Trevor agreed. “At that time,” he said thoughtfully, “he was more concerned with saving his own hide than worrying about further aggrandizement.”
“Precisely.”
“Let me see if I understand this correctly. If Wilmot marries Vanessa, he gets half of Mannion’s business, and right now he holds notes worth the other half of his business.”
“Correct, because Mannion is an honorable man and could not, in good conscience, pledge his daughter’s dowry for the loans,” Hugh added.
“So right now,” Trevor mused, “if Wilmot marries Vanessa before the harvest, and Mannion defaults on the notes, which I’m sure Wilmot has in some way orchestrated, probably by demanding a payment just prior to the harvest, Wilmot walks away with the entire business.”
“Exactly.”
“Neat. But what’s to prevent Mannion from borrowing the money elsewhere?”
Hugh shrugged. “A large part is probably pride, though I’d also wager Wilmot’s fuzzed the cards some way.”
“If only there was a legitimate way for Mannion to get the money prior to the deadline, something Wilmot couldn’t even question. If Mannion was able to pay Wilmot off, the man might also lose his interest in Vanessa if he doesn’t stand to get control of the entire business.”
“You know the city better than I. Any ideas?” Hugh asked.
“None, I’m afraid. The only recourse I can offer is to continue to investigate Wilmot, see if we can discover any unsavory skeletons in his closet that he’d life remain hidden,” Trevor suggested.
“Hmm . . . . Yes, I agree we should pursue that avenue, but it is a chancy thing at best,” Hugh said, absently tapping the end of his quill against the letter to his brother, his eyes staring blindly down at the squiggles and curls of his handwriting. Slowly his eyes focused, caught unconsciously by one phrase. Straightening in his chair, a devilish smile curved his lips upward, shooting sparks into his eyes.
“What is it?” Trevor asked, lifting his chin off his folded arms.
“This,” he answered, tapping the letter. “I was just telling my brother I might take some time and tour this country, take a trip up the Mississippi on one of those new steamboats. I told the same thing to Wilmot last week.”
“So?”
“If I am to be on a protracted journey, I will be facing unknown conditions of travel. What if I were delayed in returning to the city at harvest time? Then perhaps, to insure myself the best of the cotton harvested, I should prepay. I don’t fear being gulled, for it’s well known that a New Orleans businessman’s word is his honor-bound vow, and certainly Mannion has an excellent reputation. The prepayment is not a demand of Mannion’s, but a convenience to me, and of course, I am just a crazy Englishman.”
Trevor laughed. “I like it, and it might work. Unfortunately, I hate to see you leave the city in order to give credence to your story.”
“At this point, Trevor, with the mull of things I’ve made with Vanessa, it might be my best course of action.”
“Don’t underestimate her.”
“I don’t. That’s the problem,” he said wryly.
Trevor laughed sympathetically. “Regardless, I feel we should put your plan to work immediately. We’d best see Richard today. Wilmot pulled him aside for another of his private discussions yesterday, and afterward Richard looked decidedly gray. He may have upped the date again.”
Hugh scratched the back of his neck. “Unfortunately, I agree with you, but the mere thought of possibly facing Vanessa makes the hair on the back of my neck tingle. I daresay she’ll be out for blood.”
“Oh, come now, I’ve never known you to shirk from danger.”
“That’s because the danger has always come from other men. Coming from a woman, it’s a decidedly different matter.”
“Meddling. You all are the aristocrats of meddling! I am shocked. What must be your collective opinion of me? I cannot rate very high in your esteem if all of you find it necessary to manage and order my life for me. What words do you use to describe me? ‘She’s a little ninny hammer, silly widgeon, pea-goose, hen-witted, paper-skulled—”
“That’s enough, Vanessa. You’ve made your point,” interrupted Mrs. Mannion with more asperity than was her wont.
“Now see here, Vanessa, you don’t know all that’s involved,” put in her father.
“You’re right, I don’t. But whose fault is that, may I ask? If you would be a bit forthcoming, Father, instead of treating us like so many baubles to decorate your home, you might discover we have a modicum of brains and could be of assistance.”
“There have been reasons for that, too,” Mr. Mannion said heavily.
“And pray, what might they be?”
“Vanessa, you are becoming unseemly.”
“Pardon me, Mama, but I find I have lost all control over my baser self. Who knows what I might do in this temperament. Perhaps throw myself at Mr. Wilmot and shockingly drape myself over his broad figure.”
“Vanessa! That will be enough!”
Mr. Mannion sighed heavily. “If we are not to find ourselves in seriously straitened circumstances living off Vanessa’s beneficence, she may have to do just that.”
“Mr. Mannion,” his wife said, “I do wish you would speak plainly without roundaboutation.”
“I overextended myself this season and faced the necessity of taking out some loans to tide us over until harvest. I used half my business as collateral. Mr. Wilmot purchased my vowels and is now demanding payment by the end of the week. He will trade Vanessa’s hand in marriage for an extension.”
“Why? Why does he so desire my hand in marriage?”
“Because you are the true owner of the other half of my business.”
“What?” she whispered, sinking down into a chair by the fireplace.
Very quickly he told them his machinations of the past four years, often casting entreaties for forgiveness in Vanessa’s direction. When he completed his tale, he looked old and drawn, and for a moment, no one in the room moved or spoke.
Vanessa’s mind whirled at the implications of all he had said and also left unsaid. She shook her head to clear her dazed mind, then rose and crossed to her father’s side, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Father,” she said softly. “You have given me much to think about. Why don’t you go lie down and rest, or sit in the library and read one of your beloved histories, while I wrestle with these realities. Do not worry, I shall see our ship come in.”
“Not at your own expense!”
“Father, consider this. If Mr. Wilmot was a truly evil man, he would not have even attempted to court me. My distaste for him is derived mainly, I think, from the liberties he took at the theater. I have since had cause to learn that my reaction under the circumstances was extreme. Perhaps I should now offer him an apology.”
“Never!”
“Calm yourself, Father, and allow me to think further on the matter. I’m sorry if I appeared unduly sarcastic earlier. But I don’t believe pairing me with a wastrel such as Mr. Talverton is an answer either.”
He sighed again, and rose from his dejected position on the sofa. His blue-gray eyes, so like Vanessa’s, were glassy. Vanessa’s soul cried at seeing her stalwart father a mere shadow of his usual self. She put her arms around him in a hug. He was surprised, but a faint trace of a smile eased the harsh, sad planes of his face.
She let go and stood away. He walked slowly, almost in a semblance of Jonas’s old, bent shuffle, to the door. Amanda rose to follow him, hooking her arm in his and laying her head on his shoulder as they went out of the room.
With her parents’ exit, Adeline laid aside all pretense of working on the quilt. “So, sister, where do we go from here?”
“I suppose I marry Mr. Wilmot.”
“No, Vanessa, you can’t!”
“Don’t fear, I believe I have a few tricks I may play. When is Charles returning to town with Paulette?”
“I believe early Wednesday morning. I w
ill admit, I myself am astonished to discover Mama corresponded with Louisa about Paulette’s infatuation with Mr. Talverton and between them they orchestrated last weekend just so Paulette could meet Count Baligny,” Adeline said. “Do you think two extra days in the country will solidify Paulette’s relationship with the count?”
“If it can be managed, she shall do it,” Vanessa said, leaning her head back against the sofa. “The young man lacks Mr. Talverton’s worldliness and ability to adroitly step out of the line of fire. Mama and Louisa signally failed to take that into account in their matchmaking. I was most surprised to learn Mama considers Mr. Talverton an appropriate suitor for me.”
“There is a touch of bitterness in your tone,” observed Adeline.
“Do you blame me?” she asked.
“I think it is your pride that is smarting, not your heart,” her sister bluntly observed. Vanessa look at her disgustedly, causing Adeline to chuckle. “So, tell me, what do you think you might do to spike Mr. Wilmot’s guns?”
“Have Charles draw up some documents as part of the bridal settlement. I don’t know how, but I’ll see to it Mr. Wilmot pays a pretty penny for me,” Vanessa vowed. “And I, in my innocence of business affairs, shall act as if I don’t understand the matter at all.”
Adeline shook her head. “That still has you married to Mr. Wilmot.”
“I know, but truly, would that be so horrible?” her sister asked lightly.
“To marry where you heart is not involved? Definitely.”
“From my study of it, I don’t believe I’m capable of such fervid emotion.”
Adeline snorted in disgust. “You, my dear sister, are a brass-faced liar.”
The sky was dark blue woven with threads of purple and red along the western horizon as Trevor Danielson and Hugh Talverton set out for the Mannion residence. The streets possessed an eerie stillness in that twilight time after the business and shops closed for the day, and the bustling throng of people repaired to their homes to rest, eat, and prepare for their evening’s entertainment. City workers were beginning the task of lighting the street lanterns, though they had not reached the street Trevor and Hugh traversed, heavy with black shadows. Their boots made a hollow echoing sound on the wood planks, punctuated by the tap of their elegant walking sticks.
They did not speak, each man alone with his thoughts. Trevor’s mind dwelt on Adeline and the twenty-four hours since they’d parted company. He knew a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, expanding throughout his body as he thought about her. He had been ecstatic to discover his children loved her as he did, and he hoped to be blessed for many years with her companionship and love.
Hugh’s thoughts remained tangled in a maze of uncertainty. He was no longer in the military where safety came with battle’s end until the next day’s engagement. What else did a man call safety? Love, home, and hearth? Those were terms he wasn’t sure he could relate to after years in service. He felt rootless, uneasy with his lot in life, but uncertain what, if anything, should be done about it.
And what of Vanessa? Just the thought of her sent a ripple of feeling through his body, jangling his senses. The emotions Vanessa aroused were far different from the courtly love he had for Julia. Curious that he should finally label it that, courtly love, as in the ballads sung by wandering minstrels of long ago. It was no more real than the love Titania bore for the ass-costumed Bottom, inspired by Oberon’s love-in-idleness juice, the lowly pansy.
Vanessa made his body sing, as it did in the heat of battle, his stomach churning as if he’d swallowed whole a thousand butterflies, and his head light, disconnected from his body. He could not rationalize his feelings, find precise little reasons why each occurred; it was the sum of her existence that played upon his sense like a fine-tuned harp. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to cope with her rejection. He fought the urge to use helping her father as leverage for another chance with her. He was not in the market for a wife! Or so the lying litany sang in his head.
“There he is, the dark-haired one!”
The whispered ghostly voice, barely sighing on the wind, alerted Hugh. He grabbed Trevor’s arm, jerking him away from a particularly noisome and dark patch of shadows. Tossing his walking stick straight up, he caught it in the middle as four burly keelboat men dressed in buckskins and dirty linens, sprang out of the shadows. Held tight in their hands were massive cudgels and wicked knives catching what little light the coming night offered on their silver surfaces.
Hugh’s stick caught the first one squarely underneath the chin, sending him staggering backward, clutching his jaw. Without sparing the man a glance, Hugh lengthened his grip on the stick, wielding it like a sword as the other three ruffians charged.
Regaining his balance and wits, Trevor entered the fray, his walking stick sweeping out to tangle the legs of his closest attacker and sending him sprawling to the ground. With the flick of a hidden button, he released the wooden covering of his walking stick, sending it clattering to the ground, revealing a wicked rapier.
Hugh grunted in pleased surprise at his friend’s weapon as he fended off the glancing blow of a cudgel. His effort was rewarded with the sharp splintering snap of his walking stick. He stared for a bare moment, disconcerted at the broken walking stick, then held out its jagged end before him as the biggest and brawniest of the attackers came barreling toward him. Hugh stood his ground until it seemed the man would mow him down. Then he threw the stick into the man’s face, dropped to the ground, and rolled into his assailant’s legs. He grunted in pain as the man’s heavy boots connected with his ribs, his foe tripping and falling heavily. Hugh staggered to his feet and knocked the man down again as he started to rise. Clutching his injured ribs, Hugh looked up to find Trevor.
Trevor’s rapier was making little headway with his two assailants, who were dancing just out of reach of its wicked end, circling, looking for an opportunity to rush him. Whipping around, Hugh saw they were distancing themselves for an attack from either side of Trevor. They were both muscular, strong men. His friend would likely fall before one or the other. Bending his head low, Hugh charged into the small of the back of the man closest him. Surprised, the man crumbled, twisting as he did so, his heavy, raised cudgel falling. Hugh dodged, but not quickly enough to avoid a sharp blow to his head. He staggered, his head exploding with pain. Trevor quickly lunged forward, sending his needlelike rapier through the upper chest of the remaining attacker.
From down the street, they dimly heard voices shouting assistance and running in their direction. The three injured attackers scuttled back into the shadows at the sound. The brawny fellow, bellowing his rage, was up and rushing Hugh. Blood ran down Hugh’s face, blinding him as he lurched sideways. The giant man was not fooled twice and came toward him, pushing his defending arms sideways as if they were feathers, and wrapping him in a bear hug. He picked Hugh up, squeezing.
A flash of steel swam before Hugh’s eyes, the point resting on the bulging neck vein of his attacker.
“Let him go, or you’ll feel my steel in your throat and you’ll gurgle blood until you die,” Trevor threatened, his arm back to ram the blade home.
The man’s eyes rolled as he looked about him for his compatriots. Trevor let the sword pink the skin.
“If you are looking for your fellows, they have slunk back into the hell from whence they were spawned.” Trevor increased the pressure. The man released his grasp, and Hugh fell to the ground. Two young men, clerks judging by their attire, came running up. Trevor slowly lowered his sword.
“Yo! What’s going on here?”
“Heard the scuffling, came running as fast as we could.”
“Are you all right, Hugh?” Trevor asked.
Hugh rose painfully to his feet, clutching his left side. “Handy toy you have there,” he wheezed hoarsely, each breath sending pain shooting through his side. He winced.
Trevor grinned. “It’s de rigueur here in New Orleans.”
“Now you tell me,”
Hugh managed.
“Oh, you’re a visitor, thought you must be, unarmed as you were,” said the youngest of the newcomers. “I never go anywhere without my sword stick, or a pair of poppers.”
Hugh blinked, struggling to stay upright and focus on the men who helped scare off the attack by their approach, while his head screamed in silent agony. The younger one was a short, round fellow; his partner was tall and angular. Both were holding slender sword-stick rapiers in their hands. Hugh looked back at his attacker who almost seemed to cower into himself. “What are we going to do with him?” he asked.
Trevor frowned. “I suppose we’d best let him go. He’s only the hired help.”
“You think this was intentional?” asked one of the strangers, whistling through his teeth in wonder.
The other young man nodded sagely. “Stands to reason. His type don’t come out in this area unless he’s in a pack and drunker than a monkey. Then they come roaring down the streets.”
“How do you know?” Hugh demanded of Trevor, not paying attention to the two men.
“The fellow with the red turkey feather in his cap, he’d be the leader. It’s a sign of status for the toughest member of a keelboat crew, or all crews.’
Hugh shook his head foggily. “I don’t remember a turkey feather.” His breathing was becoming shallow, and his body was drenched in a cold sweat.
“It was worn by the fellow you charged and pounded with a kidney blow. But we’d best get you home. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and I’d say those ribs need binding.”
His words drew all attention to Hugh’s condition. The big man, seeing his opportunity, turned and fled.
“Hey!” yelled one of the men, primed to give chase.
“Don’t bother,” said Trevor. He looked aghast at Hugh’s white complexion and dilated eyes. “Hugh, put your arm around my shoulder. Can you make it as far as the Mannions’? It’s just around the corner.”
“Oh, well, we’ll accompany you, sort of a rear guard,” the taller angular young man then offered, excitement evident in his eyes. He wanted the blackguards to return. Hugh vowed he would have laughed at the lad’s enthusiasm if his head and side didn’t hurt so much.
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