Hugh scratched the side of his head. “I’m not up on the political ramifications of all that. Think I’ll reserve judgment ‘til 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 have 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 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, the 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 harbor 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 Black 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 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 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 situationhadbeen humorous. She and her family had laughed over it long after the gentlemen had left.
“Hiding has its 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.
