“Vanessa?” queried her father.
She jumped, her breath whooshing out of her chest, and turned toward him. Her hand clutched over her heart in recovering surprise.
“Shh!” she hissed, swiftly closing the door, her back against it. “Mr. Wilmot’s here!”
“Again?” asked her father.
“Yes,” she whispered, “and I just heard him ask Jonas if he could see me. I had Jonas tell him earlier that I was not coming down to see anyone with this bruise.” Her hand unconsciously rose to touch a spot below her left eye.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” observed Hugh.
Vanessa’s eyes opened wide, and a bright red flush swept up her neck and face to bum her cheeks as she assimilated Mr. Talverton’s presence in her father’s library. Turning sideways, she presented him with her right side only, the bruise out of sight, her gaze directed at the wall.
“What are you doing here?” she squeaked, then nervously cleared her throat. “This is wonderful. If Mr. Wilmot finds me in here with you, my excuse for avoiding his company will be hollow, and I shall be forced to speak with him again.”
“I told you before, Vanessa, you are ridiculously missish. I want you to continue to socialize with Mr. Wilmot.” The falseness of her father’s words made his tone flat and harsh.
Hugh’s eyebrows rose in amused recognition of the lie.
“I understand that, Father,” Vanessa responded distractedly, missing the innuendos Hugh heard. She went on, exasperated: “I choose to do so from a position of strength, however, not an embarrassing weakness for a physical flaw.” She stared resolutely at the opposite wall.
“Mr. Mannion?” called Jonas’s voice as he rapped on the library door.
Vanessa swung around, wild-eyed. “Where can I hide?” she silently mouthed, desperation in her eyes. Hugh was surprised by the intensity of her desire to avoid Mr. Wilmot, and he felt a rush of feeling to be of assistance. Coming up beside her and catching her elbow in his hand, he propelled her toward the desk.
“One moment, Jonas,” called out Mr. Mannion, uncertain what his daughter and guest were up to.
The door opened a few inches and Jonas scurried inside. “Mr. Wilmot desires to see you, sir. Immediately,” said the butler, his voice quivering slightly. In openmouthed awe, he watched Mr. Talverton shove Vanessa underneath the desk, then lightly vaulted it to sit in a chair in front, slouching and crossing his long legs out in front of him to obscure any sight of Vanessa hiding on hands and knees.
Mr. Mannion just shook his head at his daughter’s antics, then a thoughtful expression stole over his face, and he rubbed his hands together with glee. Making an abrupt decision, his lips parted in a smile, and he strode over to stand by Mr. Talverton and aid in the deception.
“Well, Jonas, show him in, of course,” said Richard while he struggled to control a corner of his mouth from lifting in amusement.
Old Jonas’s eyes rolled in his head and his lips split into a broad grin. “Y-yes, sir!” he said emphatically, backing out into the hall.
They heard the butler tell Mr. Wilmot, in a very austere tone, that the master would see him now. Mr. Mannion’s iron-bar brows rose as one. Jonas never referred to him as the master, and with that lofty air, he ventured to think Jonas could outshine a quality London butler any day.
He leaned casually against the desk and looked down at Hugh Talverton expectantly. Somehow he knew that if anyone could bring their ship safely to port, it would be this gentleman.
“So, Richard, you think I’ll be able to secure the high-quality cotton I need for my mill in England?” Hugh said loudly as they heard Russell Wilmot approach.”
“Without a doubt. You understand, however, why I can’t quote you a price immediately?”
“Of course,” Hugh said, his face a study of serious intentness.
“Good. Ah, Russell, come in. Hugh Talverton and I have just been discussing the magnitude of his cotton needs,” Richard Mannion said with brash heartiness, his eyes darting about, not quite meeting Mr. Wilmot’s.
Hugh stood up, inwardly cringing at Richard’s tone, for it was a little too hearty and welcoming. “Hello, Wilmot,” he said neutrally, curious to judge the gentleman’s reaction to his presence.
Wilmot nodded with bare civility before turning to address Richard. “Where’s Vanessa? You know I desire a word with her.” His eyes narrowed and slid in Hugh Talverton’s direction. “In private.”
Hugh raised a sandy brow and crossed his arms over his chest.
“You have some objection, Mr. Talverton?” Wilmot asked, his grating voice heavy with challenge.
“Objection?” Hugh returned slightly before a comical expression of petulance pulled down his features. “Why, dash it, yes, I suppose I do. I’d be in a devil of a pucker if she agreed to see you after turning down Trevor and me.” He dropped his hands to his sides and turned toward Mr. Mannion, his posture and demeanor suddenly stiff. “Sir,” he protested lugubriously, “surely you would not allow Miss Mannion to deliver us such a backhanded turn.”
Mr. Mannion coughed suddenly and looked down at the floor while scratching the side of his nose. The alteration in Mr. Talverton’s manner was astounding, and he was trying very hard to maintain his serious expression. “Uh—no, of course not. No daughter of mine would display such ramshackle manners,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat again.
