twinkling brown eyes.
“Vanessa, oh Vanessa!” said Mary, after all the formal greetings were exchanged. She crossed to her side and patted her arm. “I just saw your parents down the way, and your mother told me of your unfortunate accident. I’m glad to see you’re getting about, dear. That veil is charming. You’ll probably start a new fashion for strolling in the park!” She turned toward Hugh standing next to her. “Though the Mannions did not go about in society much before Louisa met this rascal, Charles here,” she said, throwing him a teas
ing look, “they were always envied and copied for their sense of style. Now, la! There are many who wish they still were hermits in that charming home of theirs.”
Vanessa laughed. “You are too kind, Mrs. Langley.”
“Stuff and nonsense. I’m not kind, I talk too much to be kind. I do like your veil, though. Only, don’t hide behind it too long; I like your pretty face better.” She patted her arm again, then turned to address Adeline.
“I agree with her,” Hugh murmured for her hearing only.
“I beg your pardon?” Vanessa said, feigning incomprehension.
Hugh was not fooled; he saw the telltale blush on her neck. He grinned.
Paulette squealed again, and Vanessa looked toward her with relief. Mr. Talverton caused the strangest feelings to arise within her, feelings she didn’t want to analyze or investigate.
“There is Monsieur Wilmot. Did you not say, Charles, that he is also to be invited?” Paulette enthused.
“Yes. Where is he?”
“Down there, see?” She pointed toward the Rue de St. Louis. “He was just talking to a keelboat man, I think. Yes, see, as he walks away, he has a red turkey feather in his cap.
“Wilmot appears to be headed in our direction. Good,” said Charles.
“And there’s Mr. and Mrs. Smythe,” rattled on Mary Langley. “Excuse me, I must go say hello and see if I can find out when his new steamboat will be in. I don’t know what got into me, probably just grandmotherly affection, but I promised my grandson a tour.” Trotting off, she lifted her hand in a little wave of farewell.
Vanessa, her shoulders slumping slightly, scarcely noticed her departure. She was not prepared to greet Mr. Wilmot. Hugh placed a supporting hand under her elbow and leaned toward her as Charles hailed the man and extended him the same invitation.
“Do not fret, Miss Mannion. I will see to it that the man has no opportunity to embarrass you further,” he whispered hastily before Paulette claimed his attention.
Vanessa looked at him in blank surprise, but he did not notice because of her veil. She recovered in time to hear Mr. Wilmot smoothly agree to join them, then turn to look at her with an intense, unfathomable expression in his dark, considering eyes.
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