Now, it was also his duty to untangle the skein of Mr. Wilmot’s plans and save the Mannions if he could, for that had to be Richard Mannion’s reason for confiding in him. He held that confidence dear, and not readily would he divulge his knowledge, not even to Trevor. For some reason, he had been given a mandate, a sacred trust, to lead the family out of the maze. It was a trust he would honor. The question was, how?
He accepted another glass from the hovering waiter and took a long drink. He closed his eyes, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he thought. His other hand dangled by his side, the glass loosely held in his fingertips. He drew in a deep sighing breath and expelled it slowly.
His best course was still perhaps the one he laid out for Trevor. Mannion felt his best recourse was to prevent a relationship from developing between Vanessa and Wilmot without arousing Wilmot’s suspicion and thereby causing him to force matters to his satisfaction. If he could do this during the time before their summer departure, Vanessa would then be removed from Wilmot’s grasp for the duration of the summer, and by the time she returned, Mannion expected to have the funds to repay the purchased notes.
One significant aspect of Mannion’s plan was faulty, and Hugh could not believe Richard did not see it. Vanessa now held Mr. Wilmot in fear and disgust. He saw that yesterday in her father’s library. Hugh doubted the gentleman could overcome her newfound abhorrence. Vanessa operated within her strict sense of personal rules. They could be bent but not broken, and Wilmot quite effectively broke those unwritten rules by his behavior the night of the play. Not for the first time did Hugh wonder what possessed the man to so ill judge an action.
Hugh did not believe Wilmot was likely to win the fair Vanessa with honeyed words. He doubted the man was even capable of uttering such speech. Wilmot’s only recourse was blackmail. He could threaten her father and therefore blackmail her into marriage to obtain financial safety for her family. Knowing Vanessa, Hugh would be surprised if she did not succumb to that type of coercion. However, he doubted that Wilmot would play his hand too soon; a willing bride would be preferable to an unwilling one. In the meantime, he might rethink his strategy and begin plying his charm with a trowel. But he could only do this if he were in Vanessa’s orbit, preferably alone. In company, he could not achieve his ends. Consequently, Hugh’s priority was to be always upon the Mannions’ doorstep.
It might also be wise to continue to adopt his slightly jovial, quick-to-temper-and-hurt demeanor. It will be interesting to see what Wilmot makes of the mien, Hugh thought sardonically, since he could not see himself cowering and bowing prostrate before the man, a circumstance Hugh was confident Wilmot was unused to. It would put him slightly off stride.
Hugh’s second order of business would be to subtly encourage Trevor to press on his investigations into Wilmot’s character and dealings within the town. He needed to know the extent of the man’s clout. It might end up being wiser to move Vanessa farther afield than a summer home and send her to some other part of the United States.
He shifted in his chair and stretched languidly. The level of noise in the barroom was increasing, its haven for thought evaporating. He rolled his head to get the kinks out of his neck and opened his eyes.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d fallen asleep,” said Russell Wilmot. Sitting in the chair opposite him, his lips curled in a travesty of a smile.
Hugh started, nearly dropping his drink. What was the damned man doing here? Hugh faked a yawn to play for time to gather his wits.
“I almost was,” he said ruefully, his agile mind wondering what the man’s game was and how long he’d sat opposite him. He didn’t enjoy surprises like that. They set his teeth on edge.
What was damnable was the fact he’d not heard the man approach. He’d not been out of the service a year, and already his instincts were failing him. Time was when he slept so lightly he heard the slightest rustle of fabric, footfall, or expelled breath and leaped to his feet.
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 readily. “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 and then warned himself against overplaying his hand when he saw Wilmot’s eyebrows twitch again. “I shall return come harvest, however.”
“You have plans?” 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.”
